The Lone Warrior

by Denise Rossetti

  He tore himself away to lick a trail down the side of her neck, tasting blengo juice and hot skin. But when he reached her breast, the taste changed—pure Mehcredi, satin smooth and hot cream, flavored with the dark spice of the Mark. A kind of purr-growl vibrating deep in his chest, Walker stroked her distended nipple with his tongue. Sex and Magick exploded in his mouth, sweet and fiery as summerberries soaked in raw spirits.

  Mehcredi didn’t scream as he’d half expected. Instead, she choked and went rigid, her fingers spearing into his hair and gripping hard. Ignoring the pain in his scalp, Walker redoubled his efforts, licking all around the crinkled velvet of her areola before returning to suckle her deep, compressing nerve-rich flesh between his tongue and hard palate. Sweet, something babbled in his head. Gods, so sweet.

  He nudged her legs apart with his knee and without preamble, skimmed eager fingers over her cleft. Yes, godsdammit, yes! She was flowering for him, plump with desire, her delicate folds slick and hot, open as a velvety, full-bloom rose. His cock leaped, ravening.

  When he strummed the prominent bump of her clitoris with his thumb, she keened with pleasure, her head thrashing on the pillow. Walker inserted the tip of one finger into the tight sucking entrance of her body and rotated it, very gently. With a last regretful lick, he lifted his head from the temptingly ripe gleam of a wet nipple.

  “Tell me you still want this.” Was that his voice, so guttural it was barely human?

  Mehcredi’s laugh came out more like a sob. “What do you think?” Her fingers trembled as she reached up to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear. She swallowed hard. “Don’t stop.”

  “I won’t.”

  Utterly shameless, she squirmed, her thighs falling open beautifully as she bore down, trying to impale herself on his finger. Such beautiful strength, like a slippery velvet vise. Fuck. He’d never been so hard in his life, so engorged with desire the tender skin of his cock felt like it might split, his balls tense and ripe, drawn up hard into his body.

  His brain had degenerated to a lusty soup where an errant thought whimpered for his attention. Irrevocable, it wailed. Never the same. Never again.

  ’Cestors’ bones, who the fuck cared? Walker bit the inside of his cheek, using the small pain to anchor himself. “Ready?”

  “I don’t know.” Her eyes turned nearly as dark as his. “Nngh! Sister have mercy, do that again.”

  Instead, he settled into the cradle of her pelvis, the broad head of his cock nosing against wet satin. Eyes rolling back in his head with the effort of restraint, he flexed his hips. Probing.

  Her knee rose against his hip and he hooked an arm beneath it, splaying her open, leaning forward, covering her with his body, making her prey.

  “Walker?”

  Ah, there. “Mmm. What?”

  “Will it hurt?”

  22

  Walker froze above her, his face stark, and once again, she was trapped by his compelling hunter’s gaze. She hadn’t thought it possible to feel so many sensations at once, so much emotion. Every nerve under her skin sang in concert, greedy lip-smacking hallelujahs. She felt feverish, dizzy with it all, a feast for her starved senses. Her mouth watered with the need to bite off huge chunks of the physical gorgeousness of it—of him. Then she’d be able to keep this forever, pull it out of memory to roll around her mouth and savor at leisure.

  Sweet Sister, just the press of his weight was amazing. She’d had no idea—how could she?—that a man’s body would be so heavy, so incredibly solid, all bone and muscle clad in satiny resilient bronze. Godsdammit, she felt small.

  Nor had she realized sex was so . . . wet . . . so hot. So splendidly wicked. The head of his cock shifted against her most secret flesh, a smooth dense presence. Every insistent slide, each slippery rub, forced a gasp out of her, sent vicious tingles surging through her body, not just in her loins, but up her spine, into her belly and over her ribs. Compressed by the wall of his chest, her breasts ached, already desperate for his fingers, his mouth.

  Panting, her pulse juddering in her ears, she ran her fingers through the cool silk of his hair, over and over, as she’d always longed to do, watching him think. He was searching for words, she could tell. And wasn’t that flash of insight a complete surprise?

  At last, he said, “Hurt? I don’t know, but I imagine so.” Every muscle in his body had turned to stone, the breadth of his shoulders setting like a girder, but his head dropped so the curtain of hair concealed his face. “Think quick, Mehcredi.” He sounded like he’d gargled with gravel. “My willpower is . . . limited.”

  Her laugh bounced off the walls. Still smiling, she reared up to press her mouth to his and he hissed as cock flesh slid through her slippery folds. How the touch of him could . . . well, sear like that when she was so wet remained a mystery.

  “Don’t care,” she said, fizzing with joy. “Hard and fast, Walker.” Grinning, she nipped his lower lip. “Do it.”

  Walker’s hips drew back, buttocks flexing. She’d expected another of those deep sensual growls, but instead, he surged forward with a pained groan, driving what felt like a tree trunk partway into her body.

  The breath left her in a strangled shriek.

  Walker froze, bracing himself over her on his forearms, shuddering. “Mehcredi? Love?”

  “Shit,” she said through gritted teeth. “Stings like a bitch. Move.” Wrapping her long legs around his hips, she dug in with her heels.

  A long release of breath and Walker thrust again, not stopping this time until he was wedged hard and high inside her. There he stopped, chest heaving. “Better?”

  They were as close as it was possible for two people to be. Sweet Sister of mercy, a part of his body was inside hers. And yes, it did hurt, though the initial sting was fading to a dull ache.

  Mehcredi didn’t know how she knew, but for some reason she was completely assured he wouldn’t move until she signified she was ready. Gods, it was such a luxury to be able to stare into his face, close enough to count each fabulous eyelash, to drown in eyes gone the warm deep brown she loved, to know she could kiss his mouth until she died of the sheer pleasure. Wonderingly, she raised a trembling hand and laid her fingertips against the firm softness of his lips.

  “Godsdammit,” he growled. “I have to—I can’t—” Turning his head, he blew out a breath and nipped her index finger. His hips shimmied the slightest bit as if he were powerless to prevent it.

  Oh. It didn’t feel so bad, not now. Cautiously, Mehcredi clenched her internal muscles against the intruder. If she concentrated, she could feel their heartbeats pulsing in concert, separated by only the thinnest of membranes. Being crammed with unyielding flesh was . . . interesting. His shaft was imperious, hot and hard and thick, throbbing against the muscular resilient walls of her sheath. When she gave an experimental wriggle, it kicked inside her, the most extraordinary sensation.

  Walker made the strangest noise, deep in his throat, almost a whine.

  “Fascinating,” she murmured, arching into him, running her palms down over the intoxicating sweep of a strong spine, from trim waist to taut buttocks. Beautiful, simply beautiful. She gripped, feeling quivering tension beneath her fingertips, the instinctive desire of the male animal to mate, to power into his female until he spilled.

  Walker grunted, every muscle locked, the tendons in his neck taut. He could have been carved of cedderwood except for the pulse ticking wildly in his throat and the tremors that shook him, bone deep. Revelation burst in her brain, so bright that she blinked, awed. Gods, this was discipline, this was control. And it was costing him dearly. All because he didn’t want to cause her pain. Sister save her, on some level, the swordmaster must really care.

  “I’m fine.” She smiled through incipient tears. “It can’t be harder than the nea-kata, can it?” Nuzzling his throat, she inhaled great gulps of clean male sweat and the dark spice that was uniquely Walker, building her courage.

  Then she shot him a blazing all-out grin. “Welderyn,” sh
e whispered. “Welderyn of the Shar. C’mon, show me what I’ve been missing.”

  He didn’t speak, just dropped his head into the curve between neck and shoulder and flexed his hips, rocking into her slowly. Mehcredi gasped, startled by a wave of tingling pleasure. With each thrust, he increased the range of movement a little, the skin of his shaft sliding against clasping walls, caressing and finessing, a divinely dirty, slippery duet.

  The sting of his first entry paled into insignificance in comparison with the rush of sensation building deep in her pelvis. Like a lover vine gone rampant in the first flush of spring, curling and twining, encasing her in coils of pleasure. Tilting her hips, she opened herself, one fist in the waterfall of his hair, the other in her mouth to stifle the moans.

  “No.” Walker swiveled his hips, which changed the angle just enough to hit a sweet spot that forced a throaty cry out of her. Reaching up, he grasped her wrist, pinning it to the pillow. “Don’t.” Another couple of thrusts, deep and slow and luscious. “Let me hear you.”

  “Oh gods.” Her neck went loose, her head rolling from side to side on the pillow. “What do I—Ah! What do I do?”

  “Nothing.” Gradually, he increased the tempo, sweat beading his forehead and glistening on his shoulders. “Just . . . take me.”

  Mehcredi opened her mouth, then shut it again. Smooth and hot, Walker was moving as if they’d both been oiled, each withdrawal a delicious drag against clinging tissues reluctant to release his girth, each push within filling her all the way to her womb with hot hard cock. Vestiges of the ache lingered, but overwhelmed by pleasure as she was, they no longer mattered.

  “Good.” She gulped. “It’s good.”

  Walker paused, buried inside her to the hilt, his balls a soft warm presence nudging sensitive folds. “You sure?” His shoulders relaxed. “Fuck, you’re tight.” A lock of raven hair flopped over his forehead, his bronzed face ruddy with passion and effort, and his teeth flashed in a smile so broad it qualified as a grin.

  Mehcredi choked. Gods, this was the boy he’d been all those years ago, before the Trinitarians had robbed him of everything worth having—serious and reserved by nature, but with a well of sweetness and joy for those he loved. She thought she saw a shy mischief there, overlaid by the satisfaction of a randy lad who’d scored.

  “Hold on,” he murmured, slipping his arms beneath her knees and splaying her open in a way that was positively embarrassing.

  “Nngh.” She clutched his shoulders as he leaned into her, putting pressure on that sensitive spot at the top of her cleft. “Gods. Whoo. Aargh.”

  Another glimpse of the grin that wrung her heart. “You make the best noises. Going to scream for me?”

  “M-maybe.”

  With a dark chuckle, he bent his head to lave the Mark, and she squirmed, cursing.

  Abruptly, Walker tensed. “Shit. Mehcredi—” Gripping her shoulders, he pulled out and surged back in, the pace racking up until he was thundering into her, hard and fast, the bed rocking to the rhythm.

  She had no breath to scream, though she wanted to—needed to. The new angle added an extra dimension, hitting her high with jolts of silvery sensation, while his cock powered into the core of her, a pumping counterpoint of lusty delight. Shocked, she recognized the dark blossom of energy suffusing her sex, her belly, her heart. Back in the House of Swords, when she’d brought herself to orgasm wearing his shirt, she’d feared she might die, but now she never doubted Walker would keep her safe, like a tall stalwart tree she could cling to in a storm.

  Mehcredi dug her fingers into flexing muscle, her head reeling, her body hurtling toward a shattering climax. Was this what Magick was? What a shaman felt? A great vortex of whirling sparkling energy, fascinating and terrifying at once?

  For an endless moment, she hovered on the edge of the abyss, whimpering, unable to fall, unable to look away. From very far away, she heard Walker groan. Then his voice, almost unrecognizable, muttering something in what must be Shar. His knuckles brushed her stomach, his fingers furrowing between the lips of her sex to the place where she burned.

  When he pressed, she broke, crying out, clinging to his shoulders, while the room and everything in it spun away and she whirled among the heavens, a mote made of starstuff, as he’d said, perfect and beautiful. Her body bucked and writhed. Walker cursed, gritting his teeth.

  But Mehcredi didn’t hear. Because strangest of all, as she quieted, panting, there was the same vivid sensation of the welcome shade of a great green tree, its branches a shelter that would never fail her. She’d never had a home—well, not in the sense of a place of her own, a refuge specially shaped for her heart and mind and body. But as she relaxed, she couldn’t help but wonder . . . Was this what it felt like?

  “Ah, fuck!”

  Mehcredi blinked. Walker threw his head back, the hair whipping about his shoulders. His rhythm remained powerful, but it had grown choppy.

  “I’ve got you,” she said, wrapping her long limbs around him, as if he’d been a tree in truth, and she a lover vine.

  The swordmaster groaned as if she’d reached into his chest and torn his heart out still beating. Then he froze, jammed deep, his cock rippling and jerking with the force of his climax.

  Slowly, still breathing hard, he bent his elbows, until she could straighten her legs. Dipping his head, he snugged his nose into the curve of her neck, his hair brushing her cheek. Warm lips caressed the tender skin behind her ear. “Ah, carazada,” he murmured, no more than a thread of sound replete with satisfaction. “That was good.” His long body relaxed against her.

  Mehcredi gathered up a fall of raven black and rubbed it against her cheek. So cool, so beautiful. “What’s that?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Cara—What you called me?”

  “Nothing.” After a pause, he sighed and pushed up on one elbow. “Stay there.”

  Her first impulse was to clutch him to her. Instead, she said, “Don’t go. This is nice.”

  She got a heavy-lidded black stare, all swordmaster, but Walker didn’t speak. Gently, but firmly, he peeled himself away and went over to the water bucket.

  Mehcredi shivered, the wash of his seed cooling on her thighs. The room reeked, a sharp, sweetish smell that must be sex. She wrinkled her nose, thinking about it, but no, she didn’t feel small or dirty, not this time.

  The washcloth plopped back into the bucket, accompanied by Walker’s exclamation of disgust. “Godsdammit, the water’s cold.” He fixed her with a commanding eye. “Don’t get up.”

  Even doing something as mundane as giving his genitals a casual swipe with a dirty shirt, he was a poem of long graceful muscle clad in gleaming bronze. Mehcredi drank him in, fixing every detail in her mind while she could. She’d known he had very little body hair, but her fingers itched to stroke the small glossy thatch that surrounded his cock. Would it be wiry, or as silky as the hair on his head? His scrotum was so close to bare she could see the plump curve of his balls nestled inside the tender rosy skin.

  She mourned as he stepped into his trews, laced them up. “Where are you going?”

  “Won’t be long.” With a single yank, he pulled the cover off the other bed and flung it over her. Another level stare. “Do not move.”

  “Mmm.” Mehcredi yawned. The muscles in her thighs were complaining, but she was too boneless to be particularly bothered. As the door clicked shut, her eyelids slid down.

  She woke to a cool rush of air, the dip of the mattress. Something wet and warm and soft traveled over her belly. Strong hands parted her legs. She forced her eyes open. “Nngh?”

  “Only me.” He had a bowl of water on the nightstand and a clean soft cloth in his hands. As he stared down at her thighs, a frown gathered and his lips tightened. “Hold still. I won’t hurt you.”

  Very gently, he ran the cloth over her inner thighs and up to her sex. When she hissed, he raised a brow. “Sore?”

  Emotion closed her throat, so much so that the words emerged in
a cracked whisper. “A little.”

  The movement of the cloth stopped. “You’re crying!”

  She sniffed. “No, I’m not.”

  “How bad is it? I thought—”

  Reaching out, she touched his shoulder with her fingertips. “It’s just—” She fought to regain her composure. “I’ve never had anyone . . . do anything like . . . look after me before.”

  A long silence, but he rinsed the cloth out again, laid it between her legs and held it in place. His head was bent so she couldn’t see his face through the shining curtain of his hair.

  “Walker? Would you—?”

  He didn’t turn his head. “What?”

  “Take off those stupid trews.”

  That surprised a bark of laughter out of him. Mehcredi glowed with triumph.

  A dark brow winged up. “You want to look?”

  “You’re looking at me,” she pointed out.

  “True.” Walker rose and shucked the trews with no trace of self-consciousness. He returned to the bed with a small towel in his hands. “You’re worth looking at,” he said, patting her dry.

  He’d called her magnificent once. Deeply pleased, Mehcredi essayed a glance from under her lashes. “All men like to look at naked women.”

  “Except your Trinitarian friend,” he said dryly. “Which, as you’ll recall, was the problem.”

  Godsdammit, she’d wrong-footed herself. And it had all been going so beautifully. She pressed her palms to her hot cheeks. “Can we not talk about that? Please?”

  Walker drew the covers up to her waist and turned toward the other bed. “Sleep. We have another long day tomorrow.”

  Shit, he was disappearing behind his walls of ice and she couldn’t bear it! She’d thought fucking would make everything different. Wasn’t that how it worked? Rearing up, Mehcredi grabbed his hand and tugged. “No!” She swallowed hard. “Aren’t you supposed to stay here with me and . . . ah, cuddle? Or something? Isn’t that part of it?”