by Angel Payne
None of which he planned on letting up soon—
“Jagger!” I panted it inches from his mouth—the only space he allowed me. “Are you fucking insane?”
“Maybe.” He muttered it like a distraction, lips barely moving. All the movement belonged to his eyes, feverish and lusty—and his hands, hot and groping. “Probably. But only because I did not tell you sooner. Because I was waiting for you to get over that ridiculous moping over him.”
“Him.” I threw it back from locked teeth. “That’s right, dammit. The man I’m married to now. Your leader, Jag. Your friend.”
Who knew I could throw kerosene on a fire so well? He was ignited, baring teeth in a feral seethe—before slamming our mouths together again. This time, he wasn’t so merciful about letting me up. He gripped my head with one hand and my ass with the other, damn near locking me in place. When I finally tore free, I panted in a mixture of fury, desperation, and a little fear.
“Jagger! Please!”
My blood was a heated roar in my head. The wind was a sudden chill against my skin. Between the two, I shouldn’t have heard the sharp cracks of a single man’s applause—but I did, with nauseating clarity.
Just as my senses awakened to the presence of the man wielding them.
Just before he growled, in a seethe that froze me to the core, “Damn. You are so breathtaking when you beg, astremé.”
I twisted in Jag’s grip—but not before catching his gloating smirk. Rage hit like a fireball. Mentally ripping up my medical orders, I coiled back then clocked him beneath the jaw. Once more into his nose. He barely flinched from either blow, but his hold loosened. I wrenched away, letting my glare speak for me. I could barely stand looking at him, let alone wasting words. Those I saved for the man who did matter.
“Samsyn!”
Samsyn.
Oh God…
No.
He’d already whirled, stomps consuming the ground like a battle march.
“Samsyn!”
He flung back an arm like a muscled spear, aiming straight at me with his outstretched fingers, his message clear. Do not come near me.
I was very, very shitty about letting things go.
Especially when it came to Samsyn Cimarron.
Especially when he walked away with the pieces of my heart in one hand. And the pieces of his in the other.
Because of nothing. Nothing!
And he’s going to believe that…how?
“Because I’m going to make him.” I uttered it like a blood oath—in my mind, there was no difference—before racing across the grass, over the paths, and catching the door he’d attempted to slam in my face. The impact reverberated along my right arm, but right now, someone could’ve hacked the damn thing off and I wouldn’t have noticed. Or cared. All that mattered was getting to Syn. Explaining this all to him with a semblance of rationality.
I’d almost thought about dragging Jag in here to help, but wisely mapped out that lovely scenario in my head, and determined I wanted them both alive after this. Nope; Jag wasn’t going to be a fucking sliver of help.
“Samsyn.” It hardly had any volume, thanks to my air-starved lungs. They didn’t get any mercy from the sight of him: face twisted, body prowling, hands coiling and uncoiling, readying fists for something, anything, to bash in.
He found that something.
In the form of his reflection—in the master bedroom’s huge floor mirror.
The whole pane shattered beneath his single blow. Glass tumbled like tears—a fitting recognition, since the shards blurred in the heavy fog of mine.
He turned slowly. Glass crackled under his boots, demolished tears meeting violent ends. His head was low, his shoulders hunched…his glower stony. “You need to leave.”
I squared my stance. The action drew his stare to my bare feet. For a single second, concern flashed in his eyes. That single second was my sun stream of hope.
“No,” I declared. “You need to listen. What you saw was—”
“Don’t.” He stabbed that finger again. Blood smeared it now. “Don’t try to tell me it was nothing, dammit!”
I inhaled. Exhaled. “Maybe I should chalk this up to the full moon tonight. In Romania, guys turn to werewolves and vampires. In Arcadia, they turn into ridiculous asses.”
“Now you really need to leave.”
“I am not your mother! Just as I know and trust that you aren’t your father.”
I expected what came: his contorted face, hunched shoulders, seething hiss. I hated—hated—tearing us both down more with this ugliness, but it was the only way we’d build back up on the right foundation: the truth. Symbolizing the point always helped too—a demonstration I gave by stomping across the six feet separating us. When I stood directly in front of him, I replanted my feet, crushing more glass with nearly the same emphasis he had.
“I love you.” His widened glare gave me more courage. I jerked up my chin. Coiled a hand into the front of his shirt. “Wake up and see it, Samsyn. I’m right here, bleeding for you to prove it. There is nobody—nobody—in my heart…but you.”
For long moments, only our breaths sounded on the air. Only the blue steel torment of his eyes filled my vision—until that color changed again. Hardened. Condemned. “I never asked to be there.”
“I know.” My voice broke, along with more tears. I couldn’t hold back any of it from him now. I didn’t even want to.
“I don’t want to be there!”
I raised my hand to his face. Spread my fingers against the bold expanse of his jaw. “Then show me where you want to be.” Stepped closer to him, fitting the angles of our bodies into each other. “Fill me where you need to.”
It danced at the edge of dirty tactics. Fine; it was dirty tactics. But if the radio station in his brain was packed so full of baggage that it couldn’t get our signal, I’d send the message where it could be heard. His body, swelling against the center of my stomach, conveyed the frequency had connected, loud and clear. I’d take it. Right now, I’d take him any way I could have him—and sex was one of the best ways to have him. Perhaps this was just the push to topple the baggage too. Perhaps this was what we both needed.
Or maybe that was a giant crock of wishful thinking.
Aside from his erection, nothing else budged.
I held my breath.
He expelled his.
Then made me wonder, with his deep and feral snarl, if the werewolf thing worked in Arcadia too. As the sound vibrated the air, I endured shivers like never before, released by a mix of desire and fear, of knowing and unknowing, of pleasure and pain—
As he dipped his head, bypassing my lips, and sank his teeth brutally into the column of my neck.
A high cry ripped from me. Another growl tore through him. He fisted my hair, positioning my head to the side in order to bite again, closer to my ear. This time, I didn’t scream. My senses were too damn busy processing every new, searing sensation. He tore into me like a wild creature with its kill—meaning I really had no choice about how to respond. Surrender. His feast was inevitable; he’d take until he was sated. If I had any doubt of it, he clarified things pretty well inside the next moment. One grip and tear into my cardigan, and all the buttons popped free. Another into my blouse, with the same result. He shoved both garments off, though slipped the long satin ribbon from the neckline of the blouse, holding onto it.
Oh, yes. Crystal clear now.
He was going to be in control. I was only to obey. And to feel.
And ohhhh shit, how I did.
How he guaranteed that I did.
Before we even got to the bed, he jerked my head to the other side and marked my neck with two bites equal to the first ones. He carried me to the bed—okay, it was more like hoisting me up then tossing me there—before pausing to grab a water glass off the nightstand, pouring its contents over my feet. Once he was certain I’d gotten only a few minor cuts, he tilted his head in, now digging teeth into my right ankle.
&n
bsp; “Ahhhhh!”
He endured my scream—more from astonishment than the bite of pain—with barely a blink. “Do not bleed for me again,” he ordered.
“All-all right.”
“You may say ‘yes, husband’—and nothing more.”
“Yes, husband.” It whispered from me, so breathy and bare—and I hated myself for loving every syllable. It was so medieval. So subservient.
But so open…so erotic…
I wanted to serve him. Satisfy him. Be his wild animal meal.
“Now take off the rest of your clothes.” He rumbled with guttural approval as I obeyed, quickly stripping off my skirt, bra, and panties. No further words, though—not even as he grabbed my knees, spread them wide, then moved between them, letting the taut cloth at his crotch rub my spread pussy without mercy.
“Damn!” I exclaimed, as he leaned over to study my face with his assessing animal’s gaze. “I—I mean, yesssss, husband!”
He showed no outward reaction to that either. Instead, rolled his hips to ensure every inch of his bulge came into contact with every fold of my arousal—including the stiff bud containing my most sensitive nerve endings. Every time he rubbed it, my skin tingled. My control thinned. My limbs trembled. Shit. Shit. This was…
so…
damn…
good.
At last he murmured, “Do you still want me to fill you…as I wish?”
Was he kidding? He had to be. I was visibly quivering. Whimpering like a starved kitten. I could feel every fresh, torturous swell of my clit. But when I didn’t answer, he pulled away a little. Gave my mound a brisk, bold swat.
Dear God. He’d…spanked my pussy.
And heaven help me, after the initial zap of shock wore off, my whole body warmed and writhed…confirming how much I loved it.
“Y-yes,” I finally got out. “Yes, husband. Fill me up…as you wish.”
“In any manner I wish?”
“Yes, husband.”
He leaned back in. Rose over me once more, staring down. I stared right back…riveted. This creature above me…he was Syn but he wasn’t, as if confronting his darkest fears about me had untethered something dark in him. Something wicked, wanton, illicit…something he hadn’t shown me before now. Why? Had he been afraid? And if that was the case…should I be afraid? And if so, why didn’t the idea repel me? Why did my body get wetter, hotter…
Then doubly so, when he aligned the satin tie from my blouse directly over my face…
And lowered it over my eyes.
Shit.
He was really serious that I do nothing but feel. And ohhhh, how I did.
Skin…fired to life.
Sounds…turned to wonders.
Smells…sweet mysteries.
And my sex…pulsing and hot and ready.
I was aware of so much more from Syn too. Every tug he gave the tie, looping it around my head then cinching it in front. The shifting power of his muscles when he finished, then growled in approval of his handiwork. The erotic slide of his vest against my nipples, making them pucker and ache in arousal.
I moaned when he trailed a hand down to my pussy…
But choked it short, as he delved those long fingers even lower. Then inward, circling, pressing—
“Oh!”
—at my tightest entrance.
There was the heat of his fingers. But then the chill of lube. Where the hell had that come from? And why was I even wondering, when he was pretty damn insistent on working his finger up into that tiny fissure—then replacing that digit with something else? Something thin but hard. A glass tube? Molded plastic? And once more, why did it matter? I was fighting to keep an open mind—past the unnatural breach in my backside. Thank God I’d eavesdropped on Orielle and Freya when they giggled about this kind of stuff, though I’d hardly believed my ears at the time. Men actually liked playing with that entrance?
Judging from the thick lust in Syn’s new growl, the answer to that was…yes.
“Almost in. Now push out against it.” The old Syn would’ve murmured it in encouragement. This one demanded it in a growl. “Open yourself, wife—and push.”
“Can’t,” I protested. “So tight…so full.”
“No ‘can’t’,” he retorted. “Push.”
I gripped the comforter. Bore down as he ordered. It seemed useless. And hard. And painful. But when I assumed the invasion had no end and the torture device would end up in my throat, Syn emitted a long grunt, coated in supreme pleasure. He gave the thing in my ass a twist. Another. Though I gave him nothing but screams in return, I couldn’t deny that it began to feel…warm. And naughty. And—unbelievably—arousing.
Even when the distinct rasp of his zipper sliced the air—and I realized exactly what he planned next.
It scared me.
And clenched me.
And soaked me.
I took his cock all the way home on his first thrust.
“Damn.” He held himself there for a long moment, allowing us both to adjust to the tightness. When his flesh swelled against mine, I sighed. When his moan echoed through me, I joined mine to it.
“Shit,” I finally rasped. “Yes, husband. Yes.”
He slowly drew out—only to ruthlessly plunge back in. Then again. And again. Harder each time. Deeper each time. The friction of our bodies worked the tension on the thing in my ass too, massaging places inside that vibrated in ways I’d never known. As the sweet heat of my climax built beneath my clit, it was matched by a force from deep inside, a hurricane rushing to meet a tsunami, so impossible it was mesmerizing, despite the devastation of the impact.
Devastation?
No.
This was cosmic convulsion. Cataclysm. Chaos. A rearrangement of everything I’d thought possible inside my body, erupting to a fullness I despaired of containing to my flesh, bones and blood. Far beyond the explosion, I heard myself screaming, even begging Syn not to stop—please, don’t ever stop—though I was certain we’d have to any second, for I’d surely be dead. By some miracle, I hung on to feel the hot bath of his seed, sealing the perfection of this passion…filling me far beyond anything I could have asked for.
I needed to tell him that. But intention connecting with words…another issue altogether. My brain hardly managed keeping the basics like breathing and feeling going.
As I fumbled through that mental fog, Syn withdrew. In the same movement, he pulled off the blindfold. He was equally gentle about removing the hard stick from my backside, but also silent. Damn near businesslike. No change as he disappeared into the bathroom, returning with a damp cloth to towel off all the fluids between my legs.
No change. Wasn’t that the irony of the day…maybe the century? “Change” barely approached the right word to describe the man who’d been inside me minutes ago, versus the clinical automaton who swiped at me now. He still didn’t speak. Refused to meet my eyes. A patient in a hospital would’ve been given more courtesy.
He retreated to the bathroom again. For a long time. I almost followed, but clung to hoping he’d return, perhaps simply taking the time for a shower. I prayed he’d return, his knowing smirk back in place, ready to climb beneath the covers with me.
He finally walked back out. Fully dressed.
And instantly piled my fury atop my frustration. Now he’d pulled out the dirty tactics, however unknowingly—though it was damn difficult to believe the man didn’t have a clue about how good he looked in workout gear. The black nylon pants and matching sleeveless shirt were perfect set pieces for the main attraction: the sculpted body I craved to explore from head to toe…with my tongue. Yes, already again. Yes, that boldly. That achingly.
“You’re going out?”
“Yes.” He sat in one of the reading chairs—not the one in which we’d screwed not more than twelve hours ago—and jerked his runners on. “I need to clear my head.”
I rolled to my side—purposely not putting any clothes back on. “Wasn’t that what we just started?”
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He pushed a foot into his second shoe. “That…was very good.” Back to the businessman, with barely a flinch. “And thank you.” Was he going to shake my hand next? “But it has nothing to do with anything else.”
A lump pushed into my throat. So much for hoping we could get naked in more ways than one. “Anything…you want to talk out?” No matter what, even before the insanity of these last two weeks, we’d been able to at least talk to each other.
“Thank you,” he repeated. “But no.”
I sat up. Then got up. There was nothing nearby to throw on so I did the best I could about looking serious while standing in nothing but my skin. “Syn… we need to at least address the shit with Jagger—”
“I shall deal with Jagger.” His tone didn’t twist into mob boss territory, though its thread of quiet rage wouldn’t be missed by a three year-old. That filament wound through the air between us—a not-so-subtle test. I sensed Syn waiting for what I’d do with it.
I did nothing.
I had no other option.
The woman in me—and the friend to Jag—recoiled at the intimation. But the warrior in me gave up her grim understanding—and the acceptance of two truths. One, Jagger could handle himself, even against Syn. Two, if he got a little fucked up in the process, maybe it was for the best. The imbezak had brought this on himself—and messed up a huge chunk of my world in the process.
Because right now, Samsyn and I were right back at square one.
No.
A few squares before that.
He had trust issues, compounded by the ordeal of keeping them secret for so long. But I’d made a huge mistake about them. I’d mentally dropped them in a box, labeled it with his parents’ names, then begun my mission to love him so much he’d see that the box didn’t have his name on it. His heart didn’t have to be a prisoner of his parents’ lies. The choice was solely his to trust—and love—someone.
And though I’d refused to admit it, even to myself, I’d yearned to be that someone. To be worthy of this noble prince’s heart. To simply love him into loving me.
But sometimes, it wasn’t that simple. Wishing on a star, believing in your heart…it worked for damsels in towers and puppets who wanted to be real, not for a princess in love with a prince who couldn’t even see the stars past his walls.