Storm's Heart (Elder Races #2)(90)

“I notice that you are taking up the whole damn bed,” she said. She kissed his nipple. It pebbled under her lips.

“It’s comfortable so why not?”

“Tiago, it’s my bed.” She licked his nipple and nibbled at it and listened to his breath catch. It was the sexiest sound she had ever heard. Her hunger sharpened and became liquid as she felt his erection pulse.

His smile widened. He cupped her cheek with those long, clever fingers of his. “You’re my faerie. Besides, I didn’t hear you complaining in the night.”

“I’m complaining now,” she informed him. She nipped gently at the pebbled flesh. He sucked air.

“Is that what you’re doing?” he said between his teeth. His legs shifted restlessly underneath her. “Take your time, tell me all about it. I’m a patient man for these kinds of complaints.”

“I demand recompense.” She slid farther down that long rippling torso, licking and kissing as she went.

He hissed, lifting his head to watch her with black glittering eyes. He cradled her head between his hands with tense care. “This is called recompense? I’m learning a whole new language here. Please, for pity’s sake, have as much recompense as you want.”

“I think I will.” His erection lay along his washboard stomach, the head almost touching his navel. It was as beautiful as the rest of him, large, hot and velvet-skinned, his testicles voluptuous, tight globes underneath. She gripped his penis under the head, lifted it to her mouth and sucked him in.

His head slammed back against the mattress and he opened his mouth in a silent shout. The sight of his extreme pleasure was so erotic she moistened further, her hunger settling between her legs as a deep, insistent ache. She scratched lightly at the side of his ribs as she suckled him, and his torso arched off the bed.

His hands and heavy, powerful thigh muscles were shaking. She did this. She caused this man to shake. She purred, opened up her throat and took all of him in.

“Holy gods, Niniane!”

This peaceful sunlit bedroom was their oasis, their time to let go of outside stresses and dangers and relish the nurturance of their sensuality. When they left they would have to arm themselves with weapons and watch the world with wary eyes, but for now they had this moment and she would take everything she could from it before she let it go. Under the lavish generosity of so many gifts, she dared to think and say what she felt. She whispered in his head, You’re mine.

He said between gritted teeth, “I couldn’t be more yours. Take all of me, faerie. Don’t leave one piece of me behind.”

She held her hands out to him. He laced his fingers through hers. They held on to each other as she took him until the warm vitality of his climax flooded her mouth.

He wasn’t done, of course. She had roused him to such an extent, he rose over her with his face desperate, stripped of all self-protection. He pinned her to the bed and drove into her. She turned her head at the gorgeousness of his entry, and the morning sun blinded her. The world around her was radiant, full of light. He stretched and filled her, and she clenched on him with all the strength she had. She caught the shadowed arc of his wide shoulders flexing over her. His head was flung back, eyes closed. People kill for this kind of beauty.

He took everything. It was unthinkable to keep one piece of her behind.

I love you. She heard the echo in the room and knew she had said it.

He framed her face and drove his mouth down on hers as he drove in her body. “So this is called love,” he gasped. “La petite mort.”

Drenched in gold, she lay transfixed by the surprise of him, the language of his body, the poetry of his mind.

La petite mort. The little death. More than a climax, a spiritual release.

Then they both took flight.

Late that afternoon, a hesitant knock sounded at the door. Niniane called out, “Yes?”

Vrayna, one of the household staff, said, “My apologies, your highness, I know you said you did not wish to be disturbed, but a Chicago policewoman is here to see you.”

“Oh good, that’s Cameron!” Niniane dropped the clothes she held to clap her hands. “Please show her up.”

A few minutes later a second, firmer knock sounded on the door. She flung it open. Cameron stood in the hall, dressed casually in jeans, black shoes and a red summer tank top. Her sandy hair was pulled back in a plain clip, and her cinnamon-sprinkled face was lit with pleasure. Niniane threw her arms around the taller woman. Cameron laughed in surprise and hugged her back.

Then Cameron looked over Niniane’s shoulder. “Okay,” said the policewoman. “And you still intend to leave tomorrow?”

Niniane turned to look too.

The lovely bedroom was a rainbow-colored disaster. There were two armchairs arranged by a small table near open windows. The table held the remains of a meal on a food tray. Tiago occupied one of the chairs. He lounged with his long legs stretched out. He was dressed in jeans, a plain black T-shirt, boots, and just one visible weapon, a handgun in an arm holster. Jewelry boxes and toiletry bags were piled on one end of the bed. The other end was piled with dresses and other outfits. The closet spewed dozens of shoes on the floor. The second armchair was stacked with paperbacks, magazines, folder files and a laptop.

Tiago’s lap was mounded with filmy garments in a variety of colors, pink, cream, royal blue, black, lacy red, and a few things that were patterned with flowers. He held in his hands a pair of pale pink high-heeled slip-on shoes with marabou trim. They looked absurdly tiny in his massive grip, the marabou feathers waving gently in a breeze that wafted in from the windows.