Giving into the urge to touch her, I lift a hand to her bare shoulder. “You . . . you are breathtaking.” I trace her collarbone, my mouth going dry.
She slips her hand under my shirt and gently moves her fingers up to my chest. I hiss in a breath through clenched teeth and my blood boils hotter.
I kiss her, then, unable to resist any longer. Her mouth is supple, delicious. I pull away, breathing hard, holding back my desire as if it were an untamed animal. My nostrils flare. She smells different than ever before. Of its own accord, my gaze falls from her eyes. The nightgown drapes exquisitely over every curve of her body. The lace over her breasts is sheer and the outline of what it attempts to hide mesmerizes me. Her breasts respond as if I’ve caressed them. My heart and my breaths speed up as wild passion stirs in my core. I want to tear the gown off her body and take her, but she deserves more than that on our wedding night.
Still, the wait is more exquisite than maddening. Therefore, worth it.
She seems to think otherwise, however, because she takes off my shirt. She looks at me with as much hunger as I feel.
Maybe I don’t have to go that slow.
I nod my understanding and slide the straps of her nightgown out of the way. Without them to support it, the garment falls to the floor with a swish of silk against her skin. Underneath, she’s naked. Her breasts are small and perfectly round. Her hips swell from her narrow waist, leading to her lean, long legs, and between them . . .
Her glorious beauty adds fuel to the fire already roaring within me. Trying to hide how difficult it is not to push her to the floor without refrain, I slowly take her hand and walk her closer to the bed. I kiss her and attempt to lay her down on the white sheets. She stops me. I look at her confused. Did I err? Should I slow down even more?
In answer, she undoes my pants. They fall to the floor. I step out of them. We lay down. Her silk-soft skin is as hot as mine. We kiss, lying next to each other. I touch her waist, her stomach, her back, the back of her legs. She touches me back, following a similar pattern, driving me to the brink, until I can’t resist and I move on top of her, kissing her harder, feeling the heat between her legs.
I abandon her mouth and kiss her neck, her collarbone, the swell of her breasts until I reach their peaks and she makes a tortured sound in the back of her throat. My lips find every hidden crevice. My hands are not worthy—not until I’ve kissed every inch of her skin. Her body arches into mine. We fit so perfectly together, there is no doubt in my mind we were made for each other.
She takes liberties with my body until I’m desperate with want. I push on top of her.
“We’ll be like this forever,” I say. “I love you, Marielle.”
I pull her closer, my hands on her hips and take her. I have never known pleasure like this.
She is my beginning, my interim, my end.
And, in the spaces in between, she is my forever.
Faris
Ingrid Seymour
PenDreams • BIRMINGHAM
1
My death would embarrass my father. My opponent was a beast, twice as big as me, made of fury and hard sinew. No one expected me to win.
Still, I was hopeful.
I tightened my grip around my sword and held my shield higher. I couldn’t disappoint Father, not when, for once, he’d made time to come see me perform in the arena.
The hot sand burned through the supple leather soles of my boots. Bardia’s furious, bloodshot eyes felt almost as searing as he advanced on me, slapping the side of his broad sword against his thigh. He wore a short, red tunic that barely reached his knees. He had forsaken pants, shoes, and even proper headgear. He was that confident he would beat me. And, from the looks of it, so were the few spectators gathered around the low stone wall that surrounded us.
My eyes darted to Father. He stood, shoulders squared, hands behind his back. He’d once been a great warrior. Now—still a fairly young man of thirty-nine—he was close to achieving his life-long goal: becoming a general in our king’s army. And today, I was to be a reflection of his skill as commander, for if he couldn’t make his eldest son victorious, how could he ever do the same for Cyrus The Great’s armies?
Zet, my younger brother, was there, too. He stood beside Father, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.
Bardia, that hulk of a man, huffed and moved forward, his every step stirring dust into the air. I met his deranged gaze. Maybe he was strong, but our battle would take more than just brute force. Wits were on my side, and a fair share of strength and agility.
I wasn’t afraid of Bardia. Not very much scared me, if I was being honest.
Like a boulder, my opponent rolled in my direction, sword wheeling over his head.
Rather than meet the skull-cracking blow, I side-stepped out of the way. Faster than a man his size should be permitted to move, Bardia turned, jerking his sword upward in a slicing motion and hitting my shield.
The unexpected blow sent me staggering back. I fought to preserve my footing, but Bardia quickly delivered another blow that nearly drove me to my knees. Our swords trembled overhead, my blocking arm straining.
Bardia leaned into me, teeth bared like a wild animal. I bent my knees, throwing my head back, away from his sharp blade. The low rumble of a chuckle sounded in the back of his throat.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Father, shaking his head, his hands at his waist. Zet had removed his turban and held it in his hands, twisting it like an old rag.
Three blows. Was that all it would take for Bardia to unman me? If I didn’t win today, neither Father nor General Medes would allow me to join the Babylon-bound ranks. I couldn’t allow that.
Under Bardia’s weight, my legs gave out. My right knee hit the sand.
“Surrender, boy,” Bardia growled.
My entire body shook with the exertion. Sweat dripped into my eyes. The onlookers cheered, calling Bardia’s name.
“Never!”
Abruptly, I let my arm go limp, pivoted on my knee and thrust my shield forward. It crashed against Bardia’s shins with a painful crack. He let out an angry moan, then cursed. Unbalanced, he faltered forward. The tip of his sword hit the sand, and he used it to keep his prodigious mass from toppling to the ground.
Discarding my shield and squeezing the hilt of my sword with both hands, I swung low, striking Bardia’s sword and sweeping it from under him.
His support gone, he fell to his hands and knees, but immediately tried to stand. Not taking my advantage lightly, I delivered a kick to the side of his head, and, as his head swung to the other side, I moved with lightning speed and pressed my blade to his neck.
“Surrender . . . to a boy,” I said.
Still on all fours, Bardia hung his head low and conceded his defeat with a reluctant nod.
Breathing hard, I pulled away from him and ran the sleeve of my white shirt over my sweaty forehead. Pride swelled inside me. I had done it.
I had passed Father’s test.
2
I sheathed my sword, picked up my shield, and proudly walked in Father’s direction. Zet was smiling from ear to ear, his turban no more than a twisted piece of cloth in his hands. Father’s face, on the other hand, was expressionless—no sign of satisfaction or displeasure on his features.
A smile of my own had started to curve my lips but died at Father’s usually severe visage. Was he displeased? Had I, in spite of my win, embarrassed him? Disappointed him?
He was dressed formally, wearing an embroidered red jacket that fell mid-thigh. A golden belt held it in place. It was embellished with painted eagles which matched those depicted on his tight pants. A bright blue cape and a white headpiece completed his attire. His thick, black beard was trimmed to perfection. In comparison, I suddenly felt drab and dirty. I resisted the urge to dust my pants and kept walking, ignoring the murmurs of the spectators.
I stopped a few steps before him and inclined my head. “Father, it is my hope my skills have pleased you this day
.” My eyes met Zet’s for a moment. His smile had dissolved and had been replaced by a worried frown.
“Faris,” Father began.
I prepared myself for his reproach, which he was always quick to offer. His words, however, surprised me.
“Your battle skills are and have always been worthy of praise. Today was no exception.” His eyes narrowed and his mouth stretched in something that could pass for a smile. I even dared imagine a twinkle of pride illuminating the depths of his black eyes.
My chest swelled with the achievement. Father did not dispense compliments easily. I inclined my head in thanks and fought to suppress the cry of victory that rose to my throat. Seeing Father pleased in this manner was far more satisfying than beating ten Bardias.
Without another word, Father turned on his heel and headed out of the arena. Zet and I followed, falling in a few paces behind him.
My brother elbowed me, his smile back in place. I fought a grin, but I couldn’t stop it. I nudged him with my shield before handing it over to my attendant, along with my sword. The boy would take care of cleaning it and storing it for me.
“You had me worried for a moment, big brother,” Zet said.
“No reason. I had everything under control at all times.”
Zet gave me a dubious glance, his dark eyes much like Father’s, black and impenetrable. For my part, I had inherited Mother’s brown gaze. Other than that, we were very similar, my brother and I. Same black, straight hair. Same thick eyebrows. Same high cheekbones.
Both Zet and I had fought seasoned men like Barbia before, but we had never won, which was the exact reason Father had chosen this challenge for me. Now, he had to let me accompany General Medes and his army. I had to make my own glory and riches, the same way Father had.
We exited the arena onto one of Persepoli’s busiest streets. Merchants peddled their goods, haggling in loud tones. They did not bother us, however, they knew better than that.
We followed Father as he turned, setting our path toward our home.
“Good, we are going home,” Zet said. “I’m hungry.” He patted his stomach.
“Me, too.”
“I saw her again,” Zet said, reverting into his favorite topic of conversation.
I sighed. Not this again! This girl had enthralled him more deeply than any other before.
“She was breathtaking, as usual.” His eyes acquired that lost, dreamy quality they always did when he broached the subject.
“If you are not going to tell me who she is,” I said, “I have no intention of listening to you babble about her again.”
Zet shrugged. “You will know soon.”
“Will I?” This was new.
“She loves me, Faris,” he said in a high-pitched tone quite unbecoming for a man.
“She loves you, huh?”
This was probably in his imagination, for how could the girl love him already? He’d only started talking about her a month ago. Oh, how I wished his interests reverted back to shields, swords, and daggers, not girls—especially not this one. It was very tiresome.
“She does,” he assured me. “She has told me so herself.”
I looked at him sideways, wondering if he’d only had a vision, and the girl had never said such a thing. He beamed at me, true happiness in the depths of his eyes. That’s when I decided that he was not crazy. He truly was in love, and, apparently, it was reciprocated.
With a smile of pleasure, I patted him on the back. “Congratulations, brother!”
He looked at the ground, smiling and turning a bit crimson at the ears.
“So what are you going to do?” I asked.
I had always imagined my little brother would marry before me—girls had stolen his attention from the arts of war about a year ago—but this was rather soon.
“I will talk to Father.” He looked scared at this as he very well should. Father wasn’t going to like it. “And she’s going to talk to her mother. She’s afraid to tell her father,” he added.
Judging by the way he wrung his hands together, he seemed afraid of the man, too. I almost felt sorry for him, but this was his fault. Finding a bride was not his endeavor. It was Father’s. I’d warned him about this more than once, but Zet was too much of a hardheaded romantic to listen.
“He will have to understand,” Zet said in earnest. “She is a good match. He should have no objections in that respect.”
“I wouldn’t get my hopes too high, if I were you.”
We walked through our home’s main door and into the inner courtyard. The sun shone above, illuminating the reflecting pool in the middle. Light bounced onto the Greek-style columns. The house was Father’s pride and joy, a testament of his success. Mother got ample enjoyment out of it, as much as I had while growing up. Now, I spent most of my time in training or battle, following Father’s footsteps. Just what Zet should be doing if he wanted to avoid all the romance-related anxiety.
“A word, Faris,” Father said from across the reflecting pool. Not waiting for me, he turned and headed for his private study.
“Good luck, brother.” Zet patted my back.
A summons from Father rarely presaged good news. In this instance, however, I felt confident it would. I’d done all he’d asked to impress General Medes. It stood to reason that I would now be allowed to join his ranks.
Finally, a chance of my own to fight for the greatness of The Empire.
3
“Marriage?!” I asked, my voice trembling with outrage. I stood up from my spot across Father.
He remained cross-legged on his wide cushion for a moment, then slowly got to his feet, a deep line dividing his brow. His eyes flashed a severe warning.
I inclined my head in apology and tempered my next words. “Father, I mean no disrespect, but this is not what we had discussed. You know I wish to join General Medes’s ranks, not marry his daughter.”
Father took a deep breath and endeavored to explain, though not without effort. He was not used to being challenged. “General Medes is very impressed with you, my son. So much that he considers you worthy of his beautiful, eldest daughter. Surely, you must be flattered and honored by that.”
I could not deny Father’s words without giving offense. General Medes would undoubtedly think marrying his daughter was an honor. Clearly, Father thought the same, but this was not what he’d led me to believe when we discussed the need to impress the general. Had this been his intention all along? Had he purposely deceived me?
“I am sorry if I have given you reason to believe I wish to be married,” I said. “I thought my intentions were clear. I want to go to Babylon and fight for the greatness of our King and the Empire.” He could not condemn me for this. I was a loyal son and subject to our King just as much as he was.
“Don’t be obtuse, Faris!” Father said, losing his patience. It was surprising he had actually attempted to reason with me. “Of course I know you want to go to Babylon. Of course, I know you dream of glory in the battlefield, but one does not preclude the other. You may still get the opportunity. As a matter of fact, you may have the chance to do it from a better vantage point.”
Anger rose in my chest. What he was suggesting was cowardice, and I wanted nothing to do with it.
“I would prefer making my own way,” I said over the lump of fury in my throat.
“I know. I know.” He waved a hand at me and turned to pace the room, his steps padding softly on the rich rug. “You have a good dose of pride in you, and I guess I am to blame for that—us Nasser men have no shortage of it.” He chuckled to himself as he stroke his beard. “But we are also intelligent, and in this case, it”—he tapped his forehead—“must prevail. This marriage will be greatly advantageous for you and our family.”
Wise Lord, he speaks as if it is a done affair.
But no! It could not be! I would not let him bend me to his will, not this time.
“Father, I entreat you. I do not wish to be burdened with a wife. Not for a while.” It had t
o be stated plainly. It was not easy, but I managed to do it without my voice breaking.
He stopped his pacing, walked in my direction and stopped a mere couple of steps from me. He pulled on his beard, pondering, as it was his habit. His dark eyes danced across my face, examining me as if I were a creature newly presented to him.
I inhaled a deep breath and held his gaze. I imagined he was testing my resolve as he’d done many times.
I will not look down. I will not look down.
In this, I will not be broken.
The idea of marriage before I had the opportunity to see the world felt like the worst type of punishment. It was unfair for Father to repay my efforts in this manner. I was a good son. I had always abided by his wishes.
At the thought, I almost choked on my own saliva. Maybe I had been too good of a son. I had never given Father a reason to suspect I would dare go against any of his schemes, even this one.
Well, he was wrong.
Something like sympathy flickered in the depths of his eyes, and, for a moment, I thought he would relent. But I wasn’t to be that fortunate.
“Hmm,” he walked to one corner of the room where his tavla mat, checkers and dice lay on a low table surrounded by cushions. He sat down slowly and began to set up the board. He spoke without looking at me. “Have you met the general’s daughter?” he asked in a suggestive tone.
“No,” was my short, simple, and cold answer.
“I dare say you should make her acquaintance before you pronounce such a radical refusal, don’t you think?”
“Meeting her will make no difference, I assure you.”
Done setting up the pieces, he threw the dice inside a leather cup and shook them.
“She is extremely beautiful,” Father said. “I have seen her a couple of times. You are, indeed, a lucky man to get this opportunity.” He shook the dice cup more vigorously to emphasize the point.
One Wish Away: Djinn Empire Complete Series Page 78