Seventeen
He couldn’t seem to care that his HeartMate had found him. Probably because she’d moved a little and her hand had closed around his shaft.
Fabulous.
His eyes had closed, and his mouth had opened. He’d thought he was going to say something, but all the words had fallen out of his head and he only breathed harshly and rapidly.
“Lie down with me,” she whispered, and then he did, atop soft moss cool beneath his back and his butt. She sat beside him, a fascinating shadow, and he thought of blinking to bring her into focus, but . . . didn’t want to.
Her hands brushed his hair away from his face, trailed over his forehead, each of his features, and he began to tremble. He knew what she wanted, breathed that knowledge in with her scent. She wanted to touch him, head to toe.
At least.
Yes, he trembled.
Her fingers traced his brows, stroked his cheeks again, explored the angle of his jaw, feathered down his neck to the hollow there. Then she swept her hands along the curve of his collarbone, and for the first time in his life he thought of himself as a structure, bone and tendons, muscles and skin, the container for his thoughts, his emotions, all that he considered his self. His soul.
But she’d put her hands around the curve of his right shoulder, felt it, kneaded his biceps, and a groan cracked from him.
“Ah, lover,” she said, leaning forward and kissing his mouth, her soft lips sinking against his own that felt plush, too. Swollen from need. All of him throbbed with need.
She nibbled at the edge of his mouth, then kissed under his ear, tasted his jaw, his neck. She shifted and lay beside him. He thought she’d propped herself on one elbow, but his gaze had fixed to the magnificent spangles of the stars.
Her hand went to his chest, teased his light hair, measured the breadth of his torso, angled downward to his hip, to his thigh.
He dug for and found one word only. “Please.”
“Yes. I will please myself, and I will please you,” she said, and touched him. One long stroke and he was gone, shattered, thrown to the stars, sinking into the earth, floating away in the air.
But when his wits coalesced again, he found her lying atop him. His first deep breath moved her breasts against him, her soft stomach against his, and his sex stirred again. His hands went to the globes of her butt, muscle covered with smooth skin, perfect texture against his palms.
Her head lay against his shoulder and her legs intertwined with his, though her feet . . . all of her . . . wasn’t as long, as tall as he. His muzzy mind couldn’t judge how tall she might be if they stood together, though when she’d been behind him, her chin hadn’t reached his shoulder, and he wasn’t a tall man.
His breath had barely begun to ease, his shaft to harden, when she moved. Now she lifted her head and he felt her hair skim across his skin, caressing him in a completely different way than her mouth and her fingers. Another moan tore from him and evaporated into the air like a sigh.
She slipped downward and his hands fell away from her derriere, and then her tongue touched his right nipple, licked it, and it beaded and he panted, tried to raise his right hand but had no strength. The woman was over him, shifting along him, warm, supple, graceful, overloading him with a barrage of sensations. Under him was soft and cradling moss. He couldn’t move.
Then she feathered kisses to his other nipple and he heated; fire shivered down his nerves and he shuddered but could do nothing but experience.
Her mouth vibrated against his skin as she spoke or chanted or sang, and he felt the unknown words sink deep into him, coat the inside of his bones. Her lips caressed, her tongue tasted, and he ached waiting for her to get to his shaft.
He reached and his arms worked and his hands closed and his fingers caught her hair that slid silkily across his palms and escaped. His legs widened and she knelt between them and touched his straining cock again and he jackknifed, caught her under her arms, drew her up until her damp sex slid along him. Changing his grip to her hips, he lifted and she moved with him and then she was atop him and then he was in!
Exquisite paradise. Nothing, nothing, nothing in his life had been as good as this. She sheathed him warmly, wetly, tightly.
Now he went blind. Their joining encompassed his world.
They rocked together. Rose and fell. Slow, but the pulse of his blood beat in his ears, through him, through her setting the rhythm of their mating. Until they spun together outside the world, outside time. Only the joining necessary.
Faster. Harder. Now!
Sensation swamped him and he drowned in it, in her scent and her crooning and her enveloping self, sex and arms and throbbing emotions.
The brightly colored starbursts behind his eyelids vanished and the blackness took him.
* * *
Eons later Antenn awoke, head pounding. “Wha—? What’s that?” His dry lips formed the sounds, and they emerged as questions.
The HouseHeart said, “It is time for you to prepare for work.” And those sounds made sense, too, and the pounding turned out to be a pattern of melodious, soft chimes. He sat up and it felt like the grass under him abraded his skin. Pressing his fingers to his eyes, he yelped.
What is wrong, Antenn? asked the HouseHeart.
“My skin—I dunno—all of me feels scoured or like I have a really deep sunburn.”
What was probably a small hum from the HouseHeart buzzed in his ears like ten thousand bees. He clapped his hands over his ears, and that had a cry ripping from his throat.
“Hmm,” the older-woman voice said.
“Too loud!” he shouted, but it was the barest whisper.
I believe that removing the emotional lock has left all your senses extremely, ah, sensitive.
“Yeah, got that,” Antenn answered hoarsely. He didn’t want to move. He felt just as bad as before . . . he fell into the sexy dream. Well, he supposed his inner self, his nonphysical self felt pretty damn good, but his body . . .
Let us consider our options, the HouseHeart said.
“Our options?” Antenn snapped.
I will help you if you will let me, son of the Blackthorns.
He began to grit his teeth, stopped that in a hurry. Fliggering fligger, even his teeth hurt.
You can teleport to a HealingHall, the HouseHeart stated.
“Naked?”
They’re Healers, Antenn.
“No.”
Slowly, carefully, he stood, stretching each muscle millimeter by millimeter. One step on a raw foot and pain-sweat drenched his scalp.
Please, wait. I was not aware that this problem could occur. I am consulting with other sources.
“All right.” Antenn looked at the fountain, wished it were big enough for him to submerge himself in it. As it was, he figured a droplet hitting his skin would bring him to his knees, which would end him entirely.
We have decided to try a combination of things, the HouseHeart stated, an odd resonance to its voice as if it were not a single being.
“Yeah?”
You can clothe yourself in illusion—
Antenn closed his eyes. It didn’t hurt. In fact, he felt better with his eyes shut; everything had been too bright. “No. Absolutely not. I am not walking around naked.”
Ah. We can have your mother prepare a very good potion that should ease your sensitivity.
“Take it away?” He perked up.
Not exactly. It seems to us that the most problematic of your senses is touch—your skin. The potion can, ah, adjust your sight, hearing, smell, and taste, but your skin will remain as if you have that bad sunburn.
“Great.”
It should wear off during the day.
“I hear you. And what am I supposed to wear?”
Your mother is also taking care of that.
“Well, if anyone knows clothes and fabrics, it’s Mitchella.”
She will be down shortly.
“All right.”
We suggest that along wit
h the potion, you subsist on liquids until the sensitivity fades.
“Wonderful.”
We are sorry this happened to you; however, we would like to point out that had you not had the emotional lock on so long, the effects of its removal would not have been so dire.
Nerving himself, he said a short after-sex cleansing spell that every gentleman who cared about himself and his partner knew. By the time it was done he was curled over with hands braced on his knees, head down.
A perfunctory knock and his mother walked in. She had some opaque tissue-thin fabric draped over one arm, and in her other hand she carried a tall tube of murky brown liquid.
“Drink this first.”
He took it and heroically swallowed the nasty stuff and threw the tube in the reconstructor. Watched narrowly as his mother snapped the sparkly white film of cloth out and saw it was some lame, all-encompassing robe.
“Put this on,” she said.
With a pained glance, he shook his head and she gave him that stern-mother I-am-not-going-to-accept-refusal look. “It is a very expensive robe. You will wear it.”
He opened his mouth to continue to disagree and she stabbed a finger at him and he shut it.
“The robe is imbued with several spells.” Now she raised that perfectly manicured index finger. “First, once the robe is on, though the fabric is light and breathable, barely touching the skin, it will look like whatever you want it to. As long as you aren’t in the company of a null who kills spells, no one will sense that it is any different.” Another finger went up. “Second, if necessary, it has a slight no-contact spell, and I have started that. No one will get close to you. Not close enough to touch you, which is what you want, right?”
“Yes, Mitchella.”
She nodded. “You might also want some sort of an additional spellshield for backup, but I don’t have the Flair for that. I do have this garment.” She held it out.
He took it, shrugged it over his head, and let it settle, without too much pain, over his body. It felt a little like a dressing gown.
“Now visualize what you were going to wear today.”
Even though she’d taught him about dressing professionally, he rarely decided what to wear until he looked in his closet after his morning waterfall. Today would probably be meetings with his clients, so that was preeminent on how he needed to present himself. Probably a talk with Tiana Mugwort.
The trenches for the foundation had gone in yesterday, and he’d supervised that, but he’d need another go-ahead from the Chief Ministers to actually begin the real building of structure . . . the final cutting of the massive stone blocks from the quarry and translocating them to the site. He wasn’t sure how quickly they’d authorize that, so he wouldn’t dress for fieldwork today. Despite everything Mitchella said, he wasn’t sure he’d trust the dressing gown to the elements sweeping across the plateau.
“Antenn?” she prompted.
So he visualized not his best tunic and trous, but one step down—simple and brown and with embroidery on his cuffs that showed the plants that gave him his name: blackthorn leaves and moss clumps.
Mitchella said, “At full strength, the no-contact spell should last a good half day, then will gradually diminish. The cloth-transformation spell will last a full month.”
He looked down at himself and though he felt a dressing gown, he saw boot liners, trous, and tunic. He pinched the fabric on the sleeve and his fingers touched good-quality cloth. Different on the inside than the outside. He shrugged. That was Flair for you.
With an intricate spell verse, he conjured up a spellshield. He’d used that one in grovestudy when he didn’t want to fight bullies who insulted him with his brother’s crimes. It had been a while since he’d summoned it, but it came quickly and was solid.
Mitchella walked around him. “Looks good. Otherwise, how do you feel?”
The brightness of the light, of all the colors of the room, of his mother’s hair, had faded to normal. She was speaking in a low voice but not a whisper, and the sound didn’t spear his eardrums.
“Well enough.”
She nodded. “That’s fine.” She stepped closer, stopped and made a face, then retreated a pace. “The garment works, but I wanted to give you a hug.”
He put on his most disappointed face but flinched inwardly. “Tonight, Mitchella.”
Air-kissing, she said, “Yes. I’ll expect you for dinner.”
“I’ll be here.”
“And you can tell us what your clients and the High Priest and Priestess want from us with regard to the ritual in more detail.”
“Sure. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” She opened the door and glanced over her shoulder. “Blessed be.”
“Blessed be,” he replied.
She shut the door and the HouseHeart said, “There is an incoming scry from the Chief Ministers of the Intersection of Hope. They would like you to meet them at the building site in a septhour.” The no-time against the wall opened. “You can eat breakfast here, first.”
* * *
A rough tongue licking her cheek—not the tongue of her lover, which she hadn’t tasted since she’d been more interested in other things—dragged Tiana from sleep and she stared into Felonerb’s green eyes. His breath wasn’t nearly as bad this morning. Not great, but . . . bearable. Or maybe she was just getting used to it.
Still, she’d rather linger on the dream sex than whatever her Fam wanted to say.
He smiled his ingratiating smile. High Priestess called ME!
She sat up and rubbed the back of her neck. Spring-night chill remained in the room, but her clothes stuck a little to her body . . . from love perspiration. She must have finally connected with her HeartMate . . .
Holy Lady wants to see the ritual before you give it to other holy guys.
Eighteen
Of course the High Priestess wanted to see the ritual before Tiana gave it to the Chief Ministers. Tiana rubbed her scalp, her head. Luckily it didn’t seem like another migraine threatened.
She switched her thoughts back into regular channels of work and superiors. Why hadn’t she anticipated that the High Priestess would want to see the ritual? Because Tiana doubted the woman knew much at all about Intersection of Hope rituals . . . except what D’Sandalwood brushed up on in the last few days.
Irritation bloomed. Tiana and her mother had worked hard on this ritual, and both agreed it was good. Now she had to run it by D’Sandalwood? Adding another stress-element to the day, and cutting short any breakfast time Tiana might have squeezed in.
But the High Priestess was her boss. She huffed out a frustrated breath, flicked the fingers of her hands to rid herself of the negative energy. She was tired, and, yes, she should have anticipated this. If she had, she wouldn’t have been caught by surprise.
Felonerb rubbed against her side and purred. She petted him. His fur felt better after even one day of care. “Thank you for waking me up.”
You are welcome. He sat and lifted his muzzle so she could scratch under his chin, so she did. Holy Lady wants you at Temple quick.
Tiana sighed, knowing another Whirlwind cleansing and dressing spell was in her future, and teleportation to the Temple. Not one minute to think of other things, like meeting her HeartMate in a sex dream. “BalmHeal Residence, will you lower your shields so I can teleport from my sitting room to GreatCircle Temple, please?”
“Yes,” he grumbled with creaking wood. “It’s good that you are moving out. Rush, rush, rush. Do this, Residence. Do that.”
Tiana pressed her lips together to stop a comment that would escalate the annoyance of them both. “I will be back sometime today, to pack some of my belongings and move them to the Turquoise House.” She hoped.
“I can pack your clothing,” Tiana’s mother said from the door. She must have knocked, but Tiana hadn’t heard her. After the long night and little sleep, Quina looked a whole lot better than Tiana felt.
“Thank you,” Tiana said.
“That’s right.”
“How are you feeling?” both of them asked together, love emanating from them.
“I’m fine. I drank an additional migraine potion at TQ’s yesterday.” She smiled at her sister. “You stocked the medicines?”
“I did, yes.”
“We’ll make sure you have replacements, too,” Quina said.
“What time is it?” Tiana asked, slipping from the bed.
“About an hour and a half before WorkBell.”
Holy Lady said come as soon as possible. Felonerb licked his front paw and smoothed it over his ear. I will stay and supervise the packing.
“Don’t go near my good work robes,” Tiana said. She closed her eyes, summoned her energy. “Whirlwind Spell standard professional tunic and trous.” Keeping the image in her mind, she initiated the spell and suffered through it, dry cleansing that never felt as good as a bath and made her squeak as it removed any traces of the dream loving.
Then she stood, panting and staring at her relatives. Artemisia was boxing up her favorite little items from the top of her bureau. “Will you want your pillow?” her sister asked.
“I don’t think so. TQ will have new ones.”
Artemisia smiled. “He’ll have pretty much new everything. Last time I was there he’d even moved some walls around.”
“New will be nice,” Tiana said, lifting down the drawing on the wall. “I want this with me.”
“That is my frame,” the Residence said.
“All right, I will pay you for it,” she said stiffly.
A creaky grumble. “You may have it. But it is made of wood from one of my Earthan trees.”
The Residence considered the whole estate his, though he couldn’t monitor anything outside his walls.
“I will treasure the frame,” Tiana soothed, taking time for the oldster she didn’t think she had. “And I’m sure the Turquoise House will, too.” Two breaths and she made an impatient gesture. “I have to go.”
Heart Fire (Celta Book 13) Page 16