Into His Command

by Angel Payne

  “Don’t be gentle.”

  Twin furrows dug in between his brows. “You are so small. I do not want to hurt—”

  “Dammit, Syn.” I slid my other hand to his taut ass, scoring him as deeply as I could. “Hurt me!” Wet heat sprang behind my eyes. “Make me…remember you.”

  Another barrier in him fell. I watched the animal in him prowl right over it, crushing the last tether on his passion. Finally, a response growled from him.

  “Yes.”

  Yes.

  It echoed from deep inside, though I couldn’t form any words past the shriek he tore free. Then the next. Then the moans, harsh and guttural, as he plunged his body into mine, from head to root on every thrust, claiming my passage with his ruthless force—and taking me with him. Higher…higher. Hotter…hotter. My thighs quivered and clenched. My clit bloomed and begged. My mind swirled and soared.

  So close…

  I knew what an orgasm was, of course. I didn’t have cute toys like the other girls, but my imagination was keen and my fingers were strong. But no climax I’d ever given myself was like this, amped by the nerves up and down my tunnel, lighting me up from the inside out. With every lunge of Syn’s sex, they flared brighter, brighter—until the circuits were blown apart.

  I ignited.

  Then shattered.

  “Samsyn! Yes!”

  He pummeled harder, bringing wave after wave of pleasure, until I wasn’t conscious of the room, the moon, the windows, my mind. Everything was the pulse of my pussy, the heat of his cock…and the burst, even hotter, that erupted from him. He roared with the force of it, primal and pure in his tragedy, ecstasy, completion.

  “Dammit.” He panted it against my neck, continuing to pound me like a locomotive. “Dammit…take it…all of me…yes…”

  I scored my nails back up, trailing them along his spine, as his strokes finally began to slow. But at the moment I thought he’d pull free, he curled his lips against my ear and directed, “Hang on, astremé.”

  I obeyed. Was glad I did. I was suddenly airborne, lifted from the window seat with his sex still inside me, then carried into one of the larger bedrooms. Somewhere between the two points, he kicked off his pants completely, making him naked as me when turning to sit on the bed. Without any pause, he lay completely back with me on top of him.

  I didn’t let go.

  Neither did he.

  He grabbed the comforter, folding it around us. “Well,” I murmured. “You are full of hidden talents.”

  Normally, that would’ve earned me a one-liner in return. I wasn’t surprised when none came. Still wasn’t when leaning up a little, to find myself inches above his solemn stare. With quiet strokes, he brushed my hair off my face.

  “How are you?” he whispered. “Was that…good for you?”

  I was so tempted to giggle. I’d been exposed to modern culture in very small bits over the last six years, but was aware of the trite pillow talk line. Samsyn had be too, though nothing on his face hinted at anything besides sincerity—and concern. As if he truly worried whether he’d delivered the goods.

  “Syn,” I chastised. “Really?” I shifted a little as his scowl deepened. “Okay, your turn for honesty. Have you ever had any complaints?”

  His brows jerked. “Do you really want to talk about my previous…experiences?”

  Now I did laugh. “The question was rhetorical.”

  “And you are breathtaking.”

  A blush took over my face as he thumbed more hair off my sweat-dampened cheek. “And you call me the hopeless subject changer?”

  “The subject never changed for me.” His hands glided down my neck. Spread over my collar bones. Trailed back in, between my breasts. “Look at that. You blush all the way to your nipples.”

  The twin subjects of his statement became the trembling victims of his gentle pinches, hardening against the broad plane of his chest. I lifted a little, giving him better access, letting him watch exactly what that did to my skin, my breaths…my self-control.

  “Does this answer your question?” I managed to sigh.

  His teeth snuck out over his lower lip as he brushed my tips with his thumbs, on his way to framing my waist in his huge, dominant grip. “And what…question would that be?”

  I lifted a hand to bat his chest but it fell to his skin instead, helpless, as he lifted me up, holding my intimate lips just at the tip of his newly pulsing penis. “The one about it being good.”

  He dug his hold in tighter. Stared up at me with those eyes, blue as a panther sneaking up on its prey.

  “Oh, it was good.”

  I tugged at my own bottom lip now, raising up to brace my grip on his biceps. “Damn straight it was.”

  “Now it shall be better than good.”

  I tried to grin. “If you say so, Your Highness.”

  He bared his teeth. Released a hiss as he let me lower a little more. His hips jerked. His cock thrummed. “I say so.”

  Our gazes twined again. I paused, just for one moment, to memorize everything just as it was. The power I felt, rising up over him, his massive body flattened beneath mine. But the helplessness too, feeling the decree beneath his grip, the control of everything my sex did to his. The balance of it. The rightness of it.

  The rightness of him.

  I needed it all again. My blood trumpeted with it. My lungs throbbed, grasping at it. My body clenched, craving it.

  “Ride me, Brooke.”

  I lowered a gaze, beseeching. “Show me how?”

  And he did. With steady, surging strokes and mounting, magnificent passion…until we groaned together again, climaxing in white-hot need, before collapsing in each other’s arms, sated, sweaty, exhausted, entangled…

  Connected.

  If only for a few more perfect hours.

  Chapter Seven

  ‡

  “DID YOU EVEN bother with a fucking condom?”

  I’d had better wakeup calls. Ones that were a lot less confusing, for sure. Certainly ones that didn’t jerk me from a dead slumber into bolting straight up, gasping at my bare-ass body, then covering it with a comforter as unfamiliar to me as a designer ball gown. Not that the cover couldn’t be Maria Von Trapp-ed into such a thing. I curled curious fingers into the mint green satin covering my breasts, wondering what aliens had absconded with me in the middle of the night and dumped me into this strange bed.

  That was when I shifted my legs.

  Sore on the inside.

  Sticky on the outside.

  Ohhhh, hell.

  Samsyn. Samsyn.

  The moonlight—and his kisses. The shadows—and his touch. The window seat—and his passion.

  And then in here—for even more.

  As if summoned by my memories, the man himself growled. The sound filled the sitting room, though was distinctly different than the passionate rumble he’d branded into me last night. Razors of anger sliced it now.

  “For Creator’s sake. Keep your voice down!”

  “Right. Sorry, arkami.” The snorting punctuation instantly gave Jagger away. Silently, I jerked the covers higher. Holy shit. Jagger. How had he gotten in? What had he seen? “My bad,” he snapped, “for thinking that an entrance and egress recon, requested by you, would take me through an empty mansion. Should I have texted first, man? Made certain you were finished with the morning fuck before I barged in? Let Brooke do her hair, perhaps? Unhook her hand from around your dick?”

  Heat drenched my face. From rage or shame, I couldn’t tell. Did it matter?

  Two stomps from the other room, shaking the walls as only Syn could, were oddly soothing.

  “Be careful where you tread, man.” His snarl, just as violent, was like another swipe of aloe on my burn.

  “Because you were?” Jagger retorted.

  “It is none of your business, Jag.”

  “It is all of my business.” Another set of raging steps, faster than Syn’s but just as virulent. “You specifically asked for her on the tacti
cal team you bade me to assemble for this—the team you put me in charge of. It is my job to be clear about the preparedness, physical and mental, of every member of that team. You are not good for her readiness on either of those levels. On any damn level.”

  The whoosh of Samsyn’s spin made the leaves flutter on the potted palms inside the bedroom’s door. “I am your prince!”

  “Then haul out the guillotine and chop my fucking head off.” Jag’s clenched emphasis was so clear, I could practically see his locked teeth through the wall. But he finished with a resigned sigh. “You are my prince—but you are also my friend. Right or wrong, that designation bears priority to me.” There was a rustle, denoting he’d sat or leaned somewhere. “We have known each other for a long time, Syn. I know all the burdens you bear, the old and the new.”

  I swallowed heavily. Sensed Samsyn doing the same. “Yes,” he finally grated. “You do.”

  “None of it has been easy for you. Even as second to the throne, the weight on your shoulders is immense. It is not a crime not to wish yourself burdened with the care of a regular woman, as well.”

  Knotted stomach. Fisting hands. And I had no idea why. Every word Jag spoke was true. I’d known it all before now—but hearing it spoken was like peeling the scab on a wound. It hurt. For stupid reasons.

  “Who the hell said I wanted a regular woman?”

  Let the bleeding begin.

  “Not who,” Jagger clarified. “What.” He exhaled with audible heaviness. “The heart of the girl in that bed.” A stretch of uncomfortable silence. Another. I silently yearned—and dreaded—for Samsyn to say something. He didn’t. “She is half in love with you, Syn. You are probably the only person who doesn’t see it. Or perhaps does not want to see it?”

  My breath stuck in my throat like a ball of Asuman porridge. Spread an ache through me, tight and torturous, as Samsyn’s reply took forever to come.

  When it did…

  “Fuck.”

  I buried my face into the thick satin, muffling my broken sob.

  “So how do you wish to handle this?”

  Jagger’s question, like he addressed some kind of tactical detail, jerked my self-pity to an end. My heartache turned to rage—enough of it to swing out of bed, dragging the sheet along. I jabbed it around me, covering enough to be decent. The rest of Jag’s respect, I’d have to earn on my own—and damn well planned on doing so.

  I would not be a “this” to be “handled”. Nor the pathetic “girl in the bed”. And no, I wasn’t even the desperate thing who’d taken up fight training merely as a way of gaining Samsyn Cimarron’s attention. Not anymore.

  Never again.

  My steps lengthened. Strengthened.

  In a way, perhaps many, I had to thank Jagger for this. The epiphany might have never hit without him barging on us. But hearing the pity in his voice as he spoke of me, like I was some groupie taking up guitar just because it was what my idol played, flared a giant match inside. In the flickering shadows behind me was the desperate girl I’d once been. In the blazing light in front of me was the woman I now would be.

  A woman who sure as hell didn’t need Samsyn Cimarron’s validation anymore. Or Jagger Foxx’s, for that matter.

  Easier said than done.

  Especially when stepping into a sun-drenched room, dressed in nothing but a sheet, to face the warrior who’d drilled me on the training mat for the last three years—and the one who’d drilled me in the rotunda last night.

  “Mr. Foxx,” I intoned. “And Your Highness. Good morning.”

  “Bon sabah.” They mumbled it in unison, discomfort stamped on their faces. Made it a hell of a lot easier to disguise the wince on mine while crossing back over to the rotunda. The center glass pane was still smeared with handprints: mine and Samsyn’s. Half the seat cushion flopped to the floor—practically pointing the way to my discarded clothes.

  I didn’t look back, despite the weight of their stares on my back, as I stooped and gathered my bra and top in one hand, panties and pants in the other. Without a word, I turned and paced back into the bedroom.

  Closed the door slowly, letting its click resound through the stillness on my side—and theirs.

  Sat back down on the bed.

  And let a million tremors take over.

  Shit. Shit.

  So sometimes my temper overcommitted before my body could catch up. Or my heart. The heart that’d been wrenched in a thousand directions just from being in the same room again with Syn. That knew, in its deepest fibers and darkest corners, it had been just as tense for him too.

  Until my memory backtracked by five more minutes. Made me cringe all over again at the words he’d spat. Who the hell said I wanted a regular woman?

  And who the hell gave me the right to indulge one moment’s worth of being hurt by that? Hadn’t we let ourselves give in to last night because of that tacit agreement? That by freeing ourselves from redefining things because of sex, we could just give in to desire? That freedom was what made everything so damn amazing?

  “Amazing.” By voicing it, I thought to dilute its power. A match was always strongest at first flare.

  Unless it had kindling to catch.

  Kindling…like the way Syn’s kisses had flooded my soul. Like the way his touch had launched my arousal to the stars. Like the way his body had consumed me until I forgot what existence was without it.

  Just all that.

  Just the fact that I loved him now more than ever.

  And because of that…had to let him go.

  I looked down at my hand. Forced it to uncurl from the pillow into which it had coiled. Fiercely pushed up, regaining my footing.

  “Knock it off. Get your shit together, Valen.”

  I dropped the sheet. Picked up my panties.

  Had only gotten them over my ankles—when Syn walked in.

  Chapter Eight

  ‡

  INSIDE A MOMENT, the air crackled once more. Sparked to life, breath-stealing and heart-stopping, by the attraction I could no longer hide…by the desire he couldn’t cloak in return. The electricity we’d denied for six damn years…and now would be fighting for the rest of our lives. Before now, it had always been the erasable elephant in the room, explained away as “leftover energy” from the unique circumstances of our first meeting. Now, we couldn’t deny what that touch had really been.

  Attraction.

  Desire.

  Destiny.

  And like idiots, we’d thrown laser beams at that star, in the form of mind-altering sex. Thinking we’d kill it. Instead, turning it supernova.

  And blinding ourselves in the doing.

  Blinded. Yes. It was as good an excuse as any for why I stood there with my underwear at my ankles, my heart in my throat, and my gaze unable to tear from him, shirtless and perfect, as he sucked in a long but strict breath. Let it out with equal brutality—before turning to the en suite vanity to swipe a cloth beneath the faucet.

  He closed the gap between us with silent, staunch steps. “Sit,” he directed, barely giving it volume.

  “Samsyn—” His head tilted, cutting me short. With a short fume, I obeyed. My face burned again as he wiped my inner thighs, his enormous hands disguising infinite tenderness. Or maybe he’d simply had a lot of practice.

  I twisted my eyes shut. No. Don’t go there.

  Too late.

  “Dammit.” His hand stilled. “I did hurt you.”

  I yanked the cloth from him. Hurled it across the room. Seethed out while jerking my panties up, “Don’t. Dammit Syn, don’t you dare apologize for it. Not a moment of it! All right?”

  Remarkably, that seemed to register. He rose high enough to park himself on the ottoman in front of the reading chaise, elbows braced to knees. “All right.”

  I averted my gaze. I’d never get out of here with him so close and sinewy and huge. Fortunately, my bra was nearby. “God forbid,” I muttered, jerking it over my head, “that I become a burden, after all.”

/>   Yeah, I deliberately threw down the throttle on the bitterness. Not completely fair, making Syn take the brunt for words Jag had issued, but it wasn’t like he’d fought Jag on them, either.

  And you’d expected him to?

  Fact: Samsyn Cimarron wasn’t a one-woman man. Even two women. I didn’t want to consider where that number ended, but his allergy to commitment was no state secret, clearly growing stronger as the years passed.

  Fact: The secrets Samsyn Cimarron did have, he kept close and tight. Had girded with extra force by choosing the role of protecting Arcadia’s security. Nobody expected a man to speak much, when blades, bullets, and his fists did most of the job already.

  Fact: Facts one and two aside, Samsyn Cimarron was a heartbeat away from the Arcadian throne. Technically, I was still American. The man wearing “the big crown” had already bucked a dozen beloved traditions by selecting an American for his bride. If anything ever happened to Evrest, Syn would never be forgiven for even having an American on the side, let alone with him in public. Like I’d even be okay with “on the side”. I had zilch experience with any of this, but instinct bellowed loud and clear: a mouthy astremé with working knowledge of nunchuks and throwing knives wasn’t likely to be okay with watching her man nuzzle someone else in public.

  He’s not your man. He won’t ever be.

  And that was the most ultimate fact of all.

  It was time to face it. To accept the achy, awful yuck of letting him go—as a lover, perhaps even as a friend. I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to look at him again and not remember those lips crushed on my mouth…those legs tangled through mine…those long fingers against my skin, and inside my most intimate channel.

  It hurt.

  A lot.

  Thank God I’d logged three years of hiding my deepest pain.

  Minimizing was a great start. With terse jerks, I stuffed my breasts back into my sports bra then layered the long-sleeved workout shirt on top. As I did, Syn finally spoke again.

  “How much did you overhear?”

  Why he sounded so defeated about it was beyond me. “Does it matter?” I sighed.