by Renae Jones
They could have this sort of deliberate, gentle sex someday, and she would love it. But not while they both wanted something else.
“Fuck me,” she ground out.
Rasmus’s rhythm faltered. His taste exploded in her mouth, then hard control returned.
She interrupted the moment, struggling to find words. “I could show you, exactly, if you’re brave.”
Rasmus stilled, buried deep in her, gazing into her eyes, absorbed in her needs.
She swallowed. She’d been taken by impulse, but she’d never expected to offer this. It was an intimate thing, and too Xanian. He wouldn’t accept.
“I can project, psychically. I can let you feel what I’m feeling. You’ll be able to judge what I want. I don’t know what your dominant sense will be, or if you’ll have one. Your mind will make what sense it can, and sometimes it feels very strange.”
“You’re that strong?”
“Pretty strong. It’s not all about strength, though.” It was too early to tell him she thought they were forming a bond.
“I’ll feel what you’d feel, if you had sex with yourself?”
“Well not...” They both puzzled at his phrasing.
“You’ll get the empathic feedback I would, though muted. But you probably won’t taste it. That part is up to your mind.”
Now he didn’t hesitate. He just nodded, a hungry glimmer in his eye. “Do it.”
So, she projected. It was an odd feeling, and exhausting, but not too hard. There really was a bond between them, the sort of swift connection that spoke of the possibility of deep love.
After a moment, Rasmus began to move, short little thrusts to remind them both where this was going. It reminded her how much more she wanted. Her body ached, not with pain but an insistent empty feeling.
Then, very deliberately, she raked her long nails across his back, drawing angry furrows. She projected her needy demand and repeated, “Fuck me, Rasmus.”
He groaned, his eyes uselessly shuttered against the sensation that brought. His movement slowed.
He grunted helplessly, and his taste was laced with a foul shame. She didn’t let up, though. She had to make him lose control. She wanted it. Like a fine dress or perfect shoes, she wanted it, and she was brat enough she had to have it.
“I taught you about pain, if you were paying attention. Pain and sex can go together very well, for some.”
His control didn’t break, but he relented. He set back a little for more power and he fucked her right. He held her hip in one of his wide hands and the back of her neck with another. His body slapped into hers, his cock filling her deep.
Fedni let her shields down, concentrating on the comfortable burn of her pounded body. She tasted his pleasure, fiery, exultant, and whimpered out her own.
“You do like it hard, don’t you?”
Rasmus was cussing in his native tongue again, his body gaining speed. He turned her on her side, holding her, stretching her, fucking her. Her moans were loud, continuous.
She tasted cayenne and citrus, sweet like sugar, sweat and water, cold, clear water like a need fulfilled. And she also tasted a bad taste, like sour, stale flesh, but the harder he fucked her, the more she enjoyed it, the more his fear faded.
Before she had time to wonder at the depth of her mental immersion, he came with a jerk, and a long angry groan.
She found rapture too. Her vision swam into darkness, her senses lost in the bombarding waves of pleasure―his pleasure, her pleasure.
When the moment ebbed, he looked down at her with amazed eyes.
“You felt it?”
“Yes. Faint, but... It’s stronger for you? It was odd. I knew less than I expected about what you were thinking. But the pleasure felt so insistent.”
“I was thinking ‘more.’”
He chuckled. “Yeah, I caught that part.”
Rasmus shifted, pulling his sated cock from her, cradling himself again her side. Their sweat mingled, an unpleasant sensation, but one better shared.
“What did you think I was feeling?”
“I didn’t know. I didn’t guess it could possibly be that, though. Not really.”
“I don’t know why I would lie. If I didn’t enjoy sex with you, I would tell you, and make you fix it.”
Rasmus barked out a laugh, then rearranged their pillows to snuggle properly.
They lay in silence together, an oddly brooding afterglow.
“Can I show you the rest of the ceremonies?” Fedni asked suddenly.
“Now?”
“No, later. Another night. Another date.”
“If you showed me the ones actually about sex, I might have an aneurysm,” he noted.
“We don’t have to.”
“No, I want to. I was teasing you. Of course we can do the ceremonies.”
He didn’t understand at all.
“You’re annoyed with me.”
“I’m not projecting.”
“You sighed and your foot is twitching.”
Perceptive barbarian.
“I pretty much asked if I can court you,” she explained. “The traditional way, with the ceremonies.”
Rasmus’s hand traced her side, soothing her. “I see. Yes, I’d like that. You didn’t even need to ask.”
He was laughing at her for asking, but she was glad to know it. She’d tasted his surprised delight.
It would be a long courtship, she decided. A marriage contract was nothing to rush into, and she would be a more trying wife than most. She’d warn him what he was getting into before he made any promises, to be sure the promises would last.
He would marry her eventually, though. She wanted Rasmus in her life the way she’d wanted him in her bed—and she was very good at getting what she wanted.
Fedni smiled to herself and relaxed into his embrace.
* * * * *
About the Author
Renae Jones grew up in the mouth-drying desert of Miami, Arizona, but never quite adapted to the strange customs of the locals. So she started moving, spending time in Portland, Austin and Oakland. Along the way, she learned to speak both tech and buzzword as a web developer and digital marketer, and picked up some airs.
She’s currently in Columbus, Ohio, bringing a city-girl attitude to life across the fence from a farm. She lives with her dog, a miniature Australian shepherd named Brenna after her favorite Nalini Singh book.
The first books Renae Jones loved were science fiction and fantasy. She didn’t pick up the romance genre until her late 20s, but she was instantly hooked by the big mystery—not whether they would have sex, but why these two people would turn out to be perfect for each other.
Now that she’s writing, she takes it a step further. She loves the opportunity to write together the weird, imperfect, neurotic and tragic characters that otherwise might not find love in a world of perfect heroes and heroines. And inventing new worlds isn’t half-bad, either.
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ISBN: 978-14268-9652-1
TASTE OF PASSION
Copyright © 2013 by Renae Jones
Edited by Alissa Davis
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All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
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