The Centaur Queen (The Dark Queens #7)(35)

He must have noticed my wonder because he grunted and said, “I’m sorry, Tymanon. It’s my power. I cannot control it.”

My lips twitched when I finally reached his side and placed my hands on his chest as though I meant to push him away, when in fact, it was just the opposite. I curled my fingers deep into his muscular flesh and he hissed.

“But I thought your powers only came alive with your nymphs.”

His chuckle sounded strangled. “I thought so too.”

I raised a brow.

He shook his head. “I don’t know, Ty. I’ve never bedded anyone but a nymph. I never knew I would feel so... so...”

His hands began to knead down my spine, the fingertips applying just enough pressure to make me moan, make me tilt my head back and expose my neck to him. He began planting a row of wet kisses along its length, sucking and then biting, before languidly moving down, down, down, until he came to the hollow of my throat and whispered, “Alive.”

I trembled in his arms.

That book I’d read long ago, the one where I’d learned a little about the satyrs, had mentioned their sex magic. I’d scoffed back then, finding the idea of sex magic repugnant. But now...

“Do you think you could whistle?” I whispered, running my hands up his chest until I reached his hair and curled the short locks around my fingertips.

He went absolutely still, eyes wide on my face. My heart banged powerfully within me as I continued my upward glide until I found my prize—his nubby horns.

The second I touched them, he jerked so hard that he dropped to his knees, taking me with him. We tumbled down in a tangle of arms and legs, but neither of us let the other one go.

I kept a firm clasp on his horns, and somehow, he’d maneuvered me so that I was straddling his thighs, his jutting cock playing at the drenched opening between my legs.

Petra shook so forcefully that he had his eyes squeezed closed and was breathing in and out with deep, sucking breaths.

I smiled. Books could teach you a lot, for instance, that a male satyr’s horns were just as sensitive, if not more so, than his cock. I wet my lips.

“You... learn fast,” he rasped, and I laughed. Moss-green eyes opened, instantly killing my humor. Locked in his hypnotic gaze, I shook my head.

“Play for me, my gída. I wish to hear you play.”

The first strain of his song filled the night like the angelic choir of sylphs. The music was so heart-wrenchingly beautiful that I froze, lost to the sounds, to the notes tugging at my soul. Tears rolled down my face at the haunting beauty of it.

He murmured sweet words to me as he finally took the lead, gently prying my fingers off his horns before wrapping me tight in his embrace and laying me gently down upon the ground.

His warm body covered mine, and still I wept at the beauty surrounding me.

Petra tenderly kissed my tears away, whispering of his undying devotion to me, of his need, his desires. My body was languid, my muscles so weak I did not wish to move. I only wanted to be cradled by him, loved by him.

This music he played came not from his mouth but through his horns, lute-like but subtly different, wavering up and down in pitch and frequency. It created in me a sense of wonder and overwhelming desire, the desire for him to know me, to please me.

In the wrong hands, this kind of power could be so very, very dangerous. But this was my Petra, my lover, my world. It had not been he, but I who’d demanded he play for me.

I looked at him, studying the face I now saw as more beautiful than any other I’d ever known, and asked, “Do you do this to all your nymphs?”

He swallowed hard, kissing the pinky I had laid against the corner of his mouth before answering. “Only if they ask.”

“And do they?”

Still the music of my soul played on. Still I felt the euphoria of joy, of light, and peace flow through me, and I knew the answer. Who would not wish to know this type of contentment all the rest of their days?

“Yes,” he said simply.

Another tear spilled. I had never known myself to be a jealous sort, and I wasn’t angry now, but I was undeniably burning with jealousy at the thought that anyone else should have known this wonder before me, that anyone else had ever shared this type of intimacy with him.

Gently, tenderly, he brushed the tear away with his thumb and with a trembling moan, asked, “May I?”

I didn’t know what he was wanting, or even asking. Truth was, I didn’t care. I wanted to stay wrapped up in this moment forever, with only him, ever him. I nodded.

He kissed me.

And this time, he did not pull away. Petra devoured and worshipped my mouth, suckling, nibbling, laving his tongue over my seam, making me sigh and whimper as I begged without words for him to put out the fire he stoked in me.

But he was slow, and tender, his touch oh-so-soft. I heard the sounds we made floating on the breeze, mingling with his song.

This was the music of us, and it was a sound more lovely than any I’d ever known before.

His touch was hot, claiming, masterful. Good gods, no centaur male had ever elicited this type of response in me. I’d had one lover I’d thought better than the other two. He’d been passably good, but he was nothing compared to this.

I’d never felt so alive in my life, my body enflamed, my skin so sensitive. Every brush of his hands, his legs, his cock over my wet and aching center, felt like thousands of volts of electricity piercing right through me.