Storm's Heart (Elder Races #2)(77)

A body shouldn’t feel so many things at once, Tiago decided. He wasn’t sure if someone could explode from so many powerful emotions, but from the way he was feeling it seemed possible. He unclenched his jaw so that he could talk. “Okay,” he said. “It happened a long time ago. You survived. That’s all that matters.”

She kissed his warm bare shoulder. “I just realized something,” she said. She sounded drowsy now. “I always dream about my brothers. I never dream about my mother or my father. I mean, in the dream, I just know they’re dead. I wonder why.”

“Aside from the emotional impact of finding your brothers’ bodies, that was when you discovered how your life had changed,” Tiago said. “You had to have been going into shock by the time you saw what happened to your mother.”

“Maybe that’s it. I also always dream about hearing Urien’s footsteps as he hunts for me, when the only footsteps I really heard were soldiers running through the palace. Anyway, after I escaped, Urien built the mansion and walled the grounds around that passageway, and of course he built outposts at the other passageways too so that he could control the traffic to and from Adriyel. I know I’m prejudiced against him, but it always sounded a bit like putting up the Iron Curtain to me.” She yawned. They had stayed up all night, and she had already been exhausted, and talking about the nightmare and the memories left her feeling wrung out.

Tiago said quietly, “Walking back into the palace is going to be difficult.”

What else could she say to that but the truth? “Yes.”

He ordered, “You must tell me whenever the memories bother you. And you must swear to me you’ll never ride a graewing again. I don’t even want you within fifty feet of one. Understand?”

“That seems a bit extreme,” she muttered. “It wasn’t that bad. They’re just so fast, and while I’d seen them in flight lots of times before, I didn’t know what I was doing. Anyway, I’m s’posed to. Tradition. Need flying lessons first though.” Her eyelids drifted shut.

“I don’t care about tradition. If you ever need to have a flying mount, you will ride me,” he said. He could protect her that way, and if she ever got dislodged, he could catch her before she fell. He frowned. Maybe they could create a harness for him to wear that she could use as a saddle. With a seat belt. And she was going to have to wear a helmet. And a life jacket if they ever had to fly over water. Would a parachute be too much, just in case?

“Fine. Whatever.” She groped along his face until she could tap his mouth with an admonishing finger. “Shush now.”

“All right, faerie.” He pressed his lips to that slender pink-tipped forefinger. “You sleep.”

By the time he eased his weight off of her again, she had fallen fast asleep.

The Dark Fae mansion and its eighty-acre tract of land lay a half mile northwest of Chicago’s downtown Loop area. The grounds were bordered by a tall stone wall topped with rolls of barbed wire. The area had changed so much over the last two hundred years. Niniane didn’t recognize anything in the stylish surrounding neighborhood as their SUV approached two tall iron gates.

This time Rune drove and Aryal rode shotgun. All of Niniane’s things had been packed in suitcases and rode in the back, along with Tiago’s duffle bag. Rune and Aryal had already sent their things ahead. Rune had dressed up for the occasion: the jeans he wore didn’t have holes in the knees. Aryal wore her usual outfit of fighting leathers and weapons. Tiago rode with Niniane in the backseat. He was dressed in a clean black T-shirt and fatigues, and of course he was armed as well. His hawkish face was alert and relaxed, his dark gaze constantly moving over their immediate surroundings.

She flashed back to earlier. She had awakened with the awareness of his long, powerful body lying next to her, one of his hands resting on the narrow frame of her rib cage. Even before she had opened her eyes, she knew she faced a day filled with profound differences. She had stirred and turned to him, and discovered he was already watching her, his expression pensive and strange with rare tenderness.

He had not spoken. Instead he kissed her. Then he eased her out of his T-shirt and caressed her br**sts. He had taken his time as he bent his head farther down to lick and nibble at her most sensitive areas, her throat, the inside of her elbows, tonguing her navel ring as he learned what pleased her. Then he suckled her, tugging and nipping with erotic care at her ni**les as he scraped the edge of his fingernails lightly along her skin until desire for him rose to that keen sharp, sweet ache that made her feel crazed, outside of herself, but he would not enter her no matter how she begged.

“You are too sore,” he said. “I would hurt you.”

“I don’t care,” she gasped, as she twisted under his clever mouth and hands.

“I do.” He moved down her body and eased her legs apart. He settled on his stomach and stroked her swollen tender flesh, first with his fingers then with his tongue, and the sight of his wide shoulders and dark head between her legs as he worked at his intimate task jettisoned her into climax. Then he looked up the length of her bare torso with a steady intent expression and said, “Again.”

She was too tired to handle this intense feeling of ecstasy. Her hands trembled as she stroked his head. “I can’t.”

“You can,” he said. He spread the folds of her labia open and put his mouth to her clitoris.