The Queens of Merab 4 Temair’s Earth

by Violet Summers

  Miach groaned as she writhed against him and thrust harder before helping to ease her forward onto Zevan’s cock. The sensation of Zevan’s heavy cock-ring dragging against Miach’s heavy thrusts in her ass, sent electricity tingling over her body, and her aire began to rise, lifting her hair to blow gently back against Miach’s shoulders.

  Zevan moaned as she began to ride him, sinking down on his cock before shifting back to bury Miach’s erection further in her ass.

  “Temair,” Dathan’s voice was a breathy rasp as her Rayne Consort knelt on the bed beside their writhing bodies. Temair propped herself up on Zevan’s chest with one hand, pausing to tweak one of the heavy iron barbells piercing his nipples, and caught Dathan around the back of the neck with the other.

  She pulled him into a kiss filled with gasps and Dathan’s sweet taste.

  “Suck him, Spark,” Miach gritted out, holding her hips and grinding deeper still. “He needs to come.”

  Dathan made a soft sound; arousal or agreement, or maybe both. Temair pulled back from his kiss and said, “Yes, Dathan. Let me taste you.”

  Dathan’s tilted blue eyes flared and glowed so brightly they nearly lit the room. He moved gracefully to his knees, standing tall so that she only had to bend a little to engulf his thick head in her mouth.

  It was all the men, then. Zevan thrust sinuously beneath her. Miach pounded strongly behind her. Dathan rocked into her mouth on a rush of bitter-sweet pre-cum that made her crave more. Elan moved to her other side, reaching out to stroke her breasts, tugging her nipples sharply and leaning in enough to lick at the pebbled peaks.

  It was building, building to a culmination that was stronger than anything she ever could have imagined. The sight of all that beautiful bare flesh, the sounds of their bodies slapping damply together mingling with the gasps and moans ripped from their throats, even the scent of them, the rich musk of Elan’s release combining with Miach’s spice, Zevan’s almost metallic tang and Dathan’s exotic aire, conspired to rip the orgasm from her. It started in her finger tips and the soles of her feet, tingling little muscle contractions that quickly ran up her inner thighs and arms to converge at her core in an explosion of nuclear proportions.

  She was still wracked with aftershocks almost as strong as her orgasm had been when her Consorts, her husbands, her lovers moved so perfectly in tune that it might have been choreographed. Miach’s cock swelled and he hissed out a curse and pulled free, just as Zevan did the same. Dathan pulled roughly out of her mouth, and she became aware that even as he played with her breasts, Elan was rapidly stroking his renewed erection. Like dominos falling, her men came, painting her back, her breasts, her belly with rich cream that her very skin seemed to absorb.

  Temair ran her hand through the thick fluid, rubbing it into her skin. It was their very essences, and she wanted every last drop.

  Wrapped in her Consorts’ arms, surrounded by their magic and their love, Temair let herself float for a moment. It was, she realized, the perfect embodiment of Merab: the Queen surrounded by her Consorts; the female sheltered by the male; point and counterpoint in a perfect balance of power.

  Elan collapsed to the bed, and Miach gently lowered her to lie across the Earth Lord’s broad, hard body. Zevan cuddled against Elan’s side, reaching up to wrap an arm over Temair’s body.

  To her surprise, Miach maneuvered Dathan to her other side before moving to curve himself around Dathan’s back. He wrapped one long, strong arm over Dathan’s panting form and clasped wrists with Zevan.

  Surrounded. Protected. Loved. Contented, Temair slept.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Vashti, I’m only going to ask you this one more time. Who is the leader of the rebellion?” Darmon slammed his fist on the table where Miach’s younger brother sat with a smirk on his face.

  “Is it hard to believe that I am the leader?”

  He snorted in disgust. “You, a leader? You aren’t able to keep your face away from a mirror long enough to organize something like this. Besides, I doubt you have the brain capacity either.”

  It took everything he had not to reach over and slam the young Fyre Lord’s face into the marble table. He’d never liked the brash young man. Vashti the Vain, as Miach called him, had always thought himself to be superior to those around him. He was spoiled, flighty, and a mama’s boy. No, Vashti didn’t have the ability to lead, but Darmon would bet anything that the little weasel knew the man who did.

  Vashti sat back in the chair and placed his booted feet on the table. His casual aire was pushing Darmon to the brink of strangling him. He moved around the table grabbing the Fyre Lord’s muddy, dyed hair and yanking it back hard. He bent down until he was a mere inch from his face. “You forget, Lord Fyre, that I’ve trained with you and I’ve trained with Miach. You forget what I can do to you without even breaking a sweat. We won’t even mention what Miach will do to you if you haven’t had a change of heart by the time he turns his attention this way.” Darmon gave a nasty smile as the color began to drain from Vashti’s face. “You hurt a member of his family, and he won’t be quick to forgive or forget. You will talk, Vashti, or I will burn your limbs one by one until you beg for mercy.”

  Darmon smiled as pure panic settled in Vashti’s eyes; he’d known the little wimp would cave under the mere threat of torture. Deciding to enjoy himself a bit, he continued, “I think we’ll start with your long locks. Imagine the slow burn I will use, flames climbing up until they reach your scalp. Then I’ll start all over again at your perfectly manicured fingers. It will take hours just to move along one arm. It might take days to consume your whole body. Tell me, how does that sound to you, traitor?”

  “Get Miach. I will tell him all he wants to know. But tell him I want immunity from prosecution. I can give him much more than one name. I know where most of the rebel cells in Emetra are hidden, and I can give him that, too. But my life will be forfeit once I open my mouth, and I want protection.”

  Darmon let go of Vashti’s hair, watching the younger man’s head sag forward with a sense of deep disgust. “I’ll deliver your message.” He pointed his finger at the Fyre Lord, who was valiantly trying to recapture his arrogant attitude and pretend he hadn’t just practically pissed himself in terror. “By the Great Mother, if you try to play any games, I will see you burn from the inside out.”

  He turned on his heel and left the room.

  * * *

  Vashti breathed a sigh of relief. He would tell Miach all about Sitric and most everything else he knew about the rebellion. Most, but not everything. He knew his hunger for power had been momentarily frustrated but there was always hope that, if he were allowed to live, he’d get a second chance. The Crown Princess was clearly besotted with her Consorts, and they seemed equally enamored with her. The cow must be incredible in bed to inspire such devotion. The Great Mother knew it wasn’t her looks. Once the obvious threat had passed, perhaps he could take advantage of their distraction to rebuild his power base.

  He stood and paced the room, his hands behind his back, deciding exactly what to share, and what to hold back. The door opened far more quickly than he’d anticipated. Miach must have been in the corridor watching his interrogation. The bastard. Vashti forced his voice to be calm and conciliatory. “That didn’t take long. What does my brother say?”

  He turned facing the door. Darmon was not standing there. Neither was Miach.

  “Sitric, how did you get here?” Vashti backed up slowly. The leader of the rebellion moved forward, matching him step by step.

  “Do you think that I ever trusted you, Lord Fyre?” His title was spit out on a sneer, and Vashti wondered just how long Sitric had despised him so. “You’ve threatened the entire rebellion, you coward. Do you think I will allow that?”

  Vashti swallowed hard and put his hand out in front of him as though to ward the Gryphon off. “Please… Sitric, I wasn’t going to tell him the truth. You don’t really think I’m that stupid, do you?”

  Sitric kep
t advancing, nothing but menace in his eyes which had changed to yellow with small, diamond shaped black pupils. “No,” he agreed. “You’re not stupid, Vashti. What you are is cunning and cowardly, a dangerous combination. You’ve never seen the bigger picture. Your only goal was to increase your own power, and at the first sign of danger, you’re willing to sacrifice all of us to save yourself.” Sitric was just a breath away now, and magic swirled around him almost visibly. Vashti trembled in terror. “I am not as merciful as the Princess’s guards, or, I imagine, as your brother would have been.”

  Vashti cried out as Sitric drew his arm up, paw had replaced his hand, complete with wicked claws. Without a change in expression, that paw flashed out and slashed him across the throat. “Playing both sides gets you killed every time.”

  Vashti clutched at his throat, felt the blood flowing from his neck with a sense of utter disbelief. He tried desperately to stop but it was too late. The cut had been deep. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even scream when the pain started. As his vision began to darken he watched Sitric’s black boots pacing steadily to the door. Vashti forced his eyes back up to see the Gryphon looked as calm and collected as ever, his eyes and arm once again human, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. He opened the door and disappeared without a backward glance. Vashti quivered and took his final breath.

  * * *

  Sitric’s scowled in distaste; his shirt was splattered with the asshole’s blood. The scent filled his nostrils, agitating the beast inside. By nature Sitric was a loyal man, and he’d wondered if there would be a twinge of regret after he’d eliminated the traitorous Fyre Lord. He was pleased to note there wasn’t even a flicker. Vashti had gone against the orders he’d given in the most cowardly way possible. The guard questioning him had been right when he’d commented was too stupid and too vain to organize a rebellion of this magnitude. He’d also been too weak minded.

  Now, Sitric had some serious thinking to do. Princess Temair’s motivations were so far from those of any other woman he’d encountered that Sitric knew the rebellions entire mission and focus would have to be re-examined.

  Of course, her actions might change once she’d ascended to become Queen, after all, power had the tendency to corrupt. But for now she showed promise, seemed like someone who could be reasoned with. Sitric would have to sit down with the Zihran and Turninian Generals and discuss the situation. Soon.

  With the beginnings of a plan in mind, he picked up speed when from a small hallway near Vashti’s death chamber a small curly-haired form slammed straight into him.

  He grabbed her arms to keep her from bouncing off his chest and hitting the ground. “Sorcha?” He almost couldn’t believe his eyes but, when he considered her strength and aggressive tendencies, he knew he should have expected her. Dammit, why couldn’t she have waited until he’d made his escape?

  She took in the blood on his hands and clothing impassively. “Is he dead?” He couldn’t read her face, couldn’t tell what was running through her mind.

  “Yes.” Fuck, he didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to hurt her, not here, not now. A small voice whispered in his mind, not ever.

  “Good.” She nodded with satisfaction and pushed him away. As she marched back in the direction she’d come from Sitric stood, stunned. He’d observed her closely enough to expect that she’d be happy Vashti was dead. What he’d never expected was that she’d walk away with nothing else to say. Somehow he knew in the depths of his soul she would never utter a word of what happened here today.

  His irrational trust of her should have concerned him, but it didn’t. In fact it made his gut clench, and other parts of his body harden. He pressed down on his suddenly interested dick with the heel of his hand. Hell, he didn’t have time for this. Refusing to look in the direction she’d disappeared, he quickly walked down the hall in the opposite direction; away from temptation, and away from death.

  Epilogue

  Temair kept a worried eye on Miach, but her First Consort showed no signs of distress or grief. A whisper of amusement curled through her when she realized Dathan was watching the Fyre Lord just as attentively. In fact, the Rayne Lord reached out when Miach’s pacing took him past the window where Dathan stood, and cupped a gentle hand around Miach’s neck. Instead of smacking the comforting grip away as Temair expected, Miach paused and muttered, “Again with the comfort, Water Boy?” before moving on with that heart wrenching, libido fyring half-smile.

  “We still aren’t safe,” Nuriel told her softly. “We caught Vashti and Storm, but they were just soldiers. The leaders of the rebellion are still out there, still determined to kill us all.”

  “I don’t know,” Sorcha answered meditatively. She’d returned from an unexplained outing with a speculative, satisfied look in her eyes. “Perhaps they were working without… I don’t know. Without permission? I think we’re safe for the moment, Ellie. At the very least, Vashti’s death buys us some time.”

  “I never thought I’d say this,” Temair said grimly. Sweet Elements, she’d never thought she’d even think it. “But I need to ascend as quickly as possible. It’s vital that the people of Emetra see their Queen, know I care about them and understand I would die myself before I let them down.”

  Miach moved to her side, and the rest of her Consorts joined him in an unconscious bit of choreography that caused her breath to hitch. They were so beautiful, so strong and honorable. And they were all hers.

  “It’s important for our people to see us, too. To talk with us. To share their troubles and their triumphs, and to witness first hand that their Queen is living the life she promotes. A life where males are valued as equal members of society, the balance that keeps our very world stable.”

  “Such a change, Lord Fyre, from the rebel sympathizer I first met.” Temair wrapped her arms around his waist, letting one hand delve under the soft fabric of his shirt. As always, when Miach came within touching distance, Temair couldn’t resist the urge to touch skin.

  “You’ve educated me, my Queen.”

  “And me, Temmie,” Zevan added. “I never knew people could live like you described. You’re a miracle.”

  Temair left Miach’s loose embrace and hugged Zevan tight. She’d show him just how much his words had touched her once she got him alone.

  Not to be left out, Dathan spoke expansively. “Well, I always knew you were perfect, my love.”

  Miach smirked at Dathan’s pronouncement, but it was Elan’s deep laughter that truly united them. Looking at her men, her sisters of the heart, her family, Temair knew there was nothing they couldn’t accomplish together.

  Giving each of her Consorts a warm kiss, she stepped back and rubbed her hands together.

  “Now, it’s time for us to get to work.”

  The End

  Violet Summers

  Violet Summers is a married mother of three beautiful children, including one set of twins, one rambunctious puppy, and one husband, except when she’s a single mom of one spoiled teenaged godchild, three spoiled kitties, and two spoiled, elderly parents. Both of Violet’s personalities are very busy!

  No, Violet has not suffered a psychotic break yet (though she may after dealing with creating web-pages and MySpace accounts). Violet is actually the writing team of Sierra Summers and Violet (VJ) Johnson.

  Neither woman can remember quite when she started writing, though VJ has a vague memory of a story written in the seventies about a girl named Carmel (that’s Car-MELL) who wore designer Sassoon “shapes,” or jeans. It was not, she says, her finest work.

  Both women read voraciously, and in a multitude of genres. Sierra classifies them as “readers, as opposed to readers of romance. This means when we write, we’re as concerned with the story as we are with the sex.” That said, Sierra has been known to boycott books where the characters haven’t “done the deed,” by page 125.

  Sierra and VJ live in Southeast Michigan, and the spice of the Metro-Detroit area often flavors their work.
“Why look for a more glamorous setting,” VJ asks, “when we’ve got the beautiful, re-vitalized Downtown area to draw from?”

  Violet Summers writes in a variety of genres, from contemporary to paranormal; from soft BDSM to fantasy. The two things all her stories have in common are their deeply emotional stories and their scorching erotic love scenes.

  Sierra and VJ love to hear from their readers. You can contact them at VioletSummers@yahoo.com, or on MySpace and Facebook!