Skykeepers n-3

by Jessica Andersen

  When he did, she planted both hands on his chest and levered herself away to hop up on the counter.

  The move offered him a heavenly spot to move into, between her parted legs. It also gave her leverage to block the move. “Nope. Your turn. I’ve told you what I’ve been thinking. Where is your head? It’s not every day a guy has to come clean about something like your Other.”

  She didn’t sound all that unglued about it, though. Thank the gods. And for the first time in the almost month he’d known her in person, he was able to answer with complete honesty. “I’m okay. I think I’m finally starting to accept that I’m not in control of what’s going on here.”

  “This is news?”

  “I’m slow sometimes. Sue me.” He brushed a lock of dark, flyaway hair from her face, tucking it behind one of her delicately rounded ears. “The thing is, I can control my own actions, and I can do my damnedest to get ahead of Iago, and fight like a warrior. I can act with honor, or I can push the limits, depending. Sometimes, I can just say fuck the rules; I’m doing what I want. But the big stuff . .

  .” He paused, lining it up in his head. “There’s something going on here that’s bigger than you or me, or even the two of us together. We’re in this . . . structure, I guess you could call it, that the gods conceived and our ancestors spent generations shaping. Only we’ve been plopped down in the middle of it without the big-ass box top that’s supposed to tell us how this cosmic game is supposed to work.

  The massacres took away our info transfer, and Iago took away our connection to the gods. That’s left us figuring out what all the pieces do, one by one. We’ve got a couple of the rules down. As for the rest of it, we’re just winging it right now. But there I was one day, winging the shit out of things, when this folder came across my desk with a goddess inside it.”

  She inhaled to say something, but he touched her lips to keep her quiet. “Let me finish. I’ve lived part of my life an addict to blood and death, and I’ve lived part of it on the surface of things, and I don’t like either of those lives. I’m learning to be a better man. Gods know it’s not going to be an easy process. Hell, for all I know, I’ll get my target tomorrow morning and I’ll be forced to call the Other back, and then who the fuck knows what’ll happen? But if I’ve figured out anything about this structure we’re in, it’s that while it might seem on the surface that the gods control our personal destinies, they don’t. We do. Strike chose Leah despite the prophecies. Brandt and Patience found each other before the barrier reopened. Even Nate and Alexis found their way to each other on their own terms. I want that for myself. I want you for myself. And I’m hoping like hell you want me back. I can’t promise you a future—I can’t even promise you tomorrow, and I’m sorry as hell about that, because after what you’ve been through with Ambrose and your ex, you deserve to know there’s a future, and I can’t say that. What I can say is that I’ll be here for you as long as I’m able to be. As long as you want me to be.”

  He paused, and when she didn’t say anything, something sank inside him as his brain fed him a repeating loop of all the reasons she’d be smarter not to have anything to do with him. He’d left it too long, pushed her away too many times. He hadn’t fought hard enough to find a way for them to be together despite the danger. His history and his future scared the crap out of her, and for that he couldn’t blame her.

  When she stayed silent, he worried he’d said too much. “Now it’s your turn.”

  Then, finally, she smiled. “I’m thinking you had me at ‘goddess.’ Though the other stuff wasn’t bad, either.” As relief spun through him, excitement burgeoning on its heels, she eased her knees apart and linked her hands behind his neck, urging him into the space she’d created for him. “You’re right that I’d ideally like to know I’m in a relationship that’s going somewhere, but this isn’t an outside-

  world situation, is it? For all we know, we’re down to three years and a week left to live . . . or in three years and a week, it’ll all be over and we’ll be able to go our separate ways. Under either circumstance, it seems silly to deny myself something special just because it doesn’t fit into all of the things I wanted in the outside world.”

  The idea of a three-year time limit poked at Michael, irritating him. Which just went to show how much things had changed around him, within him; his longest previous relationship hadn’t made it to the four-month mark. Then again, he thought with a dark kink of self-awareness, it wasn’t like he was looking past the next few days, really. And that made it easier to say, “Let’s give it a try and see where we can make it fit in our world.”

  She nodded, and her smile lost its reserve as her eyes gained a wicked gleam. Then she leaned into him, wrapped her legs around him, and sank into a kiss that promised so much more than just a kiss. It sparkled with the promise of tomorrow.

  Heat shimmered through Sasha, taking her emotions from a poignant ache to soft acceptance, and from there to desire. She yielded to all of those things and more as she wrapped herself around Michael, anchoring herself to his solid strength. She kissed his neck, glorying in his hiss of pleasure as she found the soft spot behind his ear, and the way he shuddered at the drag of her teeth across the sensitive skin. But it wasn’t just the heat that had convinced her to set aside what usually passed as her better judgment—it was the hum of rightness that had brought her to this point, and the sense that it was time for them, maybe even past time. She respected him for holding her away when he’d been certain that being with her could endanger her, could put her in the way of the darkness. There was still a kernel of fear within her, but although it disturbed her to know she was kissing a killer, one who was god-bound to kill again, at the same time, she was kissing Michael. He wasn’t the Other; he was himself. He challenged her, yes. He excited her. He pissed her off. But she wasn’t afraid of him.

  Maybe she should be, but she wasn’t.

  So she softened against him, trailing her hands down his body and up again to toy with the hair at his nape. They were aligned hard to soft; she cradled his erection between her legs, held him there by wrapping her legs around his waist as they kissed, again and again. She tugged his shirt free and ran her hands beneath, her blood firing at finally—finally—being able to touch him like this, and trust that he wasn’t going to pull back this time.

  Then he did pull back, but only far enough to break the kiss and say against her lips, “I applaud the idea of the kitchen, but would the chef mind transferring this to her bed?” He was smiling, but his forest green eyes were intent on hers, making the question far more serious than it seemed.

  She got it, then. Twice before when they’d been together, and he’d been fighting the Other and the silver magic, they’d grappled with lust, with him standing, her pinned up against a wall. Warmth shimmered through her at the knowledge that he wanted this to be different, that he wanted to be different.

  Smiling, she slipped off the counter, pressing full-bodied against him as she did so. Then she took his hand, feeling the ridges of their palm scars rubbing with sensual friction, and she led him to her bedroom.

  There, gauzy curtains darkened the room, which was dominated by a big bed covered with a verdant green bedspread and a small army of pillows.

  When they reached the bed, she turned to face him, and they stood there, staring at each other for a moment that spun out into temptation. Then, as though finally catching up with himself, he exhaled a long, slow breath that did little to release the tension gripping his powerful body. His hands came up to bracket her face; his lips softened beneath hers in a gentle, achingly tender kiss. Within moments, though, their kiss hardened to a demand and his arms came around her as his mouth fused with hers.

  And all she could think was, Thank the gods.

  Heat leaped within her as he gathered her against him, then bore her down to the bed, so they were wrapped together, straining together, trying to get closer and closer still, despite the tactile barrier of their clothes. His taste e
xploded across her senses; his scent filled her. She caressed him, dragging her fingers through his hair, clutching at his wide shoulders.

  His sleeveless shirt was slick to the touch, molding to his muscles, making her very aware of his leashed power. She sensed his desire and felt the sharp excitement of his sex magic as they boosted each other. There was no hint of the foreign silver magic, adding to her bone-deep certainty that this was right. Call it hormones or magic, or maybe something more—she needed to feel alive, to take something for herself after so long. More, she needed to take him, and knew he needed her. She’d seen the emptiness inside him as he’d looked into a future and seen only impossible choices.

  She might not be able to make those choices for him, but she could ease him in the interim. They could ease each other, having each spent far too long alone.

  He pinned her, pressed into her. She felt the hardness of his chest, his arms, his thighs, and the long length of him. Hooking a leg around his hips, she opened to him with no thought of subtlety or mystery. She wanted him; he wanted her. They didn’t need to make it any more complicated than that.

  It was a freeing thought.

  The mattress yielded at her back. He covered her with his body, pressing her into the bedding, kissing her the whole time, moving from her lips to her cheek to the line of her jaw, then the soft, sensitive spot behind her ear. She arched against him as heat roared, and behind it, the saber rattle of a military march that she now knew wasn’t his theme song; it was hers. The warrior’s march with the softness of strings. Awash in sensation, in the flow of ch’ul and life, she slid her hands down and tugged his shirt free of his waistband, and ran her hands beneath, this time without the constraints of body armor. His skin was soft and slick in places, roughened by masculine hair in others, and everywhere it covered the bunch and flow of muscles, the hardness of bone.

  They twined together—touching, seeking, tasting—with a rawness she hadn’t expected, a primal possessiveness. When he kissed her, she felt consumed. When he ran his hands beneath her shirt, and up to touch the sides of her breasts, then inward to cup them, tease them, she felt branded, owned. And when he shifted to come down atop her, then held her face in his hands and looked deep into her eyes, she felt his hands tremble, and saw a question in his eyes.

  She caught his wrists, felt his pulse thrum beneath her thumbs, and was conscious that she was touching his marks, the stone and the warrior. “What is it?” she asked.

  “Nothing.” He leaned in and touched his lips to hers, softly. “This is where I want to be right now.”

  It wasn’t a vow of forever, not even a hint of something beyond tonight. But somehow it was as romantic as the most fervent promise.

  Keep it simple, she told herself, and forced her lips to curve in a smile. “This is where I want to be too.”

  And then it was simple. Her body knew what it wanted, what felt good. Their magic knew pleasure, and how to seek it. The music added rather than distracting, an inner sound track that she suspected was hers alone. She eased his shirt up and off, and gloried in the feel of his masculine skin beneath her fingers, beneath her lips. They shifted together, then eased apart so she could slip out of her T-shirt and pants. Sasha moaned at the arousing contrast of the cool material of his pants against the sensitized skin of her inner thighs. They rolled across the wide expanse of mattress, feasting on each other, drawing ruthless pleasure.

  Gentle turned inciting; tender turned demanding, and it became all about the heat and the flash, and the flare of magic. He moved down her body, nipping and touching, caressing and teasing. She moaned and arched against him, tried to touch him, but he shifted away. “Let me,” he said, his voice a rasp of passion as he moved between her legs. “Just let me.”

  She would’ve argued, but then his tongue found her, and speech was lost to a low moan of surrender.

  He gripped her thighs and spread them wide, then ran his hands up to cup her buttocks, lifting her, opening her to his mouth. He feasted, stroked, tasted, touched, all with a raw, carnal skill that brought incredible pleasure. She clutched his hair; she wasn’t sure whether she meant to hold him still or draw him up her body. Then there was no more plan, no more thought, nothing but the coil of pleasure that drew tighter and tighter still within her.

  He worked her ruthlessly, artfully with his hands and mouth, his clever fingers and precise knowledge of the female form, stringing the wire tighter and tighter still within her. The humming within her became a melody. Then she was crying out and shattering, pulsing against him, around his thrusting fingers and low, exultant cry.

  The orgasm went on and on, gripping her, keeping her splayed out in pleasure. He moved away from her, out of her, shimmying up her body and letting her feel his hardness, his desire. He drew his lips along her breasts, the underside of her jaw, the sensitive spot behind her ear, and then her mouth.

  She poured herself into the kiss, putting into it her pleasure and desire, the need to have him within her. His breath rasping in his wide chest, his flesh tight and hard all over, he rose above her and paused there, the blunt head of his shaft nudging at her opening. “Open your eyes,” he ordered harshly.

  She did, though part of her had wanted to hide in the darkness behind her eyelids.

  Their gazes caught and held, and a dangerous, treacherous warmth kindled in her chest, warning her that this wasn’t just sex, couldn’t be, at least not for her. And a piece of her had to believe it wasn’t just sex for him, either. The look in his eyes, the open pride in his face, his total focus on her—that had to be more, had to be the same sort of connection she’d felt that first time, that she felt now.

  Then he thrust within her and she arched on a cry of pleasure, of completion. The orgasm echoes that had left her flesh soft and pleased now reversed themselves and drew inward, coiling tight around the point where he invaded her, possessed her, drove her up and over another wave of orgasm, then followed her over the crest with a cry that might’ve been her name, might’ve been something else.

  They came together, wrapped in each other, hearts hammering in unison, bodies shuddering. Sasha pressed her face against his hot throat, feeling his pulse against her cheek, feeling him throb within her. The humming melody became a song, familiar and lovely, but she didn’t need the music or the magic to know that this was it for her, that he was what she’d been meant to find, that despite—or perhaps because of—their mismatches, they were a match. It was fate, she thought, riding high on the buzz of pleasure and the magic she was only just beginning to touch. Destiny. And if that was the case, she thought, she was in deep shit, because she had a feeling Michael didn’t want to be anybody’s destiny. Not even his own.

  Don’t, she told herself, derailing the negative thought train before it could fully form. Don’t make this more—or less—than it is. For once in your life, just enjoy the moment.

  So she did. She enjoyed the moment that he eased away and kissed her again, enjoyed the moment when those kisses became more, when casual caresses gained purpose, when postcoital bliss morphed to foreplay almost without transition. And she enjoyed the moment he came deep inside her, not just because she was locked in the throes of her own long, shuddering orgasm, but because this time she was sure he called her name.

  Later, much later that night, after they’d turned to each other a third time and were wrung limp with pleasure, she said softly, “Promise me one thing?”

  “What?” To her surprise, he sounded more curious than wary.

  “Promise me you won’t go into the scorpion spell alone. Promise you’ll tell me, or if you can’t tell me for some reason, you’ll tell Strike. Or Jox. One of the three of us.”

  He nodded. “Yeah. Okay, yeah. I promise.” Then he leaned in and kissed her again, and again. Then he loved her again. And in that moment, she felt that she’d come home, at least for a while.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  In the week leading up to the winter solstice, the magi prepared for their singular pu
rpose: get the library scroll from the First Father’s tomb and call the Prophet.

  Rabbit did his damnedest to talk Strike into letting him try the scorpion spell too, but the plan was vetoed when the royal council decided it would be far better to wait until after the Nightkeepers secured the library. Gods willing, there would be a better option contained within it.

  Rabbit was pissed, but as far as Michael could tell, that had as much to do with Myrinne’s deciding to stay on campus a few extra days past the beginning of the holiday break as it did with the king’s decision regarding the spell. There seemed to be more trouble in paradise, but when Michael had asked after her, he’d gotten his head bitten off. He hadn’t followed up, figuring Rabbit deserved his privacy if that was what he wanted. Besides, he didn’t think the younger mage would appreciate his opinion of Myrinne, which started with, “She’s not,” and ended with, “that into you.”

  Michael and Sasha, on the other hand, were very into each other. It was the perfect setup, as far as he was concerned; they took each day as it came, enjoying each other without reservation, but also without expectation. Each morning, though, he awoke determined to have another day with her. And then another. He thought she was coming to trust him, reveled when she let down her guard and let herself hold onto him an extra moment, or lean on him for power or help.

  When they weren’t in bed together, they worked together, along with the others, working out what plans they could for the solstice. The three-year countdown was bearing down on them freight-train fast. The only thing they knew for certain was that Iago wanted him and Sasha at Paxil Mountain. The question was: Which was the better option, using them as bait to lure him into a trap, or sequestering them safely away at Skywatch? As far as Michael was concerned, the answer was obvious: she stayed at Skywatch and he went to the temple in case there was a fight. Splitting them up would make it harder for Iago to grab them both.