Thief of Light

by Denise Rossetti

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Weaving the ribbons of air into a thicker band, he wrapped it around her waist and tugged her close. “Kiss me.”

  “You’re mad,” she grumbled, but she bent to give him her smiling lips.

  Ah, so sweet. One kiss at a time, Erik lured her in, until he had her down on the couch beside him, sprawled over his lap, that tender, carnal mouth all his to plunder and adore.

  When he finally let her up for air, she looked dazed, her hair mussed and her lips swollen. Gods, he loved that expression, innocence debauched. “No,” she whispered. Then more firmly, sitting up. “No.”

  Erik pressed a kiss to her palm. “Don’t say no to me, Prue, not while you’re wearing my cuffs.”

  “But Erik, you’ve only just—”

  “See what you did.” He gestured at his lap, where his cock reared, fighting to be free of the concealing robe.

  Prue licked her lips and the robe twitched. “Oh dear,” she murmured. “That looks . . . uncomfortable.” She slanted him a sparkling glance, the mischief still underpinned with a touch of anxiety. The dimple quivered and his heart squeezed hard with love and lust.

  “It is,” he said, trying not to pant. And waited.

  Prue frowned. Then she folded her arms and stuck out that stubborn chin. “I refuse to hurt you,” she said.

  Every physical sensation was magnified unbearably by emotion—the dull ache of the wound, the sly caress of soft fabric across the sensitive head of his shaft. Godsdammit, he couldn’t think straight, helpless as a leaf at the mercy of capricious winds. Overwhelming tenderness buffeted him one way, guilt and apprehension another. For a disconcerting second, he thought he might cry.

  Well, hell.

  How much more would he have of her? How many more opportunities to create the memories he’d have to live on for the rest of his life? To see love and joy illuminating her sweet face instead of disgust and condemnation?

  Clearing his throat, he leaned back, spreading his knees. “I don’t want you to hurt me either,” he said. “But I’m sure you can think of something.”

  41

  “Mm.” Erik licked his glistening fingers, curling his tongue around each digit like a great cat. “You smell so female. And gods, I love the way you taste.”

  A reminiscent tingle streaked through Prue’s belly. She’d loved the way he tasted her. She was still quivering with the silvery force of it when an enormous yawn caught her unawares.

  “Go to sleep,” he murmured, the dark velvet rumble as intimate as what they’d just shared.

  Her hair tangled with his on the pillow, gold and brown, all mixed together. Placing a big warm palm on her stomach, he rubbed, very gently. “Close your eyes now, sweetheart. You need the rest.”

  So she did.

  The dreams tumbled past as fragments—that awful chair, the Technomage, razor-sharp implements in her gloved hands, the Necromancer’s toneless voice, evil incarnate. Worst of all, the dreadful noise Erik had made in the back of his throat, the blue of his lips, the big body she loved no more than an empty husk.

  But when she jerked and trembled, her eyes flashing open on a choked cry, he was right there, his muscled warmth spooned around her, his deep voice murmuring reassurance in her ear. Prue pressed her lips to the smooth swell of Erik’s biceps and drifted off with a sigh of relief.

  This time, her dreams were different, so vivid they were glimpses of an erotic scene in stained glass, bright chips showing what she’d done to him. Like the sun shining through pure color, a warm glow of triumph suffused her soul.

  Her pulse thudding in her ears, she’d gone to her knees before him and parted the robe. Sister save her, but he was beautiful, velvet soft and steel hard, roped with a delicate tracery of blue veins.

  When she’d run a considering finger from root to tip, his cock had jerked against his belly. “Don’t tease,” he’d grated.

  Her heart singing, she’d raised a cool brow. “Is that an order, Your High and Mightiness?”

  Erik almost laughed, she saw his lips twitch. He painted on a scowl, color flying high on his cheeks. “Your mouth,” he rumbled. “Give me your mouth.” But the fingers in her hair were gentle.

  Oh gods. Permission to play.

  Prue smiled in her sleep, her breath growing choppy.

  Every part of his genitals fascinated her—the dense, velvety head of his shaft, all rosy red and salty sweet with desire; the contrast of the satin smooth skin over a solid, engorged core. The beat of his life throbbed under her tongue, deliciously hot and oh so vulnerable. Cupped in her palm, the furry bundle of his testicles was drawn up tight, his thighs rock hard with tension against her shoulder. Experimentally, Prue slid a finger up and over the seam of his balls and then back over his perineum.

  Erik caught his breath. When she added a leisurely lick all around his glans, he hissed and his hips arched.

  Sweet Sister, the power of it! Who’d have thought? Prue suppressed the wriggle of delight and set herself to drive him out of his mind, lick by lick, nibble by nibble.

  Strong fingers tunneled into her hair, but she refused to be rushed. He tasted like sherbet infused with strong musk, making her tingle, the flavor all male, strangely compelling. Moaning, she pressed her thighs together, compressing the soft, slippery flesh of her nether lips. All she need do was strip off her trews, straddle him and impale herself. He was too far gone to resist.

  No, she might hurt him. In any case, she couldn’t give up the intoxicating joy of control, not quite yet. The soft, wrinkled collar of his foreskin deserved a specially gentle nip, the heart-shaped head a spiral trail of kitten licks. And there was a sweet spot, beneath, just there . . . When she flicked it with her tongue, he—

  Groaned.

  As if the heart were being torn from his chest, while his hands urged her into a rhythm and his buttocks tightened with the desire to thrust. In all the time she’d known Erik the Golden, she didn’t think she’d heard him make any music as beautiful as that helpless, yearning noise.

  Prue bent her head, fisted him from the root and swallowed as much hard flesh as she could manage. The groan dropped an octave, though she wouldn’t have thought it possible. Her eyes closed with pleasure, she began to suckle, softly at first, then more firmly. Moisture trickled down her thighs, dampening the trews.

  Erik froze beneath her, no longer breathing, every muscle locked.

  Prue chuckled, deep in her throat, which made him curse. Then she slowed down, lightening the pressure.

  He tugged at her hair. “Godsdammit, woman! Finish me!”

  Taking her time, Prue released him. “Ah,” she murmured, blowing a thoughtful stream of warm air over his crown, watching the muscles in his stomach contract. “Is that an order too?”

  “Nngh!” His teeth clicked together. Vividly blue, his eyes blazed down into hers. “Fuck it, you need a spanking.”

  Prue’s clit tightened into a burning knot, the tiny spasm nearly enough to tip her over, there and then. Gods, she’d never . . .

  She swallowed hard, then turned her head to press a breathless kiss to the inside of his wrist. Holding his gaze, she allowed herself a wicked grin, knowing the dimple was quivering in her cheek. “Do you promise, Oh Master?”

  A bead of sweat rolled down the strong column of Erik’s neck and lost itself in the golden fur on his chest. His nipples were hard disks, tightly peaked. “Over my knee,” he said, his voice gone to gravel. He raised a big hand. “Fingers buried deep inside for your pleasure, while I smack your gorgeous ass ’til it’s red. Until you can’t help but scream because it’s so fucking good.”

  Prue gurgled.

  One more word and she’d explode, right here, kneeling on the rug. Gods! He was still talking, painting wicked, decadent pictures in her head. Slipping a dildo into her ass, clamping her nipples . . .

  With more haste than grace, she engulfed him again, ramping up the pressure, applying strong pulling suction, her head bobbing.

  “Shit!” Erik’s bo
dy bowed right up off the couch. “Move, love. If you don’t . . . want . . . Ah, gods! Fuck!”

  His length rippled against her hard palate, but at the last second, he clamped her head between his hands and jerked her away, ignoring her muffled cry of protest. Ropes of warm, creamy fluid hit her cheek, her neck, splattering her tunic. Prue licked her lips, savoring. Salty as tears, harsh as grief, pungent with masculine passion. The essence of the man, inexpressibly precious because she loved him.

  When she looked up, tears stood in Erik’s eyes. “Gods, Prue, you’re perfect.” Fleetingly, she wondered why his smile had a bittersweet edge, but the expression illuminated his face with such pure male beauty that she felt dizzy, her body still thrumming with desire. Taking her hands in his, he came to his feet, and she rose to tuck herself against his side. “Bed.”

  Still favoring his side, he’d chivvied her into bed. With ruthless dispatch, they stripped the tunic and trews from her together, grinning like idiots. Erik descended on her like a storm, sending the lightning whipping through her with fingers, lips and tongue. Again and again, until she lay limp and sweaty among the tumbled sheets, pleading for mercy.

  Gods, it had been incredible. So good, so damn good.

  And then . . .

  She couldn’t believe what he’d done next.

  With a gasp, Prue shot bolt upright, her heart pounding. The dream fragmented as she returned to reality. Erik lay beside her, fathoms deep, his hair all mussed, falling over his eyes. He mumbled in an irritated sort of way, reaching out to pat the warm place where she’d been, searching. The bandage over his ribs shone pale against his tawny skin. Grim lines bracketed his mouth where there’d been none before.

  “Sshh. I’m here.” Prue stroked the back of his hand, avoiding the scabbed knuckles. She shivered, remembering the horrible crack of bone on bone when he’d hit the Necromancer’s servant.

  Golden brown lashes fluttered. Erik grunted, threw a heavy arm over her thighs and fell back into slumber.

  It was evening. They’d slept right through. A single lamp cast a pool of light, the hair-dusted skin of his arms gleaming as if he’d been sprinkled with gold. He must have lit it before he dozed off.

  She stared at him. A big, beautiful man, his long limbs sprawled across her bed. More than she’d ever thought she’d have, that was true enough.

  But more than just a man.

  Erik Thorensen was some principle of nature made manifest. He was destined for a huge cosmic purpose. If Prue McGuire loved him more than life . . . Well, that was completely immaterial.

  On some instinctive level, she must have always known it, she thought, her heart aching, but until he’d made love to her with his Magick, she hadn’t realized how it would affect her.

  “One more time,” he’d said, shooting her a devilish grin. Rising, he went to lean against the dresser, casually, splendidly naked. “And look, no hands.”

  Prue had frowned in puzzlement.

  Still smiling, Erik exhaled slowly, his fingers moving fluidly as if he were shaping—

  “Ooh!” An inquiring breeze wafted over Prue’s right breast and her nipple tingled. Another, a little more insistent, curled around her left breast, pushing and tugging, circling her areola as if he were breathing on her delicate flesh, all warm and moist.

  “Erik, what are you . . . doing?” The last word emerged as a squeak. Invisible currents of air swirled all over her body, stroking, tickling, pleasuring, relentless as the man himself.

  His grin became blinding. “What does it feel like?”

  Gasping, Prue shot him a glare. “You know very well what—Oh, gods!” She flopped back onto the pillows, boneless. A gentle, inexorable force was pushing her thighs open, fingering her slick folds excruciatingly lightly, nudging her clit.

  “Fuck, you’re gorgeous.” His voice dropped to a purr-growl. “Show me, sweetheart. Show me.”

  The pressure increased, swirling, pressing, urging her higher and higher. She’d never felt so exposed, so wanton in her life. Nor so desired. His passion was a tangible force, in every possible sense. Prue didn’t know whether to laugh, cry or scream. In the end, a thunderous climax pulled all three sounds from her throat.

  But now, as she watched him sleep, tears prickled her eyes. Because she knew going with him was inevitable—she just hoped Katrin would forgive her. But she’d never known what it was to love like this, with everything she was and everything she ever could be, with her whole heart and mind and body. She’d always thought it a fairy tale of hope, told to make humdrum lives more bearable.

  Easing herself away from under Erik’s arm, she padded over to the dresser and picked up her hairbrush, watching him in the mirror.

  Yes, she’d be with him when he left Palimpsest—because to live without him would break her. Oh, not at once, but little by little, one tight, bitter shard at a time. Better to wrench herself away from Katrin, knowing her daughter had a bright future with Arkady, filled with family and love and good work, an adult life.

  Prue tugged the brush through her hair. She’d never been in a starship, never even seen the Technomage spaceport. To travel to other worlds—Sister, that was an adventure she’d never thought to have.

  When Katrin had her first babe—The brush caught on a knot. Erik’s reflection blurred into a fuzzy, golden outline. She’d come back. Yes, she would. In the meantime, Rose would be here, Rose who was Katrin’s second mother, Prue’s best friend, closer than any sister . . .

  Very gently, Prue laid the brush down and began to braid her hair into thick, sensible plaits, as she did every night. She was Prue McGuire. She’d survive this.

  Even if it ripped her heart to pieces.

  Florien knocked on Prue’s door midmorning. “Yer t’ come down t’ t’ kitchen, both o’ ye,” he said the moment she opened it. His dark eyes flicked from the robe she’d flung on, to Erik, lounging bare chested on the couch behind her. A knowing smirk curled his lips. “Now,” he added.

  Prue stiffened. “Who told you that?”

  “T’ old one. Wit’ t’ three beards.”

  Prue frowned, nonplussed. Erik gave a great crack of laughter, followed immediately by a curse. When she turned, he had a palm pressed to his side, his brows drawn together. “Deiter,” he said, the ghost of a smile still curving his lips. “He means Deiter.”

  “Was there a ‘please’ attached anywhere?” Prue asked the boy.

  Florien thought about it. “Nah,” he said at last.

  Prue stiffened. “Well, you go back and tell him—”

  Erik’s hand landed on her shoulder. “We’ll be there. Fifteen minutes.” He leaned past her to shut the door in the lad’s face.

  Prue spun around. “Who does Deiter think he is?” She narrowed her gaze. “More to the point,” she said more slowly, “who do you think he is?”

  With a sigh, Erik patted her bottom. “He’s the most powerful Purist I know, for all that he drinks too much.” Crossing to the couch, he sat and bent gingerly to pull on his boots. “I don’t think he possesses such a thing as a heart, but he doesn’t lack for guts.” He gave a wry chuckle. “Or gall, for that matter. But Gray and Cenda trust him.”

  Prue loosed her plait and unraveled it. “Gray’s your friend, isn’t he?”

  “I suppose so.” Erik shrugged. “Or the nearest thing to it.” His face closed. “I haven’t let anyone close since I was a lad.” He glanced up. “Only you.”

  Prue stared, shocked into speechlessness. A couple of words and she was overwhelmed. She’d never thought of herself as special—but to Erik, she was. Who’d have thought it? Before she could gather her scattered wits, he went on, “I doubt there’s anyone who knows more about Magick than Deiter, not even Bartelm and Nori put together. If anyone can make sense of”—he paused to clear his throat—“the Necromancer and the seelies, the whole fucking debacle, he can.”

  “I’ll get dressed then.”

  Erik’s eyes brightened. “I’ll watch.”

  Wh
ich meant it was thirty minutes, not fifteen, before they entered the kitchen, and Prue still felt flushed, her skin tingling.

  Cenda, Gray and Deiter sat at the big table, Katrin pouring cups of a steaming tisane from a large pot. Setting it down, she crossed the room and bent to peck Prue on the cheek. “You all right?” she whispered.

  Prue gazed up into her daughter’s face, her heart aching. “I’m fine.”

  “Come and sit.” Katrin smiled. “Are you hungry? Let me get you something.”

  “Not there!”

  Prue froze, her hand on the back of the chair next to the old wizard’s. Deiter’s mouth worked. Fumbling in his robes, he produced a small jug, removed the cork with his teeth and took a healthy swig.

  “Why not?” Erik had gone completely still at her back, his voice arctic with offense.

  Shuddering, the Purist wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Because it hurts, that’s why.”

  “Hurts?” said Prue, bewildered. “What hurts?”

  “Your godsbedamned Magick,” snarled Deiter, tilting the jug once more. “Lord’s balls, woman, get away from me, will you?”

  Erik’s hand closed over hers, warm and comforting. “Over here, love.” He drew an unresisting Prue to a seat at the far end of the table.

  “M-Magick?” She recovered enough to glare. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m about as Magickal as . . . as this table.” She slapped her hand down hard on the wooden surface, making the cups jiggle.

  “That’s just it, Prue,” Cenda said gently. When she wrapped slender fingers around her cup, steam rose from it in little puffs, one after the other. “Your Magick is that you have none.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Cenda wore a beautiful golden ornament in her hair, fashioned like a tiny lizard. To Prue’s amazement, it opened sapphire eyes and blinked, then it sat up on its haunches, miniscule claws clutching at the red swathes of hair over the fire witch’s temples. Prue was so bemused, she almost missed Cenda’s next words. “I can feel it too, and I’m nowhere near as old in Magick as the Purist.”