A Heart of Blood and Ashes

by Milla Vane

  Oh, she would die from imagining it. Trapped between her thighs, her fingers were drowning in her need, yet no matter how tightly she squeezed her legs the ache only deepened.

  She had felt warmth and pleasure while touching Maddek before. While thinking of him. But this.

  By Hanan, this need would kill her. And if Maddek felt the same degree, she knew not how he refrained from demanding she ease his arousal every night.

  But perhaps he had eased his own—and she did not know how to ease hers. A man had a shaft to grip and stroke. Sarus had Ardyl to lick her. Yvenne had nothing but hot cuntflesh and slippery fingers and a spot that she could not bear to touch, so sensitive it was. The merest brush of her fingertips against that spot made her want to scream. The only relief she found was also agony, for there was pleasure in pressing the heel of her hand hard against her mound—against that spot—but the pressure only increased the need.

  Muscles quivering with tension, she looked up again as Sarus’s sharp scream sounded—and was quickly muffled by Kelir’s lips on hers. The maid’s body was bowed in a taut line, her hips thrashing as her frantic hands pulled at Ardyl’s braids, as if to drag the warrior’s face from between her thighs.

  After an endless moment, the maid’s body drooped and a grinning Ardyl lifted her head. There was a murmur, and then Kelir broke the kiss and his reply carried to Yvenne’s bed.

  “You got one from her,” he said with a recognizable note of challenge in his tone. “I’ll get two, and see her twice as wet.”

  So that was their competition—seeing who could make the barmaid spend the greatest number of times. Though it seemed a joint effort now, as Ardyl cupped Sarus’s face and kissed her, slowly drawing the woman over onto her knees. His body shadowed, Kelir rose behind her rounded buttocks. Yvenne closed her eyes as there was another sharp cry of pleasure, and Kelir’s deeper groan, then sounds that Yvenne had heard before in the tower but they were nothing the same, for then Yvenne had trembled with anger and fear and now she shook with desire, her breath shuddering through clenched teeth, her skin afire.

  Forever did it seem to last.

  Twice was there a lull before another start, with more whispers and hushed laughter and soft cries. Finally all fell quiet on that side of the curtain, as if each had found their release—and never had Yvenne envied three people more, because her body did not find the same ease. Never had she felt so hot, yet she shivered uncontrollably.

  At another murmur, her eyes slitted open. Kelir and Ardyl had Sarus’s unclothed body tucked between theirs, and the prostrate barmaid already seemed asleep. Kelir’s smile was a glint in the firelight as he bent his head to the other warrior’s, and despite their rivalry, Yvenne could not mistake the easy affection in their kiss. Both looked utterly pleased, content.

  And Yvenne was dying. How she wished to be lying as spent as the barmaid, but Ardyl and Kelir had pleased her with tongue and cock and Yvenne could do neither to herself. She could only clamp her hands between her thighs and pray to Mother Temra for mercy.

  Outside the eternal comfort of her arms, that goddess did not often grant it. Nor did she this night.

  Instead the goddess sent Maddek to the chamber door, and that was not mercy. At the slide of the latch, her body’s yearning increased tenfold, her need weighing upon her so heavily that she seemed incapable of breathing, of moving. In her cloak, she lay upon the bed in a tight ball, facing the curtain with her hands buried between her clenched thighs. Now he would come and wake her. She would take his cock into her mouth and make him spill his seed and then he would lie beside her, as spent as the three who lay entangled on the opposite side of the chamber.

  Except she could not truly imagine Maddek so content. Nor could she imagine that easing his need would also ease hers.

  And that was not what he did, anyway.

  For a long span of breaths he seemed not to move at all. Perhaps letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. Perhaps studying the layout of the chamber.

  So quietly did he walk, only the slightest ripple through the curtain as he passed it told Yvenne that he’d finally made his way toward the master bed. Yet he still did not come to her. Instead there was the faint click of ivory as he lay his sheathed sword across the rim of the tub. Then the muffled thunk of his wide leather belt falling to the floor. A soft splash came next, followed by the sloshing of water, and the rainlike pattering of drops against tin.

  And Yvenne had not truly known longing until she finally looked at him. The fire smoldered, the soft glow barely touching Maddek’s skin as he dunked his red linens into the tub and began to wash, drawing the cloth across the broad planes of his body. Thick muscles were but shadows limned by orange light, and of all the wondrous things she had seen since leaving her tower, none had stolen her breath and filled her with hope as did the sight of Maddek, bare and at ease. Here was the king he would be, not ruled by anger and grief, but strong and calm, and with a faint smile touching his lips when Bone trotted over to investigate his nakedness. Maddek scratched behind the wolf’s ears before sending him to lie down again.

  Not once had she seen him glance in her direction. Yet as he moved silently toward the hearth to hang up his red linens, she realized her presence must not be far from his thoughts. At the first shadowed glimpse of his arousal, the fierce ache within her seemed to hollow out, as if her body prepared to receive him. To be filled by him.

  That could not be tonight. Thighs trembling with tension, she squeezed them tighter. Still a quarter turn remained until her moon night. Then she would take him eagerly and pray he could soothe this burning need inside her.

  Her heart tripped to a halt as the bed creaked and sagged beneath his great weight. Unprepared, she might have rolled toward him, but he was already close behind her curled form, lying on his side with his broad chest pressed to her back.

  “This chamber is overhot, yet you are wrapped in your cloak.” His voice was low and gruff against her ear, his warm breath laden with mead. “Are you cold?”

  Burning. Yet he must wonder if she felt dark magics.

  “I have no nightclothes to cover me,” she explained softly, keeping her voice so quiet that the others in the chamber might hear the sound but would not make out the words spoken.

  “Nor do I.”

  No need to tell her. Never had Yvenne been so aware of anything as she was his nakedness behind her—and of hers within the cloak. An involuntary shiver racked her muscles and she could not stop from drawing tighter, her fingers wedged between her thighs, knees all but touching her chest.

  Still he did not roll her over and urge her mouth down to his erection, though she would have eagerly gone, had she been able to uncurl her body.

  Instead he told her in the same quiet manner, “I spoke with the Gogeans. Their situation is as you claimed.”

  Of course it was.

  But that seemed not a proper reply. And now she wondered if his talk with the Gogeans was why he did not ask to use her mouth. Mead might relax tongues, but an abundance of mead could relax the body, too. “Are you drunk?”

  Amusement shook through him. “I am. In the morning my skull will feel as if a blacksmith uses it for an anvil.”

  Oh.

  When silence was her only response, he shifted behind her, coming up onto his elbow as if to look down at her face. She could not see him at all except as a shadow looming above her.

  “I drank, but not enough to soften my steel,” he murmured. “Yet you are steel when I expected you to be soft and sleeping. Do you fear what I would ask of you?”

  Pleasing him? She had no fear of that. “No.”

  He seemed to study her, though she could not imagine what he could see in the dark. “When you took the half-moon milk, you held yourself in the same way. What pains you?”

  Her cheeks flared hot. “Nothing pains me.”

  “Speak truth,” was
his sharp reply.

  “I do not lie,” she hissed between her teeth. “It is not pain. I saw Kelir and Ardyl with the barmaid and I was . . . inflamed.”

  Silence followed that confession. Her face grew hotter.

  “I should have turned my eyes away,” she admitted.

  The silence deepened. Against her back, Maddek’s body felt more rigid than it had ever been. Was he angry? He had not liked hearing that her mother had watched the alliance army from their tower. Perhaps knowing that Yvenne had watched his warriors seemed an unforgivable breach of privacy.

  “It is not pain,” she repeated, trying to bring her argument back around to the beginning, before he could say she failed in her duty to his Dragon again. “I know not how to ease my need. But it will fade.”

  Or so she prayed.

  Finally he spoke and she could not judge his mood, for although his amusement was unmistakable, each word seemed rougher than before, as if his throat had been scoured with gravel. “How can this not be known? If I were locked in a tower with nothing else to do, my hand would be upon my cock as often as upon my sword.”

  Yvenne smiled, but the pressure between her legs seemed too demanding and her chest too full to allow a laugh. She barely managed to say, “And if I had neither cock nor sword?”

  “A woman only requires a hand.” The humor left his voice, leaving only grit. “I will show you how a Parsathean warrior tends to herself.”

  Her eyes squeezed shut as everything inside her curled tighter. By Hanan’s blessed seed, how could a promise of release so abruptly worsen the need?

  “Please,” she whispered breathlessly. “Show me quickly.”

  His head lowered, his reply harsh against her ear. “Quickly is not how a woman’s cunt should be touched.”

  Yet the hard urgency of his hands belied his words. No time did he waste before gripping the back of her cloak and dragging the coarse material up over the swell of her bottom, baring her skin to the heated air within the chamber.

  Her face afire again, Yvenne’s gaze darted to the curtains. If the others were awake, they did not look it—no heads were lifted, no eyes were open.

  But even if they were, from that direction little of her could be seen. Maddek drew the cloak so high it bunched behind her waist, yet in front the heavy fabric still covered Yvenne to her knees. Only her shins and feet were visible—and only barely. Her legs were but a shadow, the jeweled hilt of the dagger strapped to her calf a mere glint in the darkness.

  Then all worry about what lay in front of her fled when Maddek shifted closer. So much taller was he that although their shoulders were aligned, their hips were not. Her bare bottom nestled into his steely abdomen, and his skin seemed so very hot against hers—though not as hot as the hard length prodding the back of her thigh, or the callused fingers that swiftly journeyed over the curve of her ass to delve between her clenched thighs from behind.

  Maddek’s chest rumbled against her back on a thick groan. “You are drenched in your need.”

  She was well aware. Her hands were still locked together between her legs, her palms and fingers and inner thighs swimming in her arousal. She trembled as his blunt fingertips glided over the seams of her fingers as if seeking entrance to the sensitive flesh below.

  But he did not force her fingers apart. Instead he cupped her hands in the palm of his and murmured, “Do we do this slowly, after all?”

  She could not bear that. Shaking her head, Yvenne pulled her elbows back—so very slightly, so that her fingers still covered the apex of her mound. His fingers followed, stopping when she did.

  A quiet chuckle sounded behind her. “You hide your sweetest treasure from me?”

  It was not treasure, but a burning and aching knot. On a strained whisper, she told him, “That part of me hurts to touch.”

  “There is pain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you certain?”

  How could she not be certain? But her irritated reply was lost on a gasp as strong teeth pinched her earlobe. Her entire body stiffened, the knot between her legs throbbing as if that flesh had been pinched, instead.

  “Was that pain?” His voice was gravel again, abrasive not just against her ear but scratching lightly over the span of her skin, prickling every nerve.

  And that soft bite hadn’t hurt. Though the sensation had been acute, with a sharpened edge, it was nothing like the pain Yvenne had known so intimately through so much of her life.

  “It was not,” she whispered.

  “This will be the same.” His fingers moved gently against hers. “So much pleasure that you can hardly bear if it continues. So much that you can hardly bear if it ends.”

  She could hardly bear it now. Still she trembled in an agony of indecision. “You intend to touch me there?”

  “Do you fear I will hurt you?”

  Yes. And no.

  Neither answer was completely truthful. So she had no answer to give.

  For a long moment he was quiet, his broad chest rising and falling against her back, his thick fingers gently stroking through the wetness between her legs, as if accustoming her to his touch.

  Finally he spoke again. “It matters not. Every Parsathean raider knows how to find a woman’s pearl, even when it is kept under guard.”

  She could not mistake the amusement deepening the quiet rumble of his voice—as if he meant to put her at ease in this way.

  Perhaps he would be successful, for she could not think of pain when she was thinking of how absurd such a name was. “A pearl?”

  “All Parsatheans know that a woman’s clitoris is a hidden treasure.” As softly as his voice was rough, his slick fingertips glided back through her saturated folds. “To claim it, first a raider must voyage across this burning ocean.”

  Still so absurd. Yet she could not laugh, not while pressing her lips together against the moan that threatened to escape with every slow caress through her delicate flesh.

  Strong fingers teased her entrance. “Sometimes,” he said against her ear, his voice harsher now, his breathing deeper, “a foolish warrior becomes lost exploring the wonders of this cavern. But any Parsathean who vanishes into these depths without resuming his search for the pearl will never claim his prize.”

  Now Yvenne shook with a laugh, because if she did not laugh she would scream from the hollow ache building within her. Never had she wanted anything more than to feel him exploring those depths, which clenched and tightened as if trying to draw him in.

  “Maddek,” she gasped.

  His sword hand still buried between her legs, he drew her closer, wedging his left arm beneath her head and angling his elbow back to tangle his fingers into her hair, her cheek pillowed upon his biceps—until gentle pressure turned her face upward, as if she were looking over her shoulder. She could not see him. Only feel him, his head bent close to hers, the heat of his breath at the corner of her lips.

  His touch roughened, massaging her sultry flesh with long, circling strokes and drawing more wetness from her, as if her cunt were an endless well.

  Gruffly he commanded, “Bring your fingers to my mouth so that I can taste your honey upon them.”

  Just as she had once licked his seed from her fingers. Need shuddered through her, but hot upon the heels of that memory was another—of the last time Maddek had drawn her fingers into his mouth, suckling away her brother’s lifeblood, with his desire for Yvenne’s death burning like a hot fire in his eyes.

  That was not what he burned for now. Yet whether he truly wanted to taste her or to remove the guard of her fingers, she knew not.

  At her hesitation, his voice deepened. “I will not hurt you, Yvenne. Though I might make you scream.”

  As the barmaid had screamed. And now that woman lay satisfied, at ease.

  Yvenne wanted the same. So desperately.

  L
ifting her hands away from that slick, aching knot and raising them to his mouth seemed more effort than even climbing the stairs had been. More exciting than Maddek’s iron heat behind her, more terrifying than facing a wraith.

  She had not known trust was such a frightening, exhilarating part of herself to give.

  Yet the reward was well worth it. Her fingertips brushed his firm lips, and then scalding heat enveloped the remaining fingers of her right hand. His hungry groan melded with her gasp as he drew them deep into his mouth—just as she was supposed to have drawn his cock into her mouth this night.

  But that steely length lay against her leg, and Maddek did not seem in a rush to take his own ease when he released her hair to grip her wrists, holding her hands in place for his tongue. His mouth licked as, between her legs, his fingers leisurely stroked. For all his talk of her pearl, though it was unguarded now he did not approach that throbbing knot. Instead he drove her to madness with that unhurried touch, until her body uncurled in her desperation to push back against him, until her breath was coming in great and ragged gasps, until her clitoris ached so fiercely that the agony of need that had filled her as she’d watched Kelir and Ardyl seemed a pale and gentle pleasure in comparison.

  Then his hand abandoned her swollen wetness altogether, his slick fingers gripping her upper thigh.

  “In this way.” Left hand still clamped around her wrists, his mouth was hot against her jaw, each word harsh. “We will both spend.”

  Hard fingers urged her right leg to lift slightly. With a groan, he pushed his burning length against her, his thick shaft gliding into the slippery channel formed by her cunt and inner thighs. That hot thrust over her aroused flesh was pleasure with teeth, a bite that sharpened when he released her thigh and the weight of her leg trapped him tight against her. He pushed forward until the length of his cock almost brushed across her clitoris. When he stopped short of that aching knot, she clamped her lips to halt a scream of frustration.