pleasure, writhing beneath him, almost frightened. Every line of the Mark flexed like a living thing, strong as the first growth of spring, but all she felt was an excruciatingly pleasurable tingle, as if her skin were enclosed in a net woven of silky rose petals. She could swear the Mark was expanding, cradling both breasts, brushing the nerve-rich flesh of her nipples, gentle but completely inexorable.
Every muscle in her body went rigid, panic and arousal combined. She couldn’t, she couldn’t—Someone groaned, so deep it had to be him.
“Ah, Mehcredi,” he murmured, the strange accent more marked than usual.
With the last fragment of her sanity, Mehcredi turned her head and bit the pillow.
Everything dissolved. White lightning flashed across the inside of her eyelids. As she shuddered and arched, the earth spun, trees grew tall as the sky, spreading their branches in canopies that covered the world, withered, died and sprang forth again. More silvery flashes, slowly dissipating, until they became simple spasms of pleasure and then no more than the reminiscent twitching of exhausted nerve and muscle.
She clamped her eyelids shut, riding it out, moaning and gasping into the pillow.
When she opened her eyes, an eon later, the stars in the window were watery smears. She could smell herself, her body sheened with sweat, thighs shiny with her own juices. Every muscle ached.
Sniffing, she wiped her eyes and removed the shirt. Carefully, she hung it over the back of the chair and wiped herself down with a corner of the threadbare sheet. Her knees felt like water, the pulse still drumming in her ears.
That had been . . . She swallowed hard. Sweet Sister, she’d thought she was going to die—and she hadn’t cared.
Tears dripped down her cheek and off her chin, hot and salty. She’d felt . . . exalted, as though her passion was holy and beautiful, a force of Nature. But now, she sat in a bare little room in the House of Swords, sweat pooling in the small of her back, the muscles of her legs protesting because she’d frigged herself into a stupor like the half-wit slut she was.
All the breath whooshed out of her, as effectively as if she’d tumbled down all four flights of stairs and landed in a heap at Walker’s feet in the front hall. Was it part of his shaman’s Magick, of his justice, to punish her like this? To make her feel small and dirty?
Rolling over, she picked up a shard of mirror from the rickety nightstand. She had a broken-backed hairbrush too, both rescued from the trash heap. The mirror was shaped like a long, narrow triangle that came to a nasty point, lethal as a poniard. From the moment she’d seen it, she’d thought it might make a useful weapon. She still thought so. Tilting it, she stared into her own eyes, a stormy gray luminous with tears. Her nose was pink, so were her cheeks.
Well, shit. What was done was done. Mehcredi set her jaw. A daft lump she might be, but small and dirty she wasn’t. Her lips twisted in a wry smile. Certainly not small.
She poured herself a cup of water from the chipped jug and drank it slowly, thinking. Walker wasn’t interested in her body, in fucking. He’d made that clear enough from the outset. You are not appealing to me in any way whatsoever, he’d said, his voice deep, each word spaced for emphasis. So it followed he would have no knowledge of her stupid sluttish fantasies.
They were all her own. Her gaze traveled to the shirt. With a wistful smile, she wrapped her arms around her middle. All her own. It was tempting, but she wouldn’t sleep in the shirt, or even with it. If she did, it would end up smelling like her and she’d lose this tiny stolen piece of an impossible dream.
She’d never met anyone like the swordmaster, could never have imagined such a man might exist. But then, she had so little experience. Perhaps there were men like him all over the world?
No, not possible. She wasn’t the only one who thought he was amazing. Wait a
Every muscle in her body went rigid, panic and arousal combined. She couldn’t, she couldn’t—Someone groaned, so deep it had to be him.
“Ah, Mehcredi,” he murmured, the strange accent more marked than usual.
With the last fragment of her sanity, Mehcredi turned her head and bit the pillow.
Everything dissolved. White lightning flashed across the inside of her eyelids. As she shuddered and arched, the earth spun, trees grew tall as the sky, spreading their branches in canopies that covered the world, withered, died and sprang forth again. More silvery flashes, slowly dissipating, until they became simple spasms of pleasure and then no more than the reminiscent twitching of exhausted nerve and muscle.
She clamped her eyelids shut, riding it out, moaning and gasping into the pillow.
When she opened her eyes, an eon later, the stars in the window were watery smears. She could smell herself, her body sheened with sweat, thighs shiny with her own juices. Every muscle ached.
Sniffing, she wiped her eyes and removed the shirt. Carefully, she hung it over the back of the chair and wiped herself down with a corner of the threadbare sheet. Her knees felt like water, the pulse still drumming in her ears.
That had been . . . She swallowed hard. Sweet Sister, she’d thought she was going to die—and she hadn’t cared.
Tears dripped down her cheek and off her chin, hot and salty. She’d felt . . . exalted, as though her passion was holy and beautiful, a force of Nature. But now, she sat in a bare little room in the House of Swords, sweat pooling in the small of her back, the muscles of her legs protesting because she’d frigged herself into a stupor like the half-wit slut she was.
All the breath whooshed out of her, as effectively as if she’d tumbled down all four flights of stairs and landed in a heap at Walker’s feet in the front hall. Was it part of his shaman’s Magick, of his justice, to punish her like this? To make her feel small and dirty?
Rolling over, she picked up a shard of mirror from the rickety nightstand. She had a broken-backed hairbrush too, both rescued from the trash heap. The mirror was shaped like a long, narrow triangle that came to a nasty point, lethal as a poniard. From the moment she’d seen it, she’d thought it might make a useful weapon. She still thought so. Tilting it, she stared into her own eyes, a stormy gray luminous with tears. Her nose was pink, so were her cheeks.
Well, shit. What was done was done. Mehcredi set her jaw. A daft lump she might be, but small and dirty she wasn’t. Her lips twisted in a wry smile. Certainly not small.
She poured herself a cup of water from the chipped jug and drank it slowly, thinking. Walker wasn’t interested in her body, in fucking. He’d made that clear enough from the outset. You are not appealing to me in any way whatsoever, he’d said, his voice deep, each word spaced for emphasis. So it followed he would have no knowledge of her stupid sluttish fantasies.
They were all her own. Her gaze traveled to the shirt. With a wistful smile, she wrapped her arms around her middle. All her own. It was tempting, but she wouldn’t sleep in the shirt, or even with it. If she did, it would end up smelling like her and she’d lose this tiny stolen piece of an impossible dream.
She’d never met anyone like the swordmaster, could never have imagined such a man might exist. But then, she had so little experience. Perhaps there were men like him all over the world?
No, not possible. She wasn’t the only one who thought he was amazing. Wait a
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