Captive Dreams

by Angela Knight

  He pressed the thong’s silk against her clit and she whimpered. He rubbed it over her, circling the little nub until she writhed under him. “There really are things I should do to you,” she muttered, resenting her body’s ready response to him.

  “I am quite sure there are,” Mykhayl agreed easily. “Such as wrapping my rod with your throat.”

  “You really are such an arrogant sexist jerk,” she bit out, as her thighs clenched around his hand. “But I can think of other games to play.”

  “Some which you’d not like the pendant to learn,” he remarked. She didn’t answer him and his hand never stilled. She tried to find someplace to look that didn’t show either of them.

  If I get out of this, I swear I’ll only write sweet inspirationals . . .

  He spoke again after a few minutes.

  “You have the makings of a tasty meal, sorceress.” His eyes were heavy-lidded, half-concealing the fires in the gold. “Open wide for me that my eyes may feast.”

  She started to shake her head, denying her body’s willingness, and he raised an eyebrow. “Does your oath mean so little?”

  “As you wish,” she gritted and slowly widened her legs.

  He took his time looking her over, the bulge strengthening inside his leather breeches. The crystal displayed him from every conceivable angle: strong, graceful, masculine beyond belief, and eager.

  She cursed again when she felt her pulse pound heavily and her core tighten in eagerness to hold him. Don’t let him see how much of an effect he’s having on you . . .

  His eyes met hers and he licked his lips deliberately. “Excellent beginning,” he purred and slid a finger under the silk. Her eyes closed and her head fell back at the answering jolt that rocked her.

  His teeth traced the thong’s edge and then his tongue. She twisted under him, ready for more.

  “A woman’s honey is the water of life,” he rumbled and she quivered. A big hand palmed her breast, then gently kneaded her. A meridian leapt into life, anchored by his hand and his mouth.

  “Mykhayl,” she moaned and shuddered when he set another energy line into being.

  “Open your eyes and watch,” he purred against her mound.

  She shook her head silently.

  “See yourself, as I command. Or I will stop.” The wicked hands lifted from her breasts.

  “As you wish.” She dragged in a steadying breath and opened her eyes.

  Corinne could see every inch of herself, breasts flushed and skin beaded with passion’s sweat. Her own musk scented the air and the shuddering breaths that her lungs fought for echoed across the chamber. She’d never dreamed that the sight of her own excitement could be such a turn-on.

  Mykhayl sat between her legs, attentive and hungry, with his mouth glazed from her juices. And somehow the look on his face, when his two big hands cupped and lifted her ass for his next taste, was the most arousing sight of all.

  He tossed his hair over one shoulder to free his mouth. The long strands poured over her leg like a firefall of living silk and she moaned. He blew on her through the thong as delicately as if he was coaxing a flame from a handful of twigs. He licked her, following her folds until her very being seemed centered on his mouth. Her thighs desperately clenched in response to every touch of his mouth.

  “Please, I beg of you,” she moaned, too far gone to care about anything except her need for more.

  A finger entered her at the words. “Ask again, sorceress,” he growled.

  “Please! Damn you, please finish it!” she gasped, trying to place herself so that arrogant finger of his would satisfy her ache. The ever building, fiery ache that demanded him.

  Two fingers stretched her wide, while his mouth found her clit. She groaned and finally rolled into her climax’s pounding beat.

  And while she surfed those waves, his mouth and hands set to work again.

  Two hours passed in the Tasting Room before Corinne had a chance to think again, let alone wonder why his touch felt so damn right.

  TWO

  The latest tremors were still shaking Corinne’s lithe body when Mykh reluctantly straightened up. He desperately needed to stop tasting her, stop drinking her sexual nectars as if they were the food of the gods. He was more than familiar with the rush of ch’i that every woman’s ecstasy created, but the little sorceress’s excitement lifted him higher than an eagle soaring above the dragon peaks.

  A ripple of moisture highlighted her wet thigh, like a stream flowing across stone under the roots of the world. He’d spent nearly a year in those dark realms, treasuring any glimpse of the life far above. He’d watched for salamanders in the little stream that bordered his dungeon, tossed rocks into the quiet waters, and tried to escape through it. Such quests were futile in the Gray Sorceress’s domain.

  His fingers traced Corinne’s nectar’s path, as his thoughts slipped back to those endless days.

  The gray raiders hit on a moonless night, cutting through his company of mercenaries like an ice storm through cherry blossoms, as the little sorceress had planned. They were so contemptuous of opposition that they didn’t bother to kill the fallen, simply rode onward until they reached him.

  He fought them like a trapped timbercat but to no avail. They laughed at his struggles then dropped rope after rope around his neck and arms. He was helpless as his sword dropped out of his nerveless fingers. He could see and hear, but not speak or fight, as they carried him off. He watched Ghryghoriy and Mazur struggle to their feet and try to follow. He begged the Horned Goddess, patron of fertility and healing, that his old friends and the few remaining mercenaries would live, as the little sorceress had said.

  The Maiden’s moon hung low on the horizon when they reached the ironbound portal in the mountainside. Its fat silvery orb was as far distant from the Hunter’s moon as his hopes of rescue. He prayed to the five gods as they entered the mountain, promising them a lifetime’s service if his people were safe and he was rescued. He pleaded for guidance from his totem animal.

  Days later, as time was reckoned below the roots of the world, he stood before the Gray Sorceress in her council chamber. Warriors ringed the room, hungry and ready for battle, while a dozen naked men crouched below her throne, watching her avidly. Another drooled as he stood beside her, eyes half-closed and scarlet beads dripping down his chest, while she fondled his iron-hard rod.

  She rose without a word, leaving the naked men behind, and came to Mykhayl. She was more beautiful than the bards had whispered with her night-black hair and raven eyes. Her dress was alive with small spiders etching intricate black webs into the gray velvet. She played with Mykhayl’s man parts and chuckled at his lack of response.

  “The Dark Warrior wishes you dead, pretty boy,” she cooed. “But not yet. You still have much to amuse a woman with. Oh, you may speak if you want.” She waved a hand then squeezed his rump as the ropes loosened. By the red god of war, he had learned to hate that casual flick of her hand that brought only agony and humiliation.

  “Why would the Dark Warrior concern himself with a simple captain of mercenaries?” His words echoed through the vaulted hall and she laughed, while he fought to get a hand free.

  “You truly don’t know? It’s such a delicious jest that I must share it. You’re the High King’s heir. His true-born son, no less.” Her fingernail sent a crimson trail over his chest. Only her enchantments stopped him from heaving what little food still dwelt in his stomach.

  “Impossible.” He could talk but all his efforts to move left him sweating and fixed in place.

  “Oh, quite, quite true, barbarian. Your mother spent the Goddess’s Dance with a stranger, a tall, handsome young man with gray eyes and a slight limp. Correct?”

  He nodded, thankful that she didn’t seem to hear his thoughts.

  “The stranger insisted that they forswear all other partners during that month, calling it a custom of his people. Entirely proper, that. Every imperial prince must do his utmost to breed a son from one, and
only one, woman during the dance. Did your mother enjoy his efforts?”

  “That is none of your affair!”

  “Angry, little princeling?” the Gray Sorceress mocked, her scarlet mouth forming a perfect moue. “You are so amusing now and I’m sure you’ll do better in the future!”

  She swept up a drop from his chest with her finger and tasted it consideringly. “Delicious! It’s been so long since I played with an imperial brat.”

  “Remove your hands from me!”

  The ropes tightened until he began to faint from lack of air then slowly eased.

  “You’ll be much happier, you know, if you just let me do what I want,” she remarked while she licked her finger clean. “Now, what were we talking about? Ah, yes. The imperial court names that oath, handfasting, which your mother and the stranger both swore. A few words that make a valid marriage during the Goddess’s Dance. And which lasts for a year and a day afterwards, if the woman breeds.”

  She took another taste of his blood before continuing. He remained silent and appalled.

  “The stranger was Prince Rhodyon, come east to seek counsel from the Oracle of Clouds, and you are his true-born son.”

  She snapped her fingers and one of the naked men rushed to bring her a goblet. She sipped from it while watching Mykhayl. “He was so very young and foolish, don’t you think? Not to guard your mother closely lest she quicken with his heir. A mistake he never repeated, although he gained only daughters for his efforts.”

  “You are a spinner of lies,” Mykhayl said hoarsely. His mother had always mentioned Mykhayl’s father with affection, though she’d had little to relate. She’d spoken only of the Spring Rendezvous and the tall, kind stranger. They’d parted amicably after the dance, but before she’d learned of her pregnancy. Mykhayl had been accepted readily by Iskander, the smith that she married before his first birthday.

  “Your doubts wound me,” the Gray Sorceress sniffed, her eyes bright with anticipation. “How can I convince you? Perhaps a description of your totem? A very long, green animal with teeth? And wings and a tail? Who breathes fire on your enemies?”

  He went pale. “No!” he roared. “My dragon has nothing to do with this!”

  “Poor ignorant boy! Only a male of the true line can see the dragon during his dreams. And you’re the very last one who’ll do so.”

  “Impossible!”

  She snickered. “All true-born males can summon the Imperial Dragon, little mercenary, using the great sword and words of power, thus earning the title of Dragonheart. Or would you prefer to take your rightful place on the Dragon Throne as High King of the Seven Kingdoms?”

  “I will never kill King Rhodyon! The dragon will . . .”

  “The Dark Warrior wants you dead but he’s promised me a year to play with you first. You’ll be far too busy to summon the Imperial Dragon, even if you could find where I’ve hidden the sword.”

  “I’ll kill you,” he vowed. “I’ll tear your heart out and burn it. I’ll . . .”

  She threw her head back and sent peals of laughter ringing through the chamber. “Foolish, foolish brat! You’re going to be sprawled across my bed, trying to build your strength for another try at satisfying me. You’ll be one of my bed slaves, another toy to amuse me. Another worm crawling for a taste of me. And when I tire of you, I’ll toss you away like all the other fools who begged me to let them stay.”

  “Never. I will never serve you like that.”

  Her hand seized his rod suddenly and cruelly. He bit his tongue until the blood ran but didn’t scream. “You’ll be less than dust before I leave here,” he vowed hoarsely.

  “You will do as I please,” she hissed, glaring at him. “Your rod will rise at my command. Like this!” She snapped her fingers and he was instantly hard, aching to mount her as if he’d never ridden a woman before.

  He could not persuade his rod to soften, either by force of will or the exercises he’d learned as a youngling to ease lust’s hard edge. Even as a child, he hadn’t felt so helpless, so unable to act against what disturbed him. His flesh was as far removed from him and his control as if he’d been castrated.

  “Exactly so, slave!” She kissed his unresponsive lips, while her palm smeared crimson over his chest. Finally she stepped back, only to laugh at him again.

  “Is it not the most splendid joke that you’re here, now, with me?” she trilled. “And in a year, the Dark Warrior will tear you into shreds. Should I give you a taste of my carnal liquors so you’ll grovel to me? Or should I enjoy your silly obstinacy? What a sweet choice, with delights on either side!” She wrapped her hands around his throat, painting a crimson collar over his veins. “Perhaps I’ll know later after I become bored,” she mused.

  Mykhayl gritted his teeth against the memory of her voice. He relaxed slowly, letting himself relive how it had ended.

  It had begun as the Gray Sorceress had decreed, months spent cursing her while she used his rod. She’d command his flesh to obey her will then grind herself against him like a mortar and pestle, all the while laughing at his promises of revenge.

  His only hope had been the little sorceress and her plans, overheard as she chatted to her sister. The little sorceress had insisted he wouldn’t die: he had to live to slay the Gray Sorceress and rescue his younger sister Lily and her lover. She’d also diverted the Gray Sorceress time and again from demanding that he set his mouth between the Gray Sorceress’s legs. He’d watched and listened endlessly for the sword that the Gray Sorceress feared.

  Then one day the little sorceress had suddenly yanked him back to that mist-filled realm where he’d listened to her and her sister. She’d spoken of hidden clues in the Gray Sorceress’s words and guards’ watch pattern. He’d understood immediately and he’d fought to reach the sword, where it was hidden behind the throne in the vaulted council chamber. It’d been a bloody fight but he’d stood free long enough for one sweep of the sword to turn the Gray Sorceress to ashes, then summoned the dragon to blaze a path through the sorceress’s vengeful armies.

  Mykhayl cocked his head, remembering how dragonfire had lanced across that room, destroying all who stood before it. His hair swept up Corinne’s thighs before pooling between her legs, setting off long pulses of ecstasy through her body. Her scent was heady and rich, overwhelming his senses like a sorceress’s spell.

  He forced himself to remember other lessons about women’s powers. What had he really learned in those deep caverns, where life was measured in the slow trickle of water?

  He’d sneered at the Gray Sorceress’s slaves who’d traded all honor and duty to their clans, so that their tongues could delve between her legs. He’d insisted that his service as a slave held some remnants of manly virtue because he always fought against yielding to her. They’d laughed at him in the beginning, named him ignorant and foolish because he’d never tasted a sorceress’s nectar, then attacked him when he destroyed the woman who kept them enthralled.

  He hadn’t understood them at the time but he did now. He’d kill anyone who took the little sorceress’s pleasure from him. Her ch’i poured into him and increased his own, while every taste of her honey built his hunger for more.

  Had he come to this, that he’d forswear his revenge to gain another minute between her long white legs? Those strong thighs that locked around his head so that she could better hurl herself onto his tongue? Or her woman’s pearl, once hidden behind layers of ugly cloth, but now bold and beautiful? And what of her yoni’s petals, now scarlet and cream like the finest peony as they pouted for more attention?

  His hand reached out for another touch. Three fingers had dwelt within her. Would she lunge as eagerly when four fingers drummed her inner points of delight?

  He jerked back. No! He would not behave like those magicked half men. He was a High King who walked with the Imperial Dragon. The little sorceress should be desperate for him, stamped by his strength and hungry for his essence. Pleading for him to return to her . . .

  He st
ood up and lifted her out of the hammock abruptly. His furs were a better place for tumbling a woman than the Tasting Room.

  “Whazzat?” she mumbled.

  Another aftershock traveled her body when he brought her up against his chest. She stiffened, eyes heavy-lidded as she savored the little crest of delight, then blinked lazily and licked her lips. She turned her head against his shoulder and relaxed into his hold. “Damn, you’re good,” she mumbled and his stupid heart missed a beat.

  “By the gods,” he cursed, recovering himself quickly. He needed more from her than this.

  Mykh carried her through the door and short corridor that led to his bedroom with more haste than majesty. No sentries here to see him, not this deep in the Dragon’s Lair.

  One wall of his enormous bedroom was taken by a balcony that overlooked Dragon Mountains’ high peaks to the east and the wide river carrying its burden of fertile soil below. He could glimpse the Phoenix Hills to the south, if he leaned out during daylight, but not the northern mountains’ brutal ice-capped peaks or the western mountains’ ridges that had turned back more than one invading army over the centuries. The Hunter, its seven-year quest almost at an end, cast its pale golden light through the curtains, while the Maiden’s silver orb hung just beyond its reach.

  The room’s furnishings reflected his tastes, not a High King’s pomp and ceremony. A huge platform took up the center, covered with furs, silks, and pillows to provide ample ground for bedsport. A single lamp cast a soft glow over the floor’s thick covering of scattered rugs, another excellent place for tossing a woman or two. Roses and lilies hidden between those rugs yielded their perfume under his feet, echoed by the lamp oil’s fragrance. More silk covered the ceiling and walls in a cunning likeness of the tents he’d known in his childhood.

  He loved to stretch a woman across that bed, stand between her legs to impale her, and watch her breasts bounce as she screamed for more of his plowing . . .