Black Lion's Bride

by Lara Adrian

  As if she meant to say something, her lips parted, glistening moist, tempting. It was too much for him to bear. Sebastian bent forward and kissed her. Her mouth was soft and sweet, like the nectar of a rare, exotic fruit. He could have easily gorged himself on her, so hungry was he for her touch, for the satin pleasure of her body.

  His need for her was strong, and Zahirah's eager response proved his undoing. She met his kiss with equal ardor, rising up on her toes and twining her fingers in the hair at his nape, clutching him to her as if to never let go. Sebastian groaned, feeling his arousal stir between them, the pressure of her body against his own searing him like a brand. He pulled her deeper into his embrace, and flicked his tongue along the seam of her lips, coaxing them open, penetrating the silky heat of her mouth.

  Had it only been last night that they had made love at the caravansary? Faith, but it seemed an eternity to him now, the way his body responded so swiftly, so needfully to hers. Zahirah seemed to understand. She seemed to share his torment, her breath coming urgent and shallow, her back arching as he reached down to cup her breast in his palm, his mouth plundering hers in a kiss that was fast becoming savage. She opened for him like the night-blooming blossom of desert jasmine, her response pliant and giving, all softness and warmth and willing, wondrous surrender.

  Breathless, fevered with want, Sebastian broke their kiss before he lost all sense of control. With his fingers laced through hers, he led her into the dark sanctuary of his tent. The bedroll was a black rumple on the floor, the only cushion to be had in these sparse soldier's quarters. Sebastian brought her to the pallet, and she sank down before him on the blankets. He kissed her again, holding her face in his hands and nipping possessively at her mouth before moving off to divest himself of his clothing.

  There was no need for words, no need for the pretense of patience. There was only this shared want, this fierce desire that pulsed in the air around them like a living thing, hot and wild and consuming. Ruled by an elemental craving, Sebastian threw his tunic aside, then stripped off his boots, hose, and braies. Naked, needful, his flesh tingling with anticipation in the chill of the lightless tent, he knelt before Zahirah on the pallet and reached for the laces of her tunic's bodice. He tore at them, exhaling a sharp chuckle of surprise to feel his fingers tremble in his haste. Fumbling in the dark, he managed to snarl the garment's network of slim ties, and, in that frenzied moment, considered the virtue in simply ripping the damned thing open. He cursed his clumsiness, then felt Zahirah's hands come up to assist him. Her skill, praise God, was infinitely more agile. She loosened the last of the knots, then lifted her arms so he could draw the long silk shirt up over her head.

  Unaided by the extinguished oil lamp, it was too dark to see more than the shape and shadow of Zahirah's body before him, but his hands suffered no such loss. They told him of the glory his sight was denied, his fingers skating over the velvet softness of her shoulders, the firm shapeliness of her arms. He found her breasts and kneaded them with his palms, reveling in their buoyant perfection, in the delicious fit of them in his hands. Her nipples pearled between his fingers; he longed to taste them. Leaning down, he bent his head and captured one tight bud in his mouth, sampling the sugar sweetness of her flesh.

  Zahirah let out a throaty, breathless gasp as he laved and suckled her. He felt her fingers weave into his hair, her hands fisting at the back of his head, her body trembling, breath rasping shallowly in the dark. Sebastian rejoiced in her pleasure, smiling against her skin as he moved from one breast to the other, intent on giving equal worship. He kissed his way there, drawing her nipple deep into his mouth and circling the sensitive peak with his tongue.

  He meant to give her pleasure, to ready her for their mating, but it was his body that seemed to teeter on the verge of succumbing. His penis strained heavily between his legs, tight and throbbing to the point of pain, leaping with the need for contact, with the humbling need to sheathe itself within her womb. With a groan, he rocked back on his heels and reached for Zahirah's hand, disentangling it from the hair at his nape. Holding her by the wrist, he guided her down the length of his chest and across the bunched muscles of his abdomen, leading her with plain purpose to the root of his manhood. With her hand covered by his, he wrapped her fingers firmly around the width of his shaft and squeezed, encouraging her to stroke him.

  “You're so hard,” she whispered, sounding curious and awestricken as she explored the full length of him. “Like steel under velvet. You're beautiful, Sebastian.”

  He chuckled at her innocent praise, settling back to give her free reign of his body for however long he could bear it. Dropping his head back on his shoulders, he savored her roving touch, her artless palming of his wet, sensitive glans bringing him to the brink of an exquisite madness. Her fingers slick with his essence, she traced the underside of his member, wringing a shudder from out of his very core. Racked with a wave of pure male lust, every fiber of his body clenched taut as she stroked him.

  “Come up on your knees,” he growled, tugging at the waistband of her pantalets. She obeyed at once, holding onto his shoulders as he pulled the ties free and slid the loose-fitting trousers off her hips. He caressed the curve of her naked bottom, then came around and buried his fingers in the downy cleft of her thighs. She was beyond ready for him, her body weeping and quivering for what he would give her. He slipped inside that dewy haven, stroking its swollen folds and teasing the bud that nestled high within them.

  Zahirah sighed as he made love to her with his fingers, and Sebastian caught her wordless exclamation in a soulful joining of their mouths. He pressed her down onto the bedroll, urgently removing the rest of her clothing as he covered her with his body. Her thighs fell open to him with only the slightest nudge of his knee; he positioned at their juncture, then he sheathed himself to the root in one deep stroke.

  For a moment, the bliss of their joining was so complete, all he could do was hold himself there, not moving, scarcely breathing. Zahirah clung to him in like silence, her fingernails scoring his shoulders, her breath coming shallow and uneven beside his ear.

  “Am I hurting you?” he whispered, his voice ragged, strained with the effort to remain still.

  “No,” she answered. “Oh, God, Sebastian. It feels so good.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. He drew his pelvis back and thrust forward once more, cleaving her soft flesh with the rigidness of his own, filling her, feeling the crest of her womb rub against the head of his sex.

  He rocked on his elbows, propping himself above her so that he could kiss her as he loved her, wishing he could watch the pleasure play on her face. He could see the outline of the table beside the pallet; the oil lamp and striking box should be nearly within his reach. Regretful that he did not think of it sooner, Sebastian paused to withdraw from Zahirah.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I want to see you.” He gave her a kiss, then started to rise off of her. “It's all right. I'm just going to light the lamp.”

  “No!” She grabbed his arm, her fingers tightening around him in a grip that felt like panic. “I prefer the darkness,” she said, calmer now, although he wondered at her strange reaction--a reaction she'd had in his room at the caravansary, too.

  “There's no need to be shy with me,” he told her gently, stroking the fingers that still clung to him in an urgent grasp. “Our bodies, and how we share them, is nothing to be ashamed of.”

  She made a sound of distress in the back of her throat. “Please, Sebastian. Come back, I beg you. Don't . . . don't spoil it.”

  He frowned in the gloom of the tent, part of him more determined than ever to light the lamp and get to the bottom of her apprehension. But he would not force her to it, not now, not when it was clear that she was terrified of the idea. “Very well,” he said, returning to the pallet where she waited. “But we should talk about this, Zahirah. No more hiding, no more secrets between us, agreed?”

  It seemed the only answer she would give him at th
at moment was the tender brush of her palm on his cheek. She circled her hand around the back of his neck and brought him down to kiss her, eager, it seemed, to resume their joining. His body was more than willing to oblige.

  On his knees between her legs, he entered her again, bringing her hips up onto his thighs to meet the deep thrust of his penetration. He held her there, hooking his arms underneath her so that he set their pace, his muscles accepting the burden of her slight weight as he made love to her, guiding her at a gradually increasing rhythm along the hard length of his sex. She moaned with the first tremor of her release, her sheath convulsing around him.

  “Ohh,” she gasped, whispering his name, her mewling sigh of ecstasy like a siren's call, beckoning him to join her in the blissful tide.

  Sebastian was not far behind her. Mindless with passion and the want to please her further, to possess her fully, he lifted her higher and plunged deeper, his hips pumping, arms straining to hold her tighter, bring her closer. She was panting as urgently as he was, her body quaking, trembling. Then, with a sharp cry, she arched against him and shattered.

  Sebastian gave a growl of prideful male triumph as her release washed over her in waves of breathless pleasure. Bending over her, he hastened his strokes, worshiping every inch of her slack, sweat-dampened body with his mouth, raining hot kisses on her breasts, her ribs, her belly. Her flesh throbbed and contracted around his pulsing shaft, coaxing him toward a swift, wrenching climax. He felt the coil of rapture build and wind tighter, clutching his core as if to twist him inside out.

  He told himself to withdraw, feeling the tenuous bonds of his self-control stretch thinner with every greedy, glorious thrust of his hips. But then the liquid heat of release seized him. It rushed, molten and quicksilver, through his loins, and knew he was lost. He roared with the stunning force of his ejaculation, plunging himself to the hilt and spilling his seed deep into Zahirah's womb.

  “God's blood, woman,” he swore in awe, once he was finally able to find his voice. He lay atop Zahirah and inside her, shuddering, each breath he dragged into his lungs shaky and uneven. She held him like an angel, caressing his back, her mouth pressed against his shoulder, kissing him sweetly.

  He should have been wholly spent, dead and drained from exertion and the exquisite wringing of his body. He should have been beyond sated, but when Zahirah shifted slightly underneath him, her pelvis rocking against his as she moved to better bear his weight, he felt his arousal begin to stir anew. Before the beast could wake completely, he withdrew, rolling off of her with a groan.

  “What's wrong?” she asked. Following him on the pallet, she turned into his side and rested her hand on his chest. “Was it something I did?”

  “Yes. You should have never let me touch you,” he muttered, sounding a good deal more repentant than he felt. He gave her a serious look. “You realize, now you're going to have to put up with me chasing you into my bed every moment we're alone together.”

  She exhaled a soft laugh, her breath warm where it fanned his cooling skin. “What makes you think you will have to chase me, my lord?”

  He stroked her bare arm, letting his fingers play in the silky tresses of her unbound hair while she rained a trail of kisses along his ribs. “Have a care, my lady, lest you spoil me. The king already suspects I've been living too well at Ascalon these past weeks. Indeed, at sup tonight he tried to imply I may be growing soft.”

  Zahirah gave an offended sounding cluck of her tongue. Her hand slid on a languorous, but purposeful, downward path. “Hmm,” she purred against him, surprising him when her fingers brushed his turgid shaft. “No, my lord, not soft at all.”

  “Vixen,” he accused, too weak to resist the urge to thrust himself into her palm. Her thumb flicked the sensitive crown of his manhood and he sucked in his breath for the sheer pleasure-pain of her inquisitive touch. “Do you not desist, you could very well tempt me into desertion of my cause. Worse for my pride, you'll have my bones so depleted of strength, I'll not be able to march on Jerusalem, now that the king has called me to it.”

  She stilled abruptly; for a moment, he could not even hear her breathing. “Jerusalem,” she said at length, her voice rasping softly in the dark of the tent. “When will you go?”

  “Not now,” he said, “but soon.”

  He felt her withdraw into a thoughtful silence and cursed himself for reminding her of the prolonged conflict raging between their worlds--the very reason they had found each other in the first place. Two souls, born into enmity oceans apart and thrust together by the tides of war. Their differences did not seem so great a chasm to cross when they were lying in each other's arms, but Sebastian could not deny that he was, first and foremost, a soldier.

  “I am sworn, Zahirah. I made a vow to God and my king that I would defend this cause. I have pledged my life to it.”

  “I know,” she said. “I understand.”

  There was a note of weary acceptance in that statement, and for a moment he wondered if she truly did understand. Wondered how she could. He was sworn to his duty; when and where his king commanded him, he would go. Even if it took him leagues away from where his heart longed to be, with Zahirah. Even if it took him to his death.

  “Come here,” he said when his thoughts and the growing silence between them became like a physical weight, too heavy to bear. He turned toward Zahirah and gathered her to him on the pallet, covering the intimate tangle of their bodies with the cocooning warmth of the blanket. “Close your eyes, my lady . . . tell me what you feel.”

  She snuggled into him, sighing deeply and nestling her cheek against his shoulder as he brought her farther within the circle of his embrace. “What do I feel? I feel the warmth of our bodies pressed together, naked and alive,” she whispered, her limbs relaxing beneath the coverlet. “I feel your arms wrapped around me, so warm and strong, holding me tight. I feel our hearts beating in time with each other, and our legs entwined as if we were one.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, kissing the top of her head. “In here, like this, there is only us. There is no room for talk of war or duty where we are together like this. No room for anything but you and me, and the joy we can bring each other.”

  Her stillness troubled him, but no more than the trace of sadness in her soft-spoken reply. “Can you promise me that, my lord?”

  Sebastian caught her chin on the edge of his hand and gently turned her face up to his. Bending to meet her, he brushed his mouth against hers, claiming her lips in a slow, sensual kiss that left them both breathless. “My lady,” he said, “I have never given a more solemn oath.”

  Then he moved over her, and proceeded to demonstrate just how profound the depth of his promise truly was.

  Chapter 21

  Night had a way of muting the steel edge of reality, but dawn proved less forgiving than her benevolent sister. She called Sebastian away within moments of her rising, the first pale whispers of light summoning him out of Zahirah's arms and back to his role as officer to the English king. Lying on her side, wrapped in the blankets of the pallet they had shared, Zahirah watched him wash and dress and don his weapon, scorning the new day that had taken her lover and made him a soldier once again.

  “I won't be too long,” he said, buckling his wide leather sword belt over his knee-length tunic. “My conference with the king and his other officers should take but a few hours, then we can begin assembling for our return to Ascalon.”

  She offered him a weak smile, missing him already.

  His hair was damp and glossy from his recent toilette; he raked the inky waves back from his brow, then strode over to her and knelt down beside the pallet. His touch on her cheek was gentle, his gaze intense, loving. “Stay near the tent until I come back,” he instructed her. “If you need anything before then, Joscelin is here. He will assist you.” He leaned forward and kissed her. “Last night was amazing. You, my lady, are amazing.”

  Zahirah blushed at his praise, her belly fluttering from the satin caress of his mou
th and the remembrance of the passion they had shared just a few hours ago. Her body was spent, but her hunger for him seemed without end. She twined her fingers through his, bringing his hand to her mouth and brushing his hard, battle-scarred knuckles against the pads of her lips. “Must you go now?” she asked, holding his gaze as she dragged her mouth over his skin, and flicked her tongue into the crevice between his fingers. “I wish we could blink and be back at Ascalon this very moment. . . back in your bed.”

  “Tonight,” he growled, his eyes darkening as he watched her tease him. Finally, with a groan, he curled his fist around her hand and pulled her to him, savaging her mouth in a kiss that left her dizzy and trembling with desire. He drew back, his eyes like ocean pools: stormy, fathomless. “Tonight, my amazing, wicked lady.”

  She did not try to hold him longer when he released her hand and got to his feet. She relinquished him to his king and his duties, tossing herself onto her back on the pallet and staring up at the shadowed rise of the tent ceiling as the scuff of Sebastian's long strides outside faded away into the coming morn. Her ablutions and prayers awaited; using the pitcher of water Sebastian had left her, she bathed, then dressed and knelt toward the direction of Mecca as she recited the first of her five daily praises for God.

  Sebastian still had not returned by the time she had knelt for her third prayer that day. Impatient with the waiting and inactivity, Zahirah got up and quit the tent. Joscelin was posted just outside, sitting on a stool and polishing a tunic of chain mail, his mop of blond hair slung low over his forehead, his boyish face screwed in concentration. He looked up with a start as she emerged from the tent.