Lucien's Khamsin

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  “Aye, Theodopilous,” Lucien agreed.

  “Then why that strange look you gave her, which she didn’t see, by the way?”

  Lucien laid his head on the chair back. “What look?” he asked.

  Petros drew in a long breath. “Perhaps I read you wrong.”

  “I believe you did.” The Revenant prince swiveled his head toward his friend. “Are you going to stay here and annoy me or are you going to let me daydream for a while?”

  “You can’t daydream at night, Luc,” Petros said with a sniff. “Fantasize, I would think, but not daydream.” He got up, his bones creaking with age.

  “Then let me fantasize,” Lucien ordered. He locked eyes with Petros then turned his head away, closing his eyes to indicate his removal from the conversation.

  Petros walked to the door. He stopped, his back to Lucien, stood there a moment as though with indecision then went out, shutting the door quietly behind him.

  Lucien opened his eyes and stared at the far wall. He could hear Petros giving orders to the ever-present guards who went everywhere Lucien did and who guarded him day and night. Though the words were spoken softly, Lucien heard each one of them and smiled sadly to himself. Petros took no chances with the life of his friend and never again would he allow Lucien to be placed in harm’s way if he could prevent it.

  Pushing aside thoughts of treachery and betrayal, Lucien let his mind drift back to the night before. There was comfort in thoughts of Khamsin and the wicked little body that had kept him enslaved to it from early dusk to just before the rise of the sun. The taste of her, the scent of her and the feel of her was carved into his soul now—as well as his heart—and he could feel the loneliness sloughing off him. For the first time since he could remember, he was content.

  Yet the headache still plagued him—as it had for days. Sex had not relieved it, though it was not as acute as it had been. He rubbed at his temple, closing his eyes to the pounding pain over his right eye.

  A soft, gentle hand eased over his, pushing it away as cool fingers grazed his left temple as well. Tender circles spiraled in unison and the scent of his lady filled Lucien’s nostrils.

  “Is there an elixir for the pain, milord?”

  Lucien gave into the comfort that was pressing delicately against his temples. “There is tenerse, but I would just as soon not take it if I don’t have to.” He reached up for her hand and pulled her around his chair to sit in his lap. Once she was reclining against him—her head on his shoulder—he encompassed her within the perimeter of his arms, holding her securely. “Why are you not sleeping?”

  “I slept most of the night,” she protested then smiled. “Then I went through the clothing you had sent to me and marked those I liked best.” She smoothed her hand down the nightgown she was wearing. “This I like especially well.”

  “You should be sleeping, wench,” he said, “and not inspecting clothing.”

  “I wanted to be with you.”

  He laid his cheek on the top of her head and looked out the window at the mist-shrouded night. “Would you like to go for a ride?”

  “Doesn’t your head hurt?” she countered.

  “Aye, but I’m used to it.”

  “No,” she said. “I would rather stay here.”

  “I promised to take you riding,” he reminded her.

  “And you will, but not until you are over the headache.”

  He smiled and tightened his grip. “Aye, Your Grace. I will do as you command.”

  Khamsin gave an unladylike snort. They were companionably silent for several minutes then she asked what was worrying him.

  “Why do you think I’m worried?”

  “I can sense it,” she said, “and besides, you wouldn’t be sitting here alone if something wasn’t bothering you.”

  He said nothing for a moment then sighed deeply. “Have you ever been betrayed by a friend, wench?”

  Khamsin sat up and turned so she could look him in the eye. “Petros?”

  Lucien shook his head. “Christina,” he replied. “She is a spy for Stavros.”

  A frown shifted over Khamsin’s face. “You know this for a surety?”

  “I’ve suspected it for some time but didn’t want to believe it,” he answered. “Tonight, it was confirmed.”

  “May I ask how?”

  Lucien had carefully removed all memory of Aristotle Pavli from Khamsin’s mind and he knew he had to be careful with his explanation. He cleared his throat, giving himself time to formulate an answer.

  “One of the thralls came to me a year or so ago and asked if he could use the library to better himself. I saw no reason why he couldn’t so I allowed him to do so.”

  “Did he want to become of the Blood?” she asked.

  Lucien smiled. “You are learning about us, aren’t you?”

  “I made good use of the library myself today, milord,” she stated.

  “As did he, but his research—if that is what it could be called—seemed a bit strange to me.”

  “What was he researching?”

  “There is an old saying that goes ‘know your enemy’,” Lucien replied. “I think the thrall was doing that, but instead of trying to find out about an enemy, he was trying to learn all he could about his ally.”

  “Christina?” she asked. “Was he in league with her?”

  “Apparently so. I found a volume of poetry sitting on the desk after the thrall had left one evening and thought it strange that a man like him would be interested in such verses.”

  “What kind of verses?”

  “It was a mid-twentieth-century work called Songs of Bilitis by Pierre Louys. It was a volume of love poems between women.” He flexed his shoulders. “Gay women.”

  Khamsin’s left eyebrow crooked upward. “I take it this man is not the poetic type?”

  “He was a loudmouthed bully with a penchant for cruelty toward women.”

  “Was?”

  Lucien shifted in the chair. “He died recently.”

  “Had you read that book?”

  “Not likely, wench. My reading tastes run to history,” he said with a grunt. “I like to see just how accurate the reporting is.”

  “Since you’ve lived it,” she said.

  “Aye, since I’ve lived it.”

  “So the book made you suspicious. Did you ask the thrall about it?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I already suspected Christina was sending information to Stavros but it wasn’t anything I didn’t want him to know in the first place. I thought if she had an accomplice, Petros would find out about him sooner or later. Petros would have taken care of the situation.”

  “And did he?”

  “I did, but not for the thrall’s spying.”

  Khamsin felt a shiver pass down her spine. “Did you kill him?”

  “Not personally, but I ordered it.”

  “Why? What did he do?”

  “He pissed me off,” Lucien stated. “And we’ll discuss that bastard no more.”

  Feeling chastened, Khamsin returned her head to his shoulder. His right hand was rubbing up and down her arm, the fingers of his left hand entwined with hers.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  “Not really. Are you?”

  He ducked his head and pressed his lips lightly to the column of her neck. “Not for food, wench, but a midnight snack wouldn’t be amiss.”

  “It’s past midnight, milord,” she said.

  “A pre-dawn snack, then,” he amended and moved his hand to her breast to gently knead the lush mound.

  “Dawn is but two hours away, milord,” she pointed out. “Do you think you are up to the task?”

  “The coming of the sun slows me down, Khammie,” he replied. “It doesn’t bring me to a standstill.”

  “Slows you down,” she said. “Long, slow movements, eh?”

  Lucien unthreaded his fingers from her left hand and reached up to mold his hand around her other brea
st, squeezing both and running his palm over the nipples.

  “Very slow,” he said, nibbling her neck. “Very measured, unhurried strokes that thrust deep and withdraw. Thrust deep again then remain well-seated in the soft, moist cavern it has entered.”

  “Leisurely thrusts, milord?” she inquired, wriggling on his lap for beneath her rump was a hard, insistent rod that moved against her.

  “Aye, wench. Very deliberate, calculated strokes that slip in and out with premeditated precision.”

  “Strokes that might be sped up just a bit toward the end?” she wanted clarified.

  “Strokes that will most definitely speed up,” he agreed.

  “Hard strokes, milord?”

  “Rammed in with accuracy, wench.”

  He slid his hand down to the apex of her thighs and cupped her, his middle finger tapping for entry.

  “And what, pray tell,” she asked, “am I to do while you are doing all that measured thrusting, milord?”

  He gathered the fabric her nightgown that prevented him from touching her bare flesh and inched it up, crumbling the lightweight cotton in his hand.

  “Lay there in a wanton state,” he answered. “Arms and legs flung wide as I kneel between your creamy thighs, lift that sweet ass and impale you upon my rock-hard shaft.”

  “Must I?” she said on a long sigh as though bored.

  The hem of the gown was past the wiry curls of her mons and inching toward her belly button. His middle finger twirled the pale blonde hair, dipping slowly toward the clitoral hood.

  “Aye, wench,” he replied. “I believe you must.”

  She turned so her back was to him and pressed against his chest. She opened her legs.

  His hand slid downward until he was cupping her heat. Drawing his fingers up and down, his thumb stroking the left crease of her thigh, could feel the juices slipping from her cunt.

  “Wider,” he commanded.

  Khamsin shifted her legs apart, giving him more access to her moistness. Her belly clenched when the tip of one finger touched her anal opening.

  “You like that?” he cooed, continuing the soft friction that ran his fingers from spiky curls to the puckered rim of her ass.

  Licking her lips, Khamsin could only nod. The sensations he was causing between her legs made her blood pound heavily in her ears.

  “Put your hands on your breasts, Beloved,” he instructed.

  She did as he told her, massaging the heavy globes.

  “Pluck your nipples.” His voice was deep, filled with passion.

  Folding her fingers into her palm, she grasped her nipples through the thin cotton fabric of her nightgown and rolled them between the pads of her thumbs and the sides of her index fingers.

  “Ah,” she groaned, the stimulation sending spikes of desire driving through her loins.

  Lucien slipped his middle finger into the dampness between her legs and drove deep.

  “Ah!” his lady cried out, pushing her hips up to meet his hand.

  Flexing his finger inside her, pulling it out a ways, thrusting it back in—deeper and harder—he watched as she pulled at her nipples and worried them between her fingers. Her breathing was erratic, dragging quickly into her lungs. Her head thrown back on his shoulder, her bottom lip clasped between her teeth, her eyes closed. He could feel the tremor that was beginning in the core of her.

  Without missing a beat, Lucian put his middle finger in his mouth, withdrew it then slid his free hand beneath her, wedging his palm under her butt and slid it down until he touched the rim of her ass. Although she cried out in protest—clenching her cheeks to prevent his invasion—he inserted the middle finger of his left hand into her hole.

  “Lucien!” she gasped, slamming her hands to the chair arms in an attempt to pry herself from his lap.

  “Put your fingers to your nipples, wench!” he snapped in a tone that brooked no argument.

  Hesitantly, Khamsin returned her fingers to the erect peaks of her breasts, panting as though she had run a long, hard race.

  “Pull them!”

  As one long finger wriggled in her anus, another moved in and out of her with steady penetration, she plucked furiously at her nipples, feeling the beginnings of her climax shooting up from the delicious friction inside her.

  He pushed hard with his right finger and held it as the ripples of her pleasure undulated through Khamsin’s lower body. She pushed against him, grinding her ass on his left hand, rising up to thrust against his right. Her choked cries of relief as the last squeeze of satiation claimed her sounded loud in the still room.

  They sat in his chair with his fingers still inside her and watched as the first rays of morning speared up from the horizon. She would have moved, but he kept her where she was, thrilling to the pulse of her inner beat he could feel compressing his fingers.

  Gently, he kissed the side of her neck, pressing his lips to the heavy thud of her pulse. Though every instinct in his body bid him to sink his fangs into that creamy soft flesh, he denied his nature and merely flicked out a tongue to lap at her skin.

  “You need to go to bed,” she said, her voice breathless.

  “Aye,” he said and before she could protect, slipped his fingers from her body. He reached across her and pulled one leg around until she was once more sitting at an angle to hip. With the last bit of his morning-draining strength, he slipped one arm behind her, one under her knees and stood, holding her securely in his arms.

  “Lucien…” she began but he shushed her.

  “Lie with me until I fall asleep,” he asked.

  His footsteps were slow, his strength fading but he managed to climb the stairs with her. Never breaking stride for his guards automatically opened the door for him as he neared his chamber—he took her to their bed, and laid her down, practically falling atop her as the last of his vigor was sapped.

  Khamsin scooted aside for him then pillowed his head on her breast as sleep reached up to claim him. She could hear his soft breathing and knew he was deep in slumber.

  Within moments, she followed him down into the oblivion of Morpheus.

  They dozed for half an hour then Lucien woke with a mighty thirst. Quietly so as not to disturb her, he reached out to pour a glass of water from the bedside table.

  “Tired you out, wench?” he laughed to himself. He drained the goblet, poured more, and drained that, too.

  As he lay down, stretching out beside his woman, he wondered why the water had the faintest taste of cherries about.

  Chapter Ten

  Morning brought slashes of lightning and heavy rain to pelt the windows. Thunder rumbled ominously, echoing across the mountains. It was always cool in Lucien’s room, but this day it seemed colder than usual. There was dampness, a cloying press against the skin that Khamsin found disquieting.

  Easing out of the bed so she would not wake her lover, Lucien’s lady performed her absolutions in the dark bathing chamber with only a single candle to light her way. She was about to leave the stark room when the door shut quickly and soundlessly in front of her. She jumped back, blinking at the obstruction to her exit.

  “Such a vile day, it is.”

  Spinning around, Khamsin was stunned to see Sibylline sitting on the rim of the large copper tub, her arms folded over her lush breasts. The flickering candlelight made the Revenant queen’s face look almost beastlike with deep shadows beneath her large eyes and in the hollows of her cheeks.

  “I hated venturing out on such a day and would not have if duty had not called.”

  “Lucien doesn’t want you here,” Khamsin said. “You’d best leave before he wakes.”

  Sibylline said nothing as the young woman stalked to the door and tried to open it. Finding it locked, Khamsin pulled on the knob, but the portal would not budge. She shook the knob, twisted it, but still the door would not open. Turning around, she looked fearfully at Sibylline.

  “What are you doing?”

  A pleasant smile stretched the lovely older woman
’s face. “Me? I’m just sitting here, dearling. What are you doing?”

  Turning around and yanking as hard as she could on the knob, Khamsin felt her heart thudding in her chest. The door was securely shut.

  Hating to slap her hand against the panel and wake Lucien, she nevertheless did so, calling out to Lucien to open the door.

  “I’m afraid he can’t hear you,” Sibylline told her. “He will sleep like the undead he is until nightfall.”

  Khamsin spun back around. “Let me out of here!” she demanded.

  Sibylline shook her head. “You will be leaving, dearling, but it will be with me.”

  There was a particularly loud crack of lightning and the air wavered around them. The stench of brimstone filled the air as another violent burst of sound shook the room.

  “Truly vile weather we’re having,” Sibylline commented.

  Her eyes widening, Khamsin put a hand to her heart where an intense pain had suddenly shot through her. “Why?” she asked, pleading in her shaky voice. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Did you study religion in that orphanage, Khammie?” Sibylline asked, holding up her hand to study the fingernails—first with fingers crooked toward her and then palm facing away and the slender digits splayed.

  Tears gathered in Khamsin’s eyes for she was terrified of what this woman might do to her.

  “No?” Sibylline asked, not waiting for an answer. “No matter. I have studied this planet’s religion extensively and have memorized many of the verses I read. One says—now let me make sure I have it correctly—oh, yes! ‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away’. Since I consider myself a Lordess on this backward world and I gave you to our sweet Lucien, I am now taking you away.”

  “But why?” Khamsin repeated and the tears fell down her cheeks. “Are you that jealous?”

  Sibylline cocked her head to one side. “Jealous?” she echoed. “Of what, dearling? Poor little you?” She laughed. “Most assuredly not!”

  “Then why are you doing this to us?”

  A wistful sigh pushed from Sibylline’s ample chest. “Because Lucien will believe it is Stavros who holds you, he will go after Constantine. Lucien will do everything in his power to get you back—including killing Stavros. Truthfully, I imagine Lucien will mutilate his enemy with great glee. There has always been bad blood—if you’ll pardon the pun—between those two.”