The Tower

by Jean Johnson

  While he did so, she studied his body. He didn’t bulge with muscles in the way that Nafiel did, but he was fit, a man who spent as much time moving as he did sitting. From his calves to his rump, he had plenty of muscles, thanks to the many steps and stairwells here in the Tower. The waist was trim, hips narrow compared to the breadth of his shoulders, and his back flexed nicely while he worked. There was a trio of light brown dots just below his right shoulder blade, and another small mole on his left buttock. An idle corner of her mind wondered what they would taste like under her tongue.

  He flipped something her way. “Catch.”

  Myal caught her hairbrush, and stepped back when he gestured her to move. Within moments, the couch shifted and expanded, turning into a leather-covered, thick-padded platform, with the arms and back of a sofa still in place for its headboard. Turning, he flourished a bow in her direction, brown curls bouncing around his head and neck.

  “Our bed, milady,” he announced, and straightened, smirking. He knew exactly where her gaze had roamed while he worked. The Master of the Tower watched it roam now, over the curls dusting his chest, along the treasure-line that skimmed over his navel, and down to the flesh perking up in salute under such direct, warm, feminine regard. His smirk bloomed into a full grin. “See something you like?”

  “Maybe,” she returned with a smile of her own. Mindful of the brush in her hands, she lifted it. “Shall I use this on your hair?”

  Nodding permission, Kerric padded up to her. He didn’t turn around, though. Instead he slipped his hands around her hips and dipped his head just a little, kissing the upper curve of first one breast, then the other.

  That was distracting. Not just for the soothing yet ticklish press of his lips, the flick of his tongue as he tasted her skin, but for the hands gently clutching and kneading her hips, and the slight brush of his manhood against her thigh. He was well-proportioned for his body, not too short, not too long, but thick enough she guessed he’d fill her nicely.

  That thought made her thigh muscles clench, then part, her loins swaying toward his. Mindful of her task, she focused her attention on running the boar-bristles through his clean, spell-dried locks. It wasn’t easy. By the time she had the ringletlike curls untangled and smoothed as much as they could be, her left nipple had his undivided attention. Lips and tongue alternated between suckling and swirling, nibbling and flicking.

  His right arm wrapped around the small of her back, pulling them close enough that she could feel every inch of his warm body down her left side. Including the jut of his erection. His left hand distracted her in the next moment; it moved from her hip to her belly, pressing for a moment just below her navel tattoo, then shifted straight down to her mound.

  Fingers sliding into her folds, he caressed her boldly, spreading the moisture that had emerged during his homage to her breast. Myal shuddered, turned on even more by his steady, smooth movements. Letting the brush drop with a clatter, she threaded her fingers through his hair, cradling the head of the man giving her all this pleasure.

  Kerric Vo Mos might not have made love to anyone in a couple years, but he was by no means an amateur, or that far out of practice. Confidence, one of his first lovers had told him long ago, was a man’s sexiest trait. Timing was everything, another had let him know, teaching him to move neither too fast nor too slow. Focus, a third had lectured, was very important. If a man treated a woman like the center of his universe, focusing all his attention on the goddess in his arms . . . she’d melt just like this beautiful, tattooed Mendhite was melting.

  His own mind was melting. Her skin tasted clean and sweet, with just a hint of soap. Her slick musk clung to his fingers, teasing the air in a delicate, heady perfume. Wanting to thrust against her flesh, Kerric carefully held his groin still, focusing instead on her needs, her wants. That included swapping to her other breast when she tugged on his scalp.

  Leaving the left one flushed and glistening from the attentions of his mouth, he licked and nibbled his way around the right one, all while the fingers of his left hand continued their slow, steady stroking between her nether-lips. Strokes which she began to meet, flexing her hips to encourage him to move a little faster. Being a gentleman, Kerric smiled and complied.

  “I take it you like that?” he murmured against her breast, swirling and lightly pinching with the fingers tucked between her folds. Not everyone was born dextrous with both hands, but he had practiced using both for many tasks from an early age. Kerric liked to think it gave him an advantage. From the dazed look in her eyes, this was yet another task he was mastering left-handed.

  Myal gasped and clutched at his shoulders, one knee buckling. “Da-zhul! Da-zhul, nafaa . . . I mean, bed,” she corrected, dredging the right Aian words out of her mind. Her translation tattoo was powerful, but it did still require concentration, and he was blowing hers away in a stiff breeze. “Need a bed right now . . . don’t think you’re strong enough to . . . hold me.”

  “Probably not,” he admitted wryly. “And I do speak Mendhite; I drank Ultra Tongue years ago.”

  Myal blinked at him in surprise . . . then mock-clutched at her chest. Not because of his translative abilities, but because of the other thing he had said. “A man who admits to a weakness! Should I faint?”

  Her teasing provoked a chuckle—and a mutter-and-snap. Scooping her off her feet, Kerric shifted her onto their makeshift bed. It was easy with her mass lightened by magic. Canceling the spell to conserve energy, he gently parted her thighs and crawled onto the bed between them, inhaling her sweet, musky scent. “Only from sheer pleasure. And it takes a far greater strength to admit a flaw than it does to boastfully cover it up, you know.”

  “I know,” she reassured him, pushing up onto her elbows. Smiling, she shuffled a little higher on the bed, giving Kerric room to settle between her thighs. She reached for his hair, delving her fingers through the silky-soft brown ringlets. “You’re one of the strongest men I’ve met. Strength of will and character, I mean.”

  Kerric grinned at her amendment and rocked back onto his knees. He lifted his arms, flexing them. “What, am I not as muscular and magnificent as Nafiel?”

  That made her snort. He did have some definition to his form, but not the bulging biceps of the barbarian adventurer. “You’re far superior to him. He’s far too boisterous and . . . and full of himself. Nice, but full of himself. I’d rather have a man like you, who can make fun of himself, as well as be serious,” Myal stated. Since he had shifted himself out of her reach, she crooked her finger. “Come here, noble writer, and dip your pen in my inkwell.”

  Brows lifting, Kerric asked, “Is that how they euphemize lovemaking in Mendhi?” At her nod, he considered the notion. “Huh . . . I like it. But I had something else in mind.”

  Dipping down again, he parted her thighs a little farther with his hands, and his shoulders. Breathing on her nether-curls, Kerric took the time to tease her with light little touches that traced through the dew already spread over her nethers. Just as she started to growl in frustration, he finally leaned in, closed his lips over her folds, and suckled.

  Her elbows gave out. Flopping onto the leather-padded bed, thighs splaying wide, Myal moaned in pleasure. She panted, enjoying the flicking swirling of his tongue, but it wasn’t enough. Tugging on his hair, she lifted his head from her loins. “Up . . . please, up . . . up here.”

  Kerric weighed his desire versus his lust, and matched it to her request. As much as he wanted to feel her bathing his lips in her climax, he wasn’t going to deny her the chance to be filled by him. Working his way up the length of her body, he pressed damp, fragrant kisses up her colorfully inked belly, until his loins were snuggled against hers, his manhood rubbing against her slick, hot folds. As suspected, the position left him at the perfect length to place his weight on his elbows, plump a breast in each hand, and suckle each turgid nipple in turn.

  Myal groaned in frustration. Bracing her heels, she lifted her hips, rubbing her folds agai
nst his shaft. “Inside me!” she ordered. “Dip me, now!”

  A chuckle escaped him at the demand. Bracing his weight on one elbow, Kerric reached down between them, positioned himself at her entrance, and pushed in a little. Enough to tease. Except it wasn’t just her he was teasing; the wet heat enfolding the head of his shaft made his eyes want to roll up in his head. Sucking in a sharp breath, he prodded a little deeper. Then plumped a breast and suckled hungrily on it, tugging with his lips each time he prodded with his flesh.

  Delicious. That was what he felt like, thick and hard and hot, pushing his way into her sheath. A fresh moan escaped her throat; when he suckled on her areola, it connected a line of fire down through her blood to her groin, delicious fire. Delving her fingers through his hair, she encouraged him with wordless murmurs, hips lifting instinctively in rhythm.

  He wasn’t overly long, but his girth was more than enough to satisfy her; it put pleasurable pressure on all her nerve-endings down there, including a spot inside that made her gasp and tense. The moment she did so, Kerric grinned. As much as his body ached to pound and spill, it was those little twitches that pleased him the most. Rocking back and forth, he angled himself up into that spot, provoking a lustful moan out of the beautiful, exotic woman in his makeshift bed.

  Sweat beaded on his brow, but he didn’t stop teasing and tormenting her. All he did was dip his head back to her breasts and suckle, adding suction to friction. The slightest nip and scrape of his teeth finished the job. Cursing in Mendhite, she bucked under him, tugging on his curls. The sting was more pleasurable than painful. Grateful she was already experiencing her bliss, Kerric gave himself up to his.

  It took a while; there were so many wonderful things about her body, the soft feel and sweet taste of her breasts, the warmth of her belly, the heat of her sheath. Feeling like he was drowning, he pounded into her as the tide rose within him. Rose, spilled, and flooded into her with a lusty groan that could have been her name. Holding himself on stiffened arms over her, he pressed his loins against hers, letting himself enjoy the way his body filled hers.

  All good things had an ending. Gradually softening inside her, Kerric lowered his torso back down to hers, bracing some of his weight on his elbows even as he nuzzled her breasts. Her skin clung to his cheeks, damp with a sheen of sweat. Her fingers tangled lazily in his hair, equally damp along the scalp.

  “Mmm,” Myal sighed, enjoying the closeness of their aftermath. He was just the right weight on her, neither too removed nor too heavy. With her nerves still humming in delight, the silky feel of his locks was rather soothing. “I liked that,” she finally said, licking her lips to moisten them. All that panting during the crux of her passion had dried them a bit. “How soon can we do it again?”

  His chuckle vibrated between her breasts. Kissing one of her curves, Kerric replied, “As soon as we’ve speed-slept. Lie here. I’ll fetch some cloths for cleaning up.”

  That offer made her release his hair, and untwine the legs she had unconsciously wrapped around his own. As soon as he left her, she stretched luxuriously. The cool air of the refreshing room felt nice against her overheated skin. Sprawling on the transformed couch, she relaxed into it, letting her eyelids droop.

  The creak of leather and a brush of cool, wet cloth against her thighs made her slide one knee sideways, bending it to give him room to work. The intimacy made her smile and open her eyes a little. Not every man bothered with the need for after-lovemaking cleaning. Some, yes, but not all of them. She favored him with a very pleased look for his consideration.

  Seeing that sexy, feline-lapping-the-cream smirk, Kerric groaned and shook a finger at her. “Don’t get me started again, woman. We need our sleep, first. Both of us. You can pounce on me when we wake up. Now, go use the refreshing room if you need to,” he added, lightly smacking her hip with his fingers. “You’ll want to be completely relaxed and ready for sleep when the spell hits.”

  Grumbling a little—mock-grumbling—she rolled over, staggered to her feet, and sauntered toward the ladies’ half. Her nethers felt deliciously tender, her breasts ached for more kisses, and her fingers itched to play in his hair again. For such curly hair, twining around in thumb-sized ringlets, it was remarkably soft. She wanted to touch it again.

  She also wanted to sleep. Going through the motions of readying for bed—an odd thing to do, naked in one of the refreshing rooms of the Tower, of all places—Myal padded out in time to catch her lover emerging from the other half. Her lover. She smirked again, thinking about that. At a quick double take from him, his second look a chiding one, she shrugged blithely. “I’m just thinking I should have sought you out much earlier than this.”

  “Really?” he asked. Half of him was deeply flattered that such a sexy, exotic woman would want to make love with him again, and regretted the time lost in not doing so. Half of him was wary this was some prelude to the sort of unreasonable demands on his time that had ended many of his other attempts at relationships.

  “Mmhmm,” she sighed, stretching. His gaze followed the teardrop-shaped lift of her breasts, and the way they settled back down in comfortable, handful-sized curves. “You are the perfect post-gauntlet relaxation therapy. I am ready to sleep the sleep of the well-satisfied.” She slanted a look at him. “You did enjoy it, too, yes?”

  Her quick moment of insecurity made him smile. “Yes, I did,” he said, beckoning her onto the expanded couch next to him. “Very much so. And I’d like to enjoy you again. After we’ve rested.”

  Nodding, Myal settled down at his side. Then stretched, arms over her heads, toes and legs pointed, before twisting onto her side. Her arms scooped around him, one tucking under his head, the other over his waist, cuddling him close. “I shall enjoy waking up, then. I don’t normally sleep with someone, but I like touching you.”

  Her honesty touched him deeper than mere hands could. Looking into her eyes, mere inches from his own, Kerric cleared his throat to catch her attention, and to focus his own thoughts.

  “Alright then. Pay attention, now: Adduak. Ashtet. Belzuak.” Tendrils of dim golden light arced up and wove around both of them as he spoke. “Mardenth. Comnuenth. Lanzak. Aaaaaa-dipoza,” he finished, deliberately pronouncing the last word with a yawn.

  Myal, caught off guard, yawned in response to the sound he made, as yawns tended to do. He yawned as well, his second one triggered by hers . . . and both dropped instantly into sleep, snared in his spell.

  TEN

  When she woke a short while later, the first thing on Myal’s mind was, literally, a headache. It throbbed in that peculiar way that said she had overslept, and not the completely good, completely restful, satisfying sort of sleep. She felt rested, but not completely so. Then again, Kerric had warned her it wouldn’t be quite like real sleep.

  Lying there, eyes shut against the ever-present light of the suncrystals striating the lounge ceiling, she focused on her breathing and her spine tattoo. Within a half dozen deep breaths, her head felt better, allowing her to open her eyes. Nothing had changed; she still lay on her side curled up with the Master of the Tower, both of them naked, and neither having lain there long enough for the cool air to give them a chill.

  Beside her, Kerric still slept, curled up on his side, cheek pillowed on her bicep, arms folded up against his chest. He didn’t look like his usual self, asleep; the vibrancy of his personality had faded, leaving a solemn-looking man edging toward middle-age. Hints of stubble shadowed his jaw, and the lips that could kiss and caress her so well, that smiled so readily, were now lax.

  She thought him very handsome, if exotic, with his sharp nose and pale skin. There was just one problem seeing him like this: She wanted to see him smiling in his sleep.

  In one of the western lands whose coast she had visited as a sailor—Myal couldn’t remember which one off the top of her head—she had heard a saying that a woman’s or a man’s true face appeared when they let down their guard as they slept. If that saying was true, Kerric Vo Mos lo
oked like a man who took his responsibilities seriously, who was more concerned than he was letting on while awake, but who was not so mired in his troubles that it permanently creased his brow in a frown. Indeed, as she studied him, she found more evidence for tiny laugh-lines at the corner of his eye than she could see of scowl marks and the like.

  A deep breath told her his spell was wearing off. Drawing in a second one, he opened his eyes, stared at her shoulder for a moment, then lifted his gray eyes to her face. The smile he gave her was warm, sleepy, and contented. She didn’t know whether to cuddle him, kiss him, or push him onto his back and mount him. It was possible she could do all three.

  Just as she drew in a breath to suggest it, his eyes snapped wide, focusing somewhere past her face. “Someone’s testing my wards to the Banqueting Hall. We need to get dressed.”

  Myal bolted out of the bed. Spinning around to survey the scattered mess of their gear, she grabbed for her undergarments. A chuckle from her partner confused her. “—What?”

  “They’ll take a good twenty minutes or more to break through at the rate they’re going,” Kerric soothed her. Sitting up, he stretched his arms, scratched at scalp and belly, then took his time getting up, only to stretch a second time, this time up onto his toes. “We don’t have time for lovemaking, which is unfortunate, but we do have time to get dressed and see who they are.”

  She had to trust that he knew his own spells, but Myal preferred to be cautious, and only slowed down a tiny bit. “I’d rather hurry, just in case they turn out to be stronger than these first few tries.”

  “You have a point,” he conceded, and began looking for his own things with a bit more speed.

  A flick of his hand restored the couch; a trip to the refreshing room freed them from necessary urges, and a bit of mutual help got both of them into their armor in record time. The scent of lovemaking still hung faintly in the air, since it had been less than half an hour, but Kerric didn’t waste magic on dispersing it; the Tower would do that eventually with its own plethora of subtle air-refreshing spells. Picking up his backpack, Kerric stepped into the Banqueting Hall and hurried for the door at the far end.