His wide chest fully against her breast, she tore at his shoulders, the breaking storm both terrifying and inviting. Thunder crashed in her mind. He pulled back, finding her mouth again, lavishing another wet, full kiss while twisting every button of her blouse. Instantly his palms fell flat on her skin, the burn causing her to cry out with torment for more. A wave of hair cascaded across her breast as he fluttered hot kisses onto her flesh, caressing each curve. She tugged his black satin shirt, scraping her nails down the flexing sinew that waved beneath a covering of olive skin. He heaved to an arduous groan, weakening her into total acquiescence.
Abandonment. Freedom. She floated, sighing as full moist lips found her exposed breast. He fed on the tender nipple while the deep guttural moans vibrated through her. Back arched, she welcomed his tender nuzzling. Every sense exploded to his passions, his tender touch, the scent of his hair, eardrums echoing his unembarrassed verbal exultation of enjoyment.
Her hands swept over his shoulders, his waist. They were truly lovers now, exploring each other without lament. Familiarity. Yet so much more to obtain.
“Touch me,” he pleaded, his damp forehead to her cleavage. He had lifted his torso, the shirt falling loosely around his chest, as curtains, framing a window of sheer rock. He clasped her hand, reiterating his demand, tugging it to his parted thighs. Nearing tears, so stern was his want, he guided her hand over his tightened groin. “Oh, Olivia, my jewel,” he rasped as she obeyed his bidding. His whole body stiffened in response. “Tell me you want me.”
“Yes,” she hissed. “Yes, I want you.”
He could no longer allow her to explore through the material. She felt his trembling hand as he unbuttoned his trousers. “Take hold of me,” he said, his pleading voice shivering with excitement. To not fulfill his wish would be torment. She did what he asked. She held his girth within her palm, cast iron wrapped in velvet. He barely took breath, and when she gently stroked him he cried out. Fearing she had caused nothing more than pain she stopped. He gasped, taking hold of her hand again, begging her to continue. “No,” he whispered. “This pleases me. So much.”
Olivia’s heart thrashed so wildly she was dizzy. And when he fixated a longing glare of sheer desperation on her, she grew wild, casting off what little was left to control. Lover, it was true, but his eyes betrayed the feral animal that rose to the surface with an anguish she had never seen.
If her hand pleased him, how much more would her mouth? Instantly she had engulfed him, her tongue bathing the silken skin, exploring his girth. He clasped her jaw, guiding her to slowly move back, then forward, the hard end touching her throat. And again. She sensed him shudder.
“Oh, yes.” His voice was soft even though his whole being was rigid.
Gently she slid her palm beneath the base, encompassing the malleable sacks, stroking with utmost care. A long intake of air, action, reaction.
His fingers tugged her hair as he beckoned her to lift.
“I must claim you,” he said, eyes flashing to the darkness that had overpowered his temperate passions with a rage of need. “I must make you my own.”
The look had prompted another thrill. A new sensation of lust had snapped into her gut, an innate longing, a wild creature about to be unleashed. Within the heat of a fierce exchange of enraptured kisses, he clawed at what was left of her clothes and she at his. A confusion of motion, trailing fingers, embraces, cool air on exposed flesh, a reminder of vulnerability, her nakedness a release in itself. They were giving to each other, as only lovers should.
A masterpiece of masculine asceticism, he lowered her to the floor, studying every shadow that fell across her neck. Her fall was so gentle she hadn’t realized she was on the rug till the material pressed her shoulders. He paused over her, a knowing smile twisting his parted lips.
A gush of genuine mischievousness took hold. “As I demand,” she said. “I am your seductress.” His cheeks flushed at the comment, as though he would not submit, despite the title bestowed.
She rolled to one hip, taking his form with her as she did. He followed, a compliant conquest, his brow furrowed. She fanned his hair over each shoulder without the need to touch, her finger dancing in the air between them. A vein in his neck pulsated, his chest heaved in mounting excitement. Her finger hovered over his throat, he gasped at the delicate sensation. Her eyes dropped over his stomach, fine soft hairs erupting at her tease. He flinched. “Olivia, why do make me wait? Why treat your slave with such cruelty?”
“It is my title that makes it so,” she answered, hinting dominion. “May I not first gaze upon the fountain that will satisfy my thirst?”
He smiled. Reaching to push back a lock of hair that had fallen over her shoulder, he nodded. “The waters are deep. Hope that you do not drown.” Without voice he spoke. “Touch me. The time has come for us. Make it so.”
She heard and obeyed, taking him in her palm again. He shuddered, his black eyes rolled white to the pleasurable sensation.
“I will demonstrate to you pleasures beyond belief.”
He heard her silent citation and blinked in approval. “You learn quickly. Hear my plea. Do not continue this denial,” he bemoaned. “I cannot wait longer. I cannot!”
Olivia concurred and slipped her slender leg over his hip.
His breath caught as she lowered, enveloping him. He muttered in a language she could not understand, but the tone told her he was pleased, as did his body, which lurched up with a force that shook with rapture.
A sharp pinch was quickly followed by luxury. She froze until her mind could compensate for the exquisite sensation of his infiltration within her body.
“Olivia,” he called out, teeth clenched at the bolting bliss of their union. “You are truly mine now.” With that he folded up, embracing her in a grip of steely muscle. His mouth bathed her chin, lips, his tongue penetrating in a deep kiss. She could barely respond, so saturated was she in his massive intrusion.
“Is this your magic?” she whispered, clinging to his shoulders for support, electricity sweeping through her as she succumbed to his totality.
“No, my jewel. Not magic. No pleasure can compare to the joys of union, both body and spirit.”
His hands clasped her hips, coaxing them to sway. He moved to the gentle flow, his whole form taut. She tightened her internal muscles in a sensual reaction and he moaned in delight. They were as one.
Enraptured by his vigor, the need to be mischievous had dissolved. She gave in to him and he took her, rolling over, dominating, the way it was meant to be, the way she knew he wanted. His hair flowed down over her, his mouth on hers, hips swaying to a growing rhythm of lovemaking. He pushed deeply into her, filling her with the physical enactment of devotion, besotting her with the prowess only he could offer. She strummed his flexing backbone as it flowed, waves stirred by a mounting storm, she the compliant shoreline, able to do nothing but embrace the onslaught.
Nothing she had experienced had felt so right, so pure. To give herself, even if to be an object of his fulfillment, then so be it. “I am yours,” she breathed. Behind the words her mind agreed, so besotted with his every utterance, every touch, every breath, that if he were to perish she would follow. To experience such wonderment and then part from it? Unimaginable. No, she belonged to him, absolutely, wholly, and she meant him to understand how deep these convictions ran.
“You conquer me without challenge, sorcerer,” she whispered in his ear, through a damp strand of thick hair.
His hips slowed, thighs flexed, she sensed his expansion within her. “More challenge than you could ever understand, sorceress.” Teeth nibbled under her jaw. Tongue flat, he trailed a hot streak down her throat. “Our journey has merely begun.”
Olivia accepted a future as long as he was part of it. Any obstacle ahead they would greet together and although she didn’t have the sight to view the future, she did sense that much danger lay in waiting. “Together,” she whispered, twining her fingers tightly in his thick hair. �
�We will fight, together.”
He lifted his bulk onto locked elbows and peered into her face, quietly searching, studying what lay beneath her eyes. And he rocked between her sprawled legs, a continuous reminder that he was part of her body. He was marking her while proudly displaying his stamina. Then, the rocking quickened, mounting with more force. The forearms at her side clamped tighter, pinning her to this one position. He breathed, short snapping inhalations, lips parted. Her torso shivered with expectation of the tumultuous event about to force his body from control. Not certain exactly what was to happen, she was soothed by the thought that the pleasure etched across his face was satisfaction he had found with her.
His nails, forefinger and thumb, dug into the nape of her neck. “Take of me first.”
The sting of a whip would not be as brutal as the jolt of white heat that flashed into her skull. His pinch seemed to sink through skin and flesh and his fingers squeezed her spine. She tipped her chin up, her breast crashing into his chest and a scream of pain caught deep in her throat, snatched from vocal cords by the intrusion. Then there was ecstasy, crashing through her, as crushing as a solid avalanche of heavy boulders. The scream evolved into a shriek of profound pleasure, and she shuddered at the sudden paralysis that enveloped every nerve, every muscle.
So extreme was the sensation that insanity infiltrated reasoning. She had bitten into his throat, the soft flesh beneath his jaw, next to his ear. Blood trickled on her lips, the sticky saltiness bursting open taste buds.
“Yes,” he moaned, demanding intimacy to the wound she had inflicted. He tipped his head, coaxing her to imbibe. “Yes, take of my blood, sorceress. Grow strong.”
Her mind was dense with nothingness, as though she were immersed in the heaviness of water, surrounded by weight, but able to breathe, to function. Blood oozed across her lips, under her tongue, some sliding down her throat, winding a slippery trail without hesitation. His thrashing heart pumped it, like a bubbling spring, her mouth filling as an open vestibule. And as it warmed her gullet she surged to strength, a power electrifying and austere. She lapped, hungrily for more, wishing nothing less than the greatness he was offering her. He permitted the feeding and groaned deeply at the satisfaction it offered. “Grow strong. Take of me.” And just when she could accept no more he cried out. “Enough.”
Taking hold of her hair he yanked her away with such fierceness she felt a rise of fanaticism whelm up within her torso. Her pleasure had been paramount and now she was crazed with the need that he be fully gratified. She thrust her hips into him and he responded, pummeling into her offer, eyes widening at the shock of expulsion. A stream of heat filled her body, she was immersed in him, blood, fluid, flesh and when he shrieked loud and long, she listened to the voice of her mate, master, lover, knowing her role a success.
“It is done,” he rasped, his voice barley audible over constricted breath. It grew in authority. He took long deep gulps of air, heaving over her in the dying throes of ecstasy. “It is done!” Their torsos remained connected. He lifted on locked elbows, his shoulders shivering to the thrill of success, and he called out, not unlike a crazed howl, a devil hound, issuing dominance to the rest of the pack. Hair draped his tensed features. All she could see were curled lips, a snarl over bared teeth. He slapped one palm into the blood that continued to ooze from the bite on his neck. “See this, brother,” he shouted shaking the bloodied fist to the ceiling. “I have won! It is you who is doomed now! I ... have ... won!”
Olivia was forced to accept what was becoming increasingly clear. The one who had claimed her was not the mere nobleman, William Talbot, a handsome collector of art, and sculptures, and antique homes. No, the fog of confusion suddenly lifted and with fresh eyes she saw. This was truly a mighty and dangerous sorcerer, his supernatural abilities, both physical and spiritual, rooted deeply in the centuries past, an immortal who had traveled through time, traveled here to claim her before the other could dare an attempt. The other, the enemy, had indeed followed, tried to woo her to his side, play on her feminine sympathies, to understand the sense of lost love, a broken heart. It was true. She was locked between them as they battled for supremacy, life, revenge--a struggle that was far from over. And there was no escaping this malignant hand of destiny that had swept her into the battle.
“You are my chosen,” she murmured without fear, for she understood. She was chosen for him. She had no more control over providence than he did. Now she understood she belonged to him, she would learn his ways, fight with him, protect their union. What she could not yet grasp was what evil, what dark shadow lurked inside his breast, or how much strength she could muster to contain it, keep it controlled, release its anger only during battle. Yet a great peace filtered through her, flowing from head to toe. Now she understood. Marked for him, he claimed his rightful property, and in that claim she was bound to be forever his. Devotion, firmly cemented, would drive her on. No other man, or spirit, could come between them.
Before the darkness of sleep took hold of her, he peered down, a storm of success still filling his black eyes with mania, still curling his lip in a cry of proclamation, still stretching his thighs firmly in his stance between her legs. He had been listening to her thoughts, and nodded in final pleasure, her adherence to only him. “I am Wyldelock Talan De Croft,” he affirmed, lurching deeply once more into her body, expressing dominion through brute force. “And victory belongs to us.”
Chapter Six
“Sleep, my precious,” Wyldelock cooed. “Rest, for we have much to accomplish before this night ceases.” He pressed his palm over her forehead to deepen her unconsciousness. She slumped within his arms and sighed.
He wrapped a thin lace covering over her limp form, keeping her warm with the heat from his own body. Dissolving all other sensory perception he drank only of her--the sweet scent of femininity, the silky softness of her auburn hair, the white porcelain skin of each slender shoulder, the gentle curve of voluptuous flesh. He extolled her beauty with excessive kisses into her throat and hair. And he exerted genuine dedication with a secure embrace. “Olivia,” he whispered in her ear. “We can never part.”
Cautiously Wyldelock peered around the darkening room. After each endeavor to grow closer to her, his enemy had appeared, taunting him with failure. No voice harassed him now. She had not been seduced. She came to him willingly. They had found unity for it was within her will to seek out his affections. Such determination had foiled the spirit who had made an intrepid attempt to keep them separated. Wyldelock enjoyed the luxury of success and allowed his victory to manifest into a wry smile. The shadows remained stationary. They were alone.
Silence drummed in Wyldelock’s ears. Olivia’s warm breath of sleep pooled against his neck. Her life force was so strong. Her emotions so untainted and true, it made him shiver in exhilaration. Within her spirit was strength even he had failed to recognize and she matured even as she slept, a combination of fortitude, loyalty and love. And an innate voice within her had demanded she take of his blood, share his life force, one that swelled up and out, finding release. Meant for only her. Predestined by the son Wyldelock never knew.
His thumb caressed the mark on her shoulder. This was the reason he woke from centuries of slumber. This was the quiet call that stirred his blackened eternity. This was the proof Dagaz achieved greatness. This was the sorcerer’s mark. The Von Der Weildes had scorned Wyldelock’s existence. They had vanquished Dagaz from their family line. Dagaz knew that when the one, most innocent and pure, the one with this mark was born that Wyldelock would rise again and claim her. This was his final curse on those who had rebuked them both. Within Dagaz’s curse Wyldelock would find redemption. With Olivia he found hope. She was his cherished one, and he would not fail in protecting her from Dietrick’s vengeful scorn. Once Dietrick was destroyed they would be free to practice their craft, to be together always, to survive. With her the enemy could be reduced to dust.
But tonight they were alone. Tonight they would
unite again and luxuriate in each other’s passions.
“Olivia, my jewel,” he whispered, pulling her closer into his embrace.
He had considered that once they had been together the smoldering fires of obsession within him might be dampened, that his thirst for her be quenched. As he fondled her skin and hair, however, he soon grew aware that his thirst only deepened, that the fire leapt ever higher. More torment. Every muscle flexed, air gushed to his lungs, his mouth dry. He had to meditate, allow serenity to wash over his anxious needs, or else risk the possibility of causing her physical harm. If the black animal within his breast was allowed an ounce of freedom he would frantically seek out continuing gratification and she was by far too fragile to cope with such zealous longing. If he was not careful, he could easily ruin her and be left again with nothing. Even as she slept she called out to him with such exquisite beauty; Wyldelock took several long breaths, waiting for ardor to ease. Oh! If she only knew the depth of his allegiance!
The memory of their blissful union was fresh in his mind. Her sighs of jubilation, the smile of gratification, the rush of ecstasy, and then her precious words of loyalty. It was a struggle to keep from ravishing her anew, taking again of the sweetness she offered. He dared not risk another act so soon after the first. Yet her lips were like honeyed wine and he had barely sipped of the nectar. Much more awaited. She needed rest even though he did not. Patience, he charged to his inner self, for she remains frail, having much to do to grow in strength. Patience.
“William,” she sighed, betraying a dream that played behind closed lids.
“I am here,” he answered, and watched with immense pleasure as her mouth curled into a contented smile.
Cupping her skull he pressed his forehead to hers and drifted inside the room that held her dream.
Everywhere he turned he witnessed images of his being. She dreamt of love. It draped the corners of her mind as long velvet curtains would swathe a window, preventing the cold wind of winter from infiltrating the warmth of emotion. No other face except his, no other touch but his, no other kiss instigated such feeling. She had never truly loved till meeting him. Wyldelock’s chest whelmed with pride and then sorrow, for how could he return her love? Once an emotion he thoroughly understood but relinquished. He regretted it now, caught in the web of confusion. Centuries of sleep because of his boastful exuberance for dominion, if he had not made such a trade then he too, would be dust in death, succumbing to mortality as any other man. Breath coursed through his lungs, his existence real, and the chance to hold her in this time true, a price for life. Yet how he ached for the chance to return the emotion for her. She harbored a soul that could love, and love deeply. There was no other greater power than this.
The Sorcerers Mark Page 12