by DL O'Neal
She'd go without him.
He gritted his teeth. "Get it over with, bondwife."
She moved out of his arms completely and settled back on her heels, her pose one of complete serenity. Drakthe tensed at the first brush against his mind. A soothing wash of familiarity flooded his thoughts.
Cheyna.
He relaxed.
The North Continent formed in his mind's eye, towering mountain ranges, jungles to make the South Continent appear a well-kept courtyard, and above it all, a solitude broken only by shy denizens scurrying here and there. Drakthe found himself traversing a narrow path, felt the heat and humidity, the stones under his feet, was inundated by the seductive fragrance of flowers, some taller than he. In the distance, the roar of drquons rebounded from valley to valley. He flinched in reaction. The sights, sounds and smells were so vivid, so real, as if he were physically there. He wanted to explore. The urge to run over the land in great bounding leaps became irresistible. Something brushed his mind. He lifted his head and sniffed the air.
Cheyna broke the link.
He lifted a hand to call her back, the smell of hot dust lingering in his nostrils. He opened his eyes and stared at her, burning with need.
"Come here, House-daughter." He didn't touch her. He didn't have to. His voice was rough and dark from the warm lick of desire. Cheyna's serene expression changed to one of passion, and tension tightened the skin across his cheekbones. He swallowed, not questioning the desire that flooded him each time a link ended. Just accepted it. Just as he accepted Cheyna was a fire in his blood that would never dim.
The volcanic ice walls reflected and magnified the flickering light of the fire, turned the cold darkness of the cave into an enticing lair.
She scooted forward until her knees touched his. Drakthe reached out a hand and traced the smooth lines of her cheeks and brows with his fingertips, his touch light. He moved his hand to the back of her head, unlacing the intricate web of braids. Drakthe watched in satisfaction as her hair cascaded about her shoulders, a fiery nimbus as soft as sun-warmed moonsilk. He gathered the wild mass in one hand, crushing it, and leaned down to bury his face in the silky length. Drakthe inhaled deeply.
He unfastened her burnuese. Her eyes darkened until they were the color of a midnight sky, so blue they were black. Taking an edge of the burnuese in each hand, he eased the material off, over her shoulders. It pooled around her hips. Drakthe turned his attention toward her tunic. One by one, he slid the fasteners free, his gaze intent on the pale flesh he was baring to his view. His breathing quickened.
Bending his head, Drakthe gently blew on the shadowed valley between her breasts. The tips of her breasts hardened at the rush of moist, warm air. Lifting his head, he studied the effect of his touch on her, before sliding his hands beneath the tunic and pushing it inch by inch completely off.
Drakthe swallowed hard at the impact of his bondwife's beauty. Slowly, he reminded himself, slowly. They had all night. He ran his hands up her body until he was cradling the weight of her small breasts. Drakthe spread his fingers, comparing his dark swarthiness to the pale purity of Cheyna's skin. Just below the surface he saw a faint tracery of veins. He skimmed one finger along the path of the fragile network. Chill bumps followed in the wake of his touch. Cheyna shivered. Drakthe groaned. He lowered his head and opened his mouth on the fragrant smoothness, the tip of his tongue following his finger's path. A shuddery sigh escaped his bondwife's lips.
"Drakthe." Cheyna lifted her arms and twined them around his neck. She buried her hands in his hair.
He liked the feel of her fingers stroking his scalp, playing with his hair. Perhaps too much. Drakthe felt a measure of control slip away. He caught her wrists and gently forced her hands back down to her sides. She relaxed trustingly, the heaving of her slight breasts and parted lips the only sign of her agitation. Drakthe shut his eyes, his hands holding her still until he felt control return.
When he felt sure he was in command again, he placed a small kiss just under her right ear, and then one at the elegant slope where shoulder and neck joined. Flutterfly kisses brushed the hollow of her throat, the arch of an eyebrow, the curve of a cheek, first one corner of her mouth and then the other. He never lingered and his mouth left only the most fleeting of touches.
Shifting his hands from her wrists, he slid them down and tangled them with hers. The edge of his teeth rasped provocatively against her skin as he trailed his mouth down one arm and then up the other. Cheyna squeezed his fingers, her breath coming in quick, little bursts. Her lashes drifted closed over the magnificent blue of her eyes and delicate color tinted the high bones of her cheeks.
Her arousal was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. She swayed toward him.
Drakthe tightened his fingers around hers, preventing her from sagging against him. "Look at me, bondwife." He waited until her lashes fluttered up. She looked dazed, Drakthe noted in arrogant satisfaction. He untangled their fingers and placed his hands, palms down, on the top of her thighs as she knelt in front of him. He urged her legs apart. Picking up her hands, he placed them in the exact position his had been on her thighs, then moved behind her.
He gathered the silky cloud of her hair in both hands. He loved the feel of her hair, so thick and soft, a river of moonsilk that begged a man to bury his face in its fiery depths. Drakthe let the strands run through his fingers. A few stray hairs snagged on the roughness of his palms. With infinite gentleness, he released the captured strands before carefully parting the mass, putting one section over each shoulder so her hair hung down over her breasts, covering them. The sensitive nape of her neck bared to his mouth, he began dropping flutterfly soft kisses down the line of her spine. Cheyna arched her back, and swayed forward. Drakthe halted her restless rocking by gripping her hips, holding her still for his sensual teasing. Her hands clenched into fists. He reached around her, silently directing her to grip her legs instead. He smoothed his hands up her thighs, over the taut flatness of her belly, to her ribs. Hidden beneath the silken fire of her hair, his thumbs glided teasingly against the undersides of her breasts.
Cheyna moved restlessly, leaning back heavily against his chest. Drakthe made a wet trail to her shoulder, swirling the tip of his tongue in intricate patterns that matched what his fingers were doing to the hard peaks of her breasts. Cheyna moaned and it was all Drakthe could do not to lay her down and drive his aching shaft deep into her clinging depths. He lifted his head, taking short, sharp breaths while he regained a semblance of control. His bondwife wasn't making it easy. She kept moving against him, small urgent sounds coming from her throat.
Still kneeling, he shifted until she was intimately tucked between his thighs, and flattened his body to hers. His chest solidly against her shoulders, he slid his hands down until they encountered the waistband of her trousers. He dipped inside, splaying his hand so the very tips of his fingers touched her sultry warmth.
She was wet with need, and hot. So very hot.
Cheyna gave a sharp, keening cry. "Drakthe, please!"
Again, he matched the pattern his tongue was playing against the soft skin of her shoulder. She began rocking back and forth, needing more than he was giving. Abruptly, he nipped her neck as one finger found and slid without warning inside her sheathe. Just as swiftly, he moved until he was facing her.
"No," she moaned. "Do not stop."
"Shh, House-daughter. I've barely started," he reassured her, his voice thick with a need rapidly escalating out of control. He unfastened her trousers and urged her up on her knees so he could slide them over her hips. He pushed her onto her back and made short work of removing the pants.
Cheyna lay on her back, flushed with passion, her legs slightly apart. Drakthe moved to kneel between her thighs. He undressed with haste, his need a heavy thrum in his blood. His shaft sprang free of the confining cloth, rigid and full with passion. A half-stifled groan escaped his lips.
Her touch feathered his mind. Sheer grit and determina
tion, rather than skill, denied her access. Eyes half shadowed by lowered lids, he grated from between teeth clenched with desire, "Not this time, bondwife. This time I want your reactions to be purely yours. I want you to burn beneath my touch. And I want each emotion yours. Yours, Cheyna. Not mine." He slipped his arms beneath her knees and pressed forward, opening her to him completely.
Slowly, he filled her. Her breath caught in the back of her throat. The sound drove him crazy. Just as slowly, he slid out, the muscles in his arms drawn tight with restraint. She moaned. He gritted his teeth as he shifted her legs until they were over his shoulders. Her bottom cradled in his hands, he pressed his fingers into her soft flesh as he surged inside her body.
"Drakthe!"
"Do you like that, bondwife?" he grated, his control tested by the soft, inner muscles clenching about his shaft. He felt her probing touch in his mind.
"Aloud, bondwife, tell me aloud. Do you like that?"
"Oh. Yes. Yes," she moaned, a low, utterly feminine growl of demand.
He moved his hips in an irregular rhythm. Drakthe wanted to prolong his own pleasure, wanted to witness hers as she went over the edge, but the powerful spasms of her inner muscles laid waste to his self-control. His world shattered in a prisma of passion.
Much later, Drakthe awoke, his mind drifting from this to that. An incredibly satisfied smile tugged at his lips. His House-daughter had given of herself fully. She hadn't withheld anything from him. Unlike the nights on the trail before they reached the Agora. Drakthe latched onto that thought and considered it.
Obviously, he was wrong to fear his House-daughter was tiring of him. While he may have made the first move tonight, it hadn't taken long before she had turned demanding. Jkael, it had been all he could do to lift his weight from her.
No, the problem wasn't Cheyna tiring of his attentions. So what had caused her to push him away, to seek to deny the attraction between them?
"Cheyna?" he whispered in her ear.
"Mmm?" she murmured, flopping onto his chest and cuddling closer. Her breathing immediately resettled into the easy cadence of deep sleep.
"Wake up, bondwife." Drakthe manfully ignored the sleepy, sensual picture she presented.
He had to repeat the command twice before she stirred.
"Is it time to leave?" she asked in a husky whisper, one slender hand hiding a delicate yawn.
His body leapt to immediate attention. He swallowed hard and pursued his original train of thought.
"No, we have a couple of hours yet. Cheyna, back on the trail to the Agora, why didn't you want to make love with me?"
Cheyna heard the hurt beneath the dispassionate tone. She knew her resistance had upset Drakthe, but now she realized it was more; her resistance had left him vulnerable. She shifted until she could stare down into his face, her arms braced on his chest. Beneath her forearms, she felt the heavy beat of his heart.
"My lord, it was not my intention to hurt you."
"You didn't think shoving me away and acting as if I disgusted you would hurt?" he asked in disbelief.
Cheyna winced and forced herself to hold his indignant gaze. "I could not make you understand," she whispered.
"Make me understand what?" he said in a near roar. "That you felt compelled to reject me? Believe me, House-daughter, that message came through loud and clear."
"I was not rejecting you, my lord," she began, desperate to make him understand, to take away the pain. Drakthe had faced rejection so many times in his life. She had to make him see that she had not been rejecting him, but protecting her mind from attack.
"Funny, it sure felt that way to me," he derided, his eyes the color of tarnished gold. "When a woman screams no at a man when he kisses her, it's pretty hard to mistake the message." He stiffened, the arm resting across her lower back sliding away.
Cheyna missed its warmth the moment it was gone. "I screamed at the touch probing my mind," she inserted, determined to make him listen.
"Oh, and that's supposed to make me feel better?" he asked sarcastically. "I understand perfectly now. You don't mind my physical touch, you just can't stand the touch of my mind. Makes perfect sense," he jeered. "Especially in light of the fact you've spent several ten-days defending the concept even exists."
Her temper lit dangerously at Drakthe's blatant mockery. "If you would just cease ridiculing me and allow me to explain," she requested in a low voice, forcibly restraining herself from grinding her teeth together in frustration.
"By all means, bondwife, explain," he allowed with a fake show of goodwill.
Cheyna's fingers tightened into fists as they rested on her bondhusband's massive chest. A spurt of pure feminine spite shot through her when he winced and gingerly untangled the fingers in his chest hair.
Cheyna inclined her head in regal acknowledgment. "Thank you." She turned somber. "Someone invaded my mind that day." Drakthe went absolutely still beneath her. His heart stopped for a beat, then resumed with a deep, heavy thrum.
"Invaded your mind?"
She nodded. "Remember our bonding ceremony? I told you then someone had touched my mind."
"I didn't believe you." He sounded strangled.
"You did not believe in the mindtouch," she reminded him firmly, refusing to let him berate himself for a past lack of belief.
His chest lifted as he inhaled. "After the bonding ceremony and that day on the Plains, were those the only instances someone tried to get inside your head?"
"No," she admitted, reluctant to make him feel worse but realizing she didn't have a choice. Not having all information was dangerous. Sitting up, she reached for her clothes. Not until fully dressed did she elaborate.
"There have been several instances." Cheyna hesitated before bringing up their argument the morning after their bonding. She cleared her throat and stared at the floor of the cave. "The next instance came the bonding night. I saw you standing over me, a krees in your hand." She drew her brows together in puzzlement. "At first I was not sure if I had felt a touch, but later I came to recognize the signature."
In the act of reaching for his boots, Drakthe's hand stopped in midair. "You saw me. . . ?" Horror washed over his face.
"It was not you, Drakthe, but another who touched my mind that morn."
He slashed the air with a gesture. "You're so wrong." he refuted. "It was me, bondwife, standing over you, threatening you with a krees." His voice dropped to an even darker register. "It was me intending to murder you."
"No." Cheyna slid her arms around his shoulders, hugging him from behind. "Never think that. Not for one moment." She rubbed her cheek against the tense muscles of his broad back. "Another entered my mind that night."
Drakthe shook his head, unconvinced.
"Trust me," she insisted. "I recognize the touch of his mind."
Drakthe stared blankly at the ice walls of the cave. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse with restrained abhorrence. "If that is true, House-daughter, how come I saw the vision? If it truly was someone else, how is it I was even aware of his presence?"
"Because he slipped into your mind. The same way he used our passion to smash through the barriers my mind raised. He used your link to me to gain power."
"Are you aware of what you are saying?" He turned in her arms. His hands gripped her shoulders in a hold just short of painful. "You're saying someone else on Scimtar has psi talent. That he knows of our link and can exploit it."
Cheyna nodded. Once she knew for sure she possessed psi talent, she'd thought about the ramifications of that dark touch for a long time. She rested the palms of her hands over his heart, reassured by the life and warmth she found there. "Each time we make love, he finds it easier to enter my mind. Grows bolder. The last couple of times, he has not even waited until passion lowers my guard."
A hard shudder ripped through Drakthe. He dropped his head to rest his forehead against hers. "Saints, Cheyna, you do not know how I feared I was a danger to you. Feared one day the dream might come true
and I would harm you."
"You should have had more faith, my lord. You could never hurt me. You vowed to protect me."
A faint smile relieved the somberness of his expression. "Just as you vowed to protect me."
"Exactly, my lord." Cheyna leaned back and favored him with an impish grin. "Despite your skepticism about my skills, I intend to stick extremely close to you and see that no harm befalls you."
"I would never malign your skills," he protested, all innocence, "seeing as how fond I have become of Sai and Kai." He gathered her close, hugging her as if he could never bear to let her go.
"You know something?" Cheyna asked.
"What?"
"You keep saying Saints and yet you are the only person on Scimtar I've heard use the expression."
"You must be mistaken. Scimtarians don't use the term, only the Raipier do."
"You do," she answered.
"Then I must have heard you use it," he said, sounding positive.
"No, I have not. Not aloud, that is." Pure wonder blossomed inside and spread to her face. "You know what this means, do you not? It means you were reading my thoughts from almost the beginning."
He held up both hands. "I give up. I admit psi talent exists. But," he added as her smile became a smug grin, "I don't have to like it."
"You will," she replied confidently.
"Why," Drakthe wondered, "haven't you felt his touch since we've been here? Or have you?" He moved, putting just enough distance between them that he could see her face.
"No," she realized, startled. "I have not. It is most curious. During our journey on the Plains I was constantly aware of the threat in the background, but here I feel no such disquiet. I have not since we entered the Agora. Could the NaturPaths be blocking the mindtouch in order to help me recover the Sheathe?"
"It's possible," he agreed slowly. "However, I don't want to rule out anything too fast. Maybe he needs to recoup strength, or has other matters on his mind, or is just laying low for a while. You," he paused, and then amended, "we must remain vigilant. Somehow, we must find a way to maintain a guard against an assailant able to sneak into the very thoughts and dreams of a person."