“You promised me a dance,” she said.
“Then dance we shall.” He stood. One hand crept around her shoulder, the other gently easing to her waist. Thin strands of music invited them to move together in unison, and as they swayed within the protective circle, he locked his eyes to hers, for there was no other loveliness that could steal his attention.
“A gentleman and a poet,” she smiled. “Have I told you how happy you make me?”
“Then I am the envy of any king who proclaims dominion. Without majesty of a woman’s devotion all wealth is worthless.” He pulled her into his chest, slowing their dance, so he could flutter a kiss into her thick hair.
Her arms tightly squeezed against his waist, he luxuriated in the warmth, possessed by the deep affection she bequeathed. She had made him feel worthy; he dispelled every inadequacy that had threatened to torment their association with doubt. Weakness had taunted him into considering he was insufficient to even kneel to her presence, but such simple words, uttered from a heart true and chaste, restored his confidence. He would reward her faith in him. He would prove to them both that love could again flourish within his heart.
She heard his thoughts. Tipping her face to read his silent vow she kissed him and the dance changed to prelude. Her body tight to his she swayed her hips, welcoming the sensation of his excitement. She had loosened the ribbon in his hair so gently he had no consciousness of it, so consumed was he with her kiss. He ravished her lips, bathing her mouth with a tongue that hinted another intrusion, one that would culminate in mutual gratification. She accepted his overture, opening her mouth to insertion as she would open to his body. This was the gift she was willing to give, despite his emotional barrenness. At least he could obtain bliss and for the duration he would be satisfied with the mere sense of love, for her whole body exploded to its delicate flavor. He held her in his arms and this manifestation of affection would have to appease his loss until future conquests secured.
“My precious jewel,” he breathed into the crevices of her mouth. “Let us lose the other within union. Let us become as one within the fires of ecstasy.”
“And you are my lord,” she said in return. “I offer my all to your choosing.”
He studied her within a haze of sensuality. There was no allusion to playfulness. Her eyes spoke of submission, her waist shivered in compliance, and she swayed against him, a soft malleable coaxing.
Visualizing a narrow couch it appeared. He told the music to soften and asked the Guides above to allow them privacy. He danced with her still, but his hands strummed her curves with intent. If he so demanded, their fine apparel would melt away, but this was not his wish. Her dress added to his pleasure; her decoration framed her beauty. She was the prize for a competition he did not win. Regardless, he would accept its bounty, and unravel its every comfort.
She turned, stretching her arms around his neck, and he leaned into the porcelain skin, kissing it. She sighed, tipping her head back to his shoulder as he caressed the hard curves of her breasts. Each rose to her breath, filling his palms. He squeezed, pulling her tighter against his body, flexing his hips to the dying rhythm of dance. Prelude was to end. He swayed, a gentle motion, moving her steps toward the couch.
He flattened his hands against each hip, manipulating fingers, hoisting the lengthy material of the dress, until it bunched within his grasp. He peered down over her breast, drinking the sight that unfolded for him. Slim legs covered with white stockings, the thick lace holding them in place on the thigh. He thumbed the edge of one, slow circular movements, velvet flesh, fine hairs, each gesture taking his touch closer to intimacy. The embrace around his neck strengthened as she concurred to his caress and excitement leapt within him.
Wyldelock closed his eyes, a few moments, to visualize restored power, watching the image float within the sphere of energy. The charge that erupted through his groin would become another source of renewal. He would use this encounter to help him to grow ever stronger. He would derive mystical energy from desire. And his desire was great.
His pulse coursed a rush of blood. He swelled, a natural reaction, one that would secure not only immense pleasure but a connection to untapped vigor. Not wanting to hurt her beyond her capability, he chose this position--bending her before him--so he could fold over, clasp her tightly and function freely, using the sound of her utterances as a guide to increasing force. The force would quickly become dynamic if he were to lose control; such a possibility credible, for he was quickly tensing to awakening. Physically, of course, he was stronger than she and would have to be vigilant to her delicate form.
She understood his want and knelt on the couch. What she could not know was the intensity of the fire that was raging in Wyldelock’s being. This time he would not be the gentleman she proclaimed him to be.
He eased his enthusiasm temporarily by meditation, casting all thought asunder, breathing in fully, and out slowly. And then the vision that filled his eyes cancelled the calmness--her dress bunched across the small of her back, hair draped over one shoulder, decorative stockings leading his gaze to center on her round soft flesh, exposed. Eroticism blasted through his chest. His fingernails raked the soft flesh. Already he sensed the static of sexual energy begin to lure his hips closer.
The seriousness of this act must have made an impact--he heard her anxious gasp. He spoke, gently, soothingly, because soon he would be immersed in concentration for release and void of any powers of speech. “Olivia.” He leaned over her back, whispering into an ear partially veiled by strands of hair. “I have grown large, for my hunger responds to this ritual with enormity. There will be pain, but you are strong and know that beyond discomfort waits pleasure that will dim the memory of any distress that I will cause.” He listened to her breathe. She was drawing courage for she understood this union was one of consequence to him.
“I will be strong for you,” she whispered.
“If your words are true, and you allow me to finish, then I can harness great energy from this magic. We joined before in common passion but this, Olivia, this requires stamina for I must be stern to obtain my goal. I must release this energy. The rewards will be abundant for both of us.” He pressed his lips to her earlobe. “Do you understand, sorceress? Do you already feel the magic warm your womb, readying it for my entrance?”
“Yes,” she said softly. “It tells me of pain, but the pain of absence.”
“Oh,” he moaned deeply, his forearm tightening across her throat. As beautiful as such words were she had no idea how fierce this merger might become. He had to hold her tightly, in this submissive stance, for she would try to crawl away. She would be shocked and frightened, reactions contradicting words, until the pleasure swept through her body and only then could he let go his grip. “Prepare for me, sorceress.”
His trousers had become uncomfortable in their confinement and he gave her more time to ready by unbuttoning each of the three manually. So close was his proximity his knuckle dampened to the heat of her arousal. He touched her, a gentle massage, permitting a few more seconds. The stroke helped the natural discharge of wetness, more help for her to accept his bulk. Then he wrapped his damp fingers around his girth and shuffled forward between her sprawled legs.
Holding himself, the last brief moment, he folded over her spine, gripping her into immobility, and whispered, “I accept your gift.”
His thrust held no gentleness. He was pleased with the decision to enter her quickly, forcefully, for the first wave of shock would destabilize her need to get away. She bolted to the harshness of the deep intrusion, shrieking sharply at his girth, wiggling to accept as comfortable a position as possible, but he held her in place, her simple gesture to escape no match for his brawn. And he kept holding her while gently easing his hips back, then forward again, not allowing any movement from her except pert breasts to rise and fall to labored breath.
The internal muscles that enveloped him tightened and he paused to enjoy the stroking sensation. He sun
k his teeth into her neck, as any mate would do, and growled, not with fury but with sheer ecstasy of this unique feeling. He had thought she would scream at his deep association, wrench forward, clutch at the ridges of their couch, and beg to be released. Yet after a short cry she continued to kneel, supporting his body as he folded over her arched back, continued to draw incredible willpower to entertain his need. Was there no end to her surprises?
Now he was the one who remained quiet, moaning softly at the continual caressing, womb tightening, relaxing, jerking the next squeeze, pumping him. This was extremely tame in comparison to the vigor he would soon employ. But he allowed her sweet caressing because it gave him time to center his psyche on the thought form that would convert to energy once he climaxed. He focused on the embodiment of love, the emotion he sought, the purity it invoked and each manifestation took on a face--Olivia’s face--she was love’s incarnation and seeing this meant half the battle was accomplished. The thought form stabilized within his mind, Wyldelock was free to unlock its energy with his body. Rapture through the immensity of an unprecedented orgasm was essential.
He flexed the muscles in his arm, pinning her with such urgency she startled, lifting her chin with a short chirp of surprise. “I must begin,” he rasped harshly, drunk with need. “Forgive me.” A surge of power rocked through his torso and the resulting thrust would have wrenched her from the couch if his grip was not securely fastened.
She was brave. He felt her relax, an attempt to accommodate his sheer size. Would it be sufficient? He did not know. He could not dwell on her pain or her pleasure. He was commanding the thought form, quietly, silently, to be ready to receive its final boost of energy.
There were small sounds of protest; he heard them in the distance. They faded to his graveled utterances of approval. He gyrated, hard deep thrusts into soft wet flesh, feeling the internal velvet walls, stretching to hold his force. Never had he been this needful. So much was at stake.
His forearm continued to pin her in compliance while he pressed his other palm against the flesh of her stomach. He demanded she sway with his rhythm, know the force of tremendous effort he had to exert. She had wrapped her fingers round the edge of the couch, using it as a lever to hoist back and into him, her own frame bouncing to each gyration he initiated. Perfect unison. Why was he surprised? They were, after all, meant for each other. And her power was great.
Music was replaced by the whispering movement of clothing; her dress sang to this erotic dance. A section of its material tapped one exposed area of his groin, fluttering between them, a thin veil. He pulled it tight from under her, dipping one finger, caressing her. He stroked without thought, for her reaction pleased him, added to his mounting bliss. Her cries were born of pleasure now. He loosened his grip around her shoulder.
“Olivia,” he sighed, for the sound of her name also added to the nearing crescendo.
She went rigid, her forehead leaning to the surface of the couch while she succumbed to limpness of immobility.
“I am here,” he cooed, sensing the wash that rippled through her whole body. “I will always be here for you.”
Wyldelock listened to the mounting pressure that now caused his groin to shiver. His chest swelled in expectation, breath caught in his lungs and he straightened, grabbing her hips with claw like fingers. He lowered his gaze, watching with fascination as he rocked, his sex thick, hard, relentless in obtainment. The energy was forming, a ball of white light, encasing his groin, readying to fire up, an endowment of power.
He pummeled now, for release was drawing near. Invisible pins stabbed perverse pleasure into each swollen sack, and he sensed the precipice nearing. Building, building, sweat gushed from his temples, his mane damp, clinging to his scalp. His vision blurred as the fall grew imminent. Soon, ever increasing, this thin moment a luxury within itself, and then a violent thrust. The precipice gave way. Another thrust and with it a numbing burst. Liquid heat streamed forth, a river of fire, and with it came precious seconds of total euphoria.
The energy rippled up his waist. He flexed his arms into the air in triumph, a surge of strength before collapsing over her, lost within a hazy cloud of sensuality. The aftermath flowed, each wave lessening in intensity, his thrashing chest easing, his breath slowing. Olivia stretched beneath him and he marveled in her perfection. His embrace now denoted affection, tenderness, gratitude. “It is finished,” he whispered coarsely for his throat was dry, his lips parched. “We are as one.”
The couch beneath them changed, not due to his doing, but hers. It widened so she could twist, taking him into her embrace, holding him as the last wave of pleasure rippled into the distance.
Silence drummed in his ears, her fingers caressed his wet hair, her hold delicate, assuring. “Sleep,” she chanted. “Now you must find sleep.”
He drifted at her command, lids growing heavy. He sank into the sweetness of serenity and allowed himself another lost pleasure--tranquility of rest--allowing obscurity to fold around him for he knew that when he awoke, she would still be holding him, and he would be safe because their hearts were beating in unison. They were as one.
* * * *
“You were dreaming.” She fanned out a thick clump of his hair against the pillow, stroking his cheek as he stirred, waking slowly. She had watched his eyes roll beneath closed lids and she had listened to him mutter, part German, part an ancient language, guttural syllables that held no meaning to her. He had been content with the conversation, though, for often he paused to smile, once laughing aloud. She laughed too, as though sharing the joy he discovered in the conversation. She had taken his hand during the dream and continued to hold it as he woke.
“Yes, I dreamt,” he sighed. “I visited a city beneath the sea, searching for finery, gifts for my queen.”
“Oh my,” she teased. “You mean, like Atlantis? Now there’s a shopping trip I could throw myself into.”
He smiled. “You should have joined me then.”
“I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise. Find anything suitable?” He was teasing her, she was certain of that, yet his black eyes reflected fading remnants of the vision. In them she caught a glimpse of long mono-railed streets, volcanic fountains, fluted columns raised on magnificent pillars. It shimmered in lucid green water. Then he blinked and the image was gone.
“I met a craftsman,” William said. “A jeweler, one of great talent. He had been creating unique pieces for over five hundred years.”
“You speak with the sincerity of one who was actually there,” she said, scrutinizing his tone, which denoted gravity. Dreams held reality--it was true. How often had she woken to wonder if the place she had been was real? But then, as wakefulness grew the dream always faded into the obscurity in which it was meant to be. William’s inflections denoted no such obscurity.
“There are many cities, many peoples. I know only a few.”
The revelation, uttered in seriousness, sent a shiver through her. He was not one who spoke misleadingly. Olivia had never known him to lean toward fabrication. This was no exception, even though he had dreamt. “That’s impossible,” she said quickly. “There may have once been advanced civilizations, exaggerated, I’m sure but....” She puffed a sardonic laugh. “To say a city survives in the ocean is ... well, it’s just plain ludicrous.”
Her careless rebuttal caused him to cringe. “Logic’s slavery rattles her chain,” he said softly.
“But it was only a dream, wasn’t it?” she asked, expecting fully he would reveal the joke.
He didn’t answer, except for a penetrating stare, one heavy with regret.
“How do you get there? Where are they found?” She could barely contain the animation whelming within her at the prospect of such information. If it was true, then to be privy to knowledge as important as this would reward the owner with fame beyond imagination.
“Your craft is young. With time there will be no mystery you cannot unlock, no city you cannot see.”
“You toy with m
e,” she accused, annoyed at the indirect answer.
“No,” he mouthed, drenched with affection. He cupped her cheek, lifting to flutter a quick kiss on her nose. “You have learned much but many untapped abilities still wait for permission to rise, wait for faith to mature.”
“Take me there, William. Tell me what I must do so that I can see one of these cities for myself.”
“Have you faith?”
Ready to complain that he would even have to ask, her mouth popped open. He quickly thrust a forefinger to her lips.
“Search for the answer before you speak, Olivia. Close your eyes. Let me listen to your meditation.”
Another lesson. Olivia took a deep breath, sorting through her thoughts for reflections of faith. Confidence was the first to step forward. A week ago she would never have believed in herself as she did now--her magic, her sixth sense, her visions. Trust. She trusted William to be her guide, patient and always encouraging. She trusted him because he would never lead her astray. He built in her a conviction, an assurance that every action would eventually pave the way to their freedom to be together, freedom from persecution. Belief. She believed he would find love again and she certainly believed she had the strength to accept such devotion once obtained. Devotion, yes. Every act was one of affection, born of loyalty. He to her and she knew, as true as life itself, that she was his. No other could take his place. She had drunk of his cup and nothing else could quench such thirst. “Yes, William. I have faith.”
He read her thought and answered. “Can you see color of the distant mountains when night shades the horizon?”
“Yes.”
“Can you hear the songbird even though she sleeps in her nest?”
“Yes, I hear her.”
“Do you inhale the fragrance of the rose when the garden has been painted with frost?”
“Yes.”
“What of the taste of a kiss when you are alone? Can you taste my lips, Olivia?”
The Sorcerers Mark Page 19