Lust Eternal

by Sabrina York

  She never had.

  She couldn’t give in to these cravings. Not until she understood what was happening to her. Her analytical mind wouldn’t allow it.

  As though he could read her thoughts, a frown marred his sculpted brow in fascinating furrows. He stepped closer and closer still—though not close enough to touch. His breath was warm on her cheek. “Don’t fight it, Aimalee. You cannot resist. Please don’t try.” He bent closer and his nostrils flared like a stallion catching the scent of a filly in season. He licked his lips.

  My but they were beautiful lips.

  And my oh my. He smelled of sandalwood and sin. The combination made her head spin. She shook her head to rid it of these errant thoughts. “Where am I? What happened?” More questions swirled but this was a good place to start.

  “Please.” Beads of sweat dimpled his upper lip. Heat roiled from his broad chest. Everything about him was hard. “Not now. No questions now.” He whirled away with a growl, showing her his back, frustration clear in every rigid line. As he moved, the dim light glinted off the metal encircling his neck. Aimalee realized it was hewn of the same strange iridescent metal of the lamp.

  Certainty dawned and with it a sense of incredulity. “I’m inside the lamp.”

  He shot a glance at her over his hunched shoulder, a wounded animal. “Y-you touched it.”

  “I’ve touched it many times before.”

  “Many times.” A shudder racked him. He began to shiver, to shake. “But never with…never with…” Never with…what? He didn’t complete the thought, as though the words were too painful to utter. He moaned in agony and stumbled into the shadows.

  She followed, racked with worry—he looked as though he were dying—and lightly touched his shoulder. He froze at the contact, sucking in a deep gasp of air, exhaling it on a small whimper. As their flesh connected, a sizzle shot up her arm, rocketing to her core. Something tight within her released.

  And then she realized…the release hadn’t come from within her.

  It had come from within him.

  Invisible chains binding him shattered and fell away.

  He straightened and stood. Sublime relief descended upon him like a cloud. “Thank you,” he gasped. “Thank you, Aimalee.” He drew his knuckles along the curve of her shoulder then trailed down her arm, sending riots of sensation through her. “You touched it with your bare hands, you see. And the lamp brought you to me,” he said, answering her earlier—long forgotten—question. He caressed her hand, lifted it to his lips then drew her thumb into his mouth and gently sucked.

  Molten lava, deep in her core, churned and spat.

  She knew she should not allow this. She knew she should pull away. The voice of sanity within her whispered as much. Trouble was, that voice of sanity was starting to recede. “W-why?” It was the only word she could manage. The only thought she could conjure.

  He kissed her knuckles, one by one. “You are here for me, Aimalee. For this.” His scalding touch trailed back up her arm. She jerked in reaction but didn’t protest. Her body was heavy, drugged with desire. Her mind befuddled, rapt in it. Enthralled.

  He tugged gently at the pillow she held before her. She watched in mute dismay as he tossed her armor carelessly aside. “God, Aimalee. You are even more beautiful in the flesh.”

  Reverently, he cupped her breast. And then his head descended and those lips—those delicious lips—wrapped around a coral crest. Sucked. Spiking sensation rocked her. Exquisite trills danced along her spine. Tremors rippled through her womb.

  But still…she resisted. As difficult as it was to fight against the alluring enchantment he was weaving—and it was difficult—she lurched back and gasped, “Who are you?”

  Instead of answering, he scraped her nipple—sending spirals of delight snarling up her spine. Oh! It was getting harder and harder to resist him. Harder to focus on her outrage as he enticed her deeper into his web.

  But she was not the only one besieged by temptation. His body was taut as a bowstring—he fairly hummed with the tension.

  He pulled her into his arms. The shock of his hot skin against hers from chest to groin made her lightheaded. He traced the line of her back from her buttocks to her shoulder blades.

  “I am sorry, Aimalee,” he murmured, his tone limned with remorse. “But I cannot answer your questions anymore. I cannot wait. It has been far too long.” He lifted her hair and bent to place a gentle kiss on her nape. With his tongue, his velvet, drugging tongue, he traced a strange and sinuous symbol there.

  A peculiar warmth blossomed there and drifted down her arms, across her chest, infused her body and soul. Her nipples tightened. Her body liquefied. A hot rush of arousal seeped from her womb. Her clitoris throbbed and a scorching hunger snarled and snapped like a long-caged beast.

  She wanted him.

  She wanted him like she had never wanted a man before.

  She ached to fist her fingers in his hair and drag him down on top of her. To take his lips with her own. Suck on his tongue. Consume him. Grind against that magnificent cock and torment him until he whimpered with need. Until he took her. Fucked her. Impaled her.

  Her mind reeled with pleasure and passion…and confusion.

  What was this?

  This was not like her.

  Not like her at all.

  Hadn’t Carter told her repeatedly that she was frigid?

  She had never wanted like this. Ached like this. Needed like this.

  “What are you doing to me?” Even to her own ears, the cry was laced with pleasure, desire, delirium. She placed her palm flat on his chest to push him away but at that touch, passion swelled—the passion in her and the passion in him, tangling, twining. His skin was smooth but his hard muscles bunched at her touch.

  He threw his head back and groaned in ecstasy. Or perhaps agony.

  “I can’t. I need… I want to…” He hissed through his teeth. “But I cannot wait. I cannot.”

  Easing her down onto the cushions, he covered her. The sensation of his hot, sweat-dampened skin against hers sent a shock wave through her. He nudged her legs apart. Neared. She writhed beneath him, eager, wanton, lost in wonder. Ravenous for him. Impatient.

  He did not make her wait.

  He slid inside with no preamble but she didn’t care. She wanted this. Needed this. Her body was ready for him. Eager for it. He filled her with one slick stroke. Possessed her. She cried out a garbled plea, a benediction of bliss. So perfect. So right. So complete.

  He rested there, buried deep and exhaling harshly, gritting his teeth. And then he began to move. Slowly at first—a long, deliberate withdrawal followed by an agonizing, measured thrust.

  She clutched at him, clasped at him in desperation, holding him tighter and tighter until she thought for sure she would explode from the rising tension that twisted and writhed and howled inside her. But she could not keep him in.

  He withdrew and she howled in frustration. Then the howl became a sigh as he sank deep again.

  And again.

  And again.

  Each foray accompanied by his bestial grunt, her desperate, fruitless clenches to keep him.

  It was a long battle, an endless dance of retreat and advance. A tormenting hunger, the delight of fleeting fulfillment and then roiling anguish again as he once more pulled out, leaving her empty, desolate, abandoned.

  Tension rose, ratcheting up notch by notch. Bliss, abandon, hunger heightened with each perfectly placed thrust. Impatience, anticipation, need beset her.

  Still he pummeled her with those slow, deliberate incursions. He could not keep it up forever though clearly he tried. Before long, he succumbed. His thrusts became shorter, harder, deeper.

  Frantic.

  Aimalee, adrift in a swirling sea of sensation, nearly insensate from incomprehensible pleasure, tucked her head into the curve of his shoulder. He found a place, touched a spot at her core that sent rivulets of teasing elation cascading through her. More. More. More. Frantic
, crazed, delirious with a thirst for that illusive peak, she nipped at his neck.

  He growled in response and pounded faster, relentlessly sending shimmering shards of delight along every singing nerve. The thick ridge of his cock found her again and again, skewering her with sizzling sensation.

  Her body tightened. The hovering dawn of something magnificent haunted her, teased. And then his cock swelled, lengthened in preparation for the coming eruption. The increased fullness coupled with his pounding fervor sent her over the edge.

  She quivered around him, lost, clenching at his cock with utter, helpless abandon. The glow blossomed and spread like a flower in her womb. A scalding tide washed through her, taking her, transporting her, liberating her from every worry, every care, every thought.

  A long, glorious release.

  With a cry, she launched into ecstasy, mindless and—for that sip of eternity—utterly, magnificently, superbly complete.

  And then he collapsed at her side, panting and shuddering. They lay there in a tangle of sweat-soaked limbs, shaking, quaking, reveling in the mutual glow of utter and complete bliss.

  Chapter Three

  Aimalee awoke in the tendrils of a delicious dream, visions of a strong, sensual man mingled with scents of spice and sandalwood. With a small, sleepy smile, she nestled deeper under the covers.

  And then she froze.

  She was not, in fact, at home in her bed.

  For one thing, her sheets weren’t velvet.

  For another, she didn’t sleep in the nude.

  Her eyes flew open and she glanced around, gaping in shock at the sumptuous seraglio from her dream.

  But it hadn’t been a dream. She was here. In the lamp.

  It was inconceivable. Her mind reeled with the implications.

  Had the pressures of the past weeks finally sent her around the bend? Was she hallucinating?

  Could one hallucinate bliss?

  Well for heaven’s sake. Of course she was imagining all this. The only other possibility was that she had been somehow magically transported to another place, another world.

  A world where exquisitely handsome men wanted utterly unremarkable women like her.

  She snorted. That particular probability was even more inconceivable than the prospect of being magically transported to another world.

  But still…here she was.

  She sat up, clutching a thick fur blanket to her chest, and peered through the dimly lit shadows. The room was silent, still. She was alone. He wasn’t there. She didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until she let it out in a great whoosh. A strange combination of relief and disappointment assailed her.

  Before she could process these conflicting emotions, another unbidden thought arose. What if he had left her? Left her here alone? How would she get back home? Could she get back home?

  Good heavens. What would she eat?

  Panic rose in her breast and she scrambled to her feet, scanning the space about her intently, searching for clues. Searching for something.

  The chamber was spacious and unburdened by excess furnishings. Aside from the nest of cushions in the corner, there was a small divan placed between two columns on one end of the room. A set of twin columns adorned the other end. The only other items were the braziers, set about at intervals, glowing like stars in a dark sky.

  She noticed a splash of white against the dark bulk of the divan. She padded across the room to investigate and discovered the splash of white was an exquisite lace-and-ribbon robe.

  Self-conscious of her naked state, she slipped it on. It fit like a glove, clinging to her curves like a lover’s caress. She tied it closed with the band of ribbons. With every move, the rough ruches of lace rubbed against still sensitive nipples.

  Thusly girded, she resumed her exploration. It was amazing what a beautiful gown could do for one’s bravado.

  Pity there was nothing she could do about her hair. Without a brush she would never be able to tame her unruly curls.

  Aimalee decided to take a methodical course in her investigation, following the contours of the room in search of a door. There had to be a way out. She found it between the columns on the far side of the room, opposite the divan. It was easy to see why she’d missed it. The door was recessed, hidden in an alcove swathed in shadows. Likely this had been done on purpose to give the inhabitants the illusion they were sequestered and utterly private.

  But things were often not as they appeared. At least that had been Aimalee’s experience.

  Cautiously, she opened the door and peered out at a U-shaped atrium hewn of gleaming, moon-splashed marble.

  The cool nighttime breeze teased the tendrils of her hair as she catalogued her surroundings. Seven doors, evenly spaced, marked the curve of the building. She could only assume each door led to a room like this one. On the far end of the atrium, a marble balustrade framed a vista of the sparkling sea in the distance.

  Of her captor, there was no trace.

  Aimalee stepped out, into the atrium, glorying in the whisper of the night air on her skin, the cool marble beneath her feet. She made her way across the broad expanse to stand at the railing at the far end and stared at the most beautiful vision. The moonlight skipped across the water in a sparkling band as a hint of dawn nudged at the horizon. The scimitar curve of a sandy beach was visible between the lacy fingers of dark palms. The air carried hints of citrus and mint.

  It seemed, to Aimalee, to be the most perfect spot in all of creation.

  Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, being trapped here for eternity.

  At least if there was cheesecake.

  With that thought, she headed back to the atrium and studied the seven doors thoughtfully. If he was still here, he would be behind one of those doors.

  Now, Aimalee had read a lot as a lonely, studious child. And one of her favorite genres had been myth and fantasy. The Adventures of Sinbad had been a particular favorite. So she knew the danger of indiscriminately opening doors in enchanted palaces. There could be a tiger behind one. Or a pit of vipers.

  Probably not cheesecake.

  Her belly growled. How long had it been since she had eaten anyway? And how did time work in an enchanted palace?

  Noticing a tiny sliver of light arrowing out from beneath one of the doors, she headed in that direction, for some reason arching up on her tiptoes. If there was a tiger behind the door, surely he would have sprung out by now. She sidled up to the small crack and peeped inside.

  Her heart leapt.

  Oh. There was a tiger inside all right.

  The man.

  That man.

  He was here.

  Thank God he hadn’t abandoned her.

  He sat in an ornate king’s chair before a large gilt-edged mirror, his elbow braced on the thickly padded arm, his face buried in one hand. He sighed and rubbed at his eyes with the pad of his palm, like a boy. Then he sniffled and cleared his throat and sat up straighter, gripping the arms of the chair with white-knuckle intensity, steeling himself. For something.

  “Again.” His voice was choked, cloaked. Aimalee barely heard the command but the reaction was immediate. The mirror began to shimmer. It was a muted glow at first. Clouds swirled on the surface. But then a scene began to coalesce.

  A girl. Lovely, spirited and carefree. Smiling at some secret thought as she confidently plucked berries from a bountiful bush, now and again popping one into her mouth, staining her lips an even richer red. She was dressed in a long, flowing skirt, wrapped with an apron—clearly the mode of centuries past. Aimalee would guess early first century. Her hair was a dark mass, intricately curled and braided and festooned with jewels. Whoever she was, there was wealth in her family. And beauty.

  There was a familiarity about her but Aimalee just couldn’t place it. It nagged at her as the scene unfolded.

  The girl spoke to a friend and then she laughed at the response, tossing her head back with elegant abandon. Aimalee’s gaze shifted to the man in the chair,
called there by a sudden tightness. He trembled, this big, strong mountain of a man. Trembled with tension.

  Her attention snapped back to the mirror as a thundering sound shook the sylvan scene. The girl glanced over her shoulder. Her expression clouded. A hint of fear blossomed. Her eyes widened as she saw…something approach.

  And then she screamed. She wheeled away and fled, dropping her basket. Plump, juicy berries tumbled to the ground, crushed to red pulp beneath her feet.

  But what was to happen next, what horrible fate was to befall the entrancing, innocent beauty, would remain a mystery. Because just then the mirror misted over, gradually obscuring the vision.

  “No!” Her captor slammed his fist against the carved arm of the chair. And then, more softly, desperately, “No.”

  Aimalee allowed him his privacy, stepping back, away from this display of desolation. But even as she moved, he stiffened as though he sensed her presence.

  Slowly, he turned.

  “Aimalee.” He wiped his cheeks quickly but she still saw them, the tears.

  Caught out, she stepped forward, into the room. “Who was she?”

  A muscle in his cheek bunched. “No one.”

  That, she reflected, was a little hard to believe. But she let it go, as he was still shaking with reaction. She didn’t exactly understand what she’d seen but she knew it was something significant. And personal. Private and painful.

  She’d had plenty of those moments herself.

  He stood and she was struck again by his sheer magnificence, the pure power of his presence. Even fully clothed as he was now.

  And thank God for that. Rippling naked warriors had a tendency to distract her thoughts. Though his clothing—also evocative of a time long past—did little to cloak the magnificence of his form. The buff breeches clung to the lines of his calves and thighs and his tunic stretched at the seams across his broad chest. With laudable determination, she swallowed the drool pooling in her mouth and wrenched her gaze to his face.

  Oh dear.

  A mistake.

  His appraisal flicked over her and warmed. Warmed her. Warmed him. His cloak of pain melted away and a new, familiar tension rose. Aimalee realized with a mortified start that even though she was fully wrapped in the robe, every aspect of her body, from the swollen coral peaks to the downy nest at the juncture of her thighs, was completely visible through the lace. Made more conspicuous by the illusion of a veil.