The Queens of Merab 2 Temair’s Rayne

by Violet Summers

  “Sweet Fyre, Spark,” he growled as she tucked her fingers in the waistband of his breeches. “Let me fuck you. I’ll make you feel so good.”

  She’d have to think about it later, the hint of desperation in his voice. It seemed that Lord Fyre didn’t respond well to losing control. It shouldn’t surprise her. The Elements knew he’d kept her helpless to his touch for the last two weeks.

  Temair dropped her hands, flattening them against his inner thighs. He jolted in response with a muttered, “fuck.”

  “Oh, I will,” she promised. His hand was still in her hair, tugging gently, fingers flexing against her scalp. She rubbed her cheek against his chest. It was almost like he couldn’t decide whether to pull her away or crush her closer.

  She tipped her face down, resting her forehead on his chest so she could see what she was doing. Slowly she dragged her open hands the length of his inner thighs, not stopping until she cupped his balls in one burning palm, and the root of his cock in the other. He dropped his head back against the door with a solid thunk, and his fingers tightened, pulling hard and dragging free a spurt of fyre that started somewhere in her core and washed out to tingle over her fingers and toes, crackling over every inch of skin in between.

  Drawing a deep, calming breath, she decided to try one of Miach’s favorite tricks. Concentrating on the fyre flowing like lava through her veins, Temair focused hard and drew one finger down the laces of his breeches. Miach let out a low roar and ground his balls down against her palm as the laces turned to ash. His breeches sprang open, his cock surging free to slap into her hand with a meaty thud.

  “Let me fuck you, Spark,” he growled. It was the same voice he’d used defending her, the same voice he used when he was coming, and liquid heat flooded her.

  “Later,” she muttered. “I told you, I’m busy.”

  He gave a strangled shout of frustration, which Temair ignored. She was too busy curling her fingers into his waistband. When she dropped to her knees, she dragged the tight material with her, abandoning it mid-thigh, because she’d found something more interesting to curl her fingers around.

  Full and fat and so hard it stood straight up, curving just enough to strafe the skin under his navel, Miach’s cock was a work of art. Temair didn’t think she’d ever get tired of looking at it, touching it. Like the rest of him, it was as hard and smooth as carved ivory. The plump, heart-shaped cap shone a deep rose, and a matching flush spread over the velvety skin of his balls and up the root of his shaft.

  He’d let her play, shown her how to stroke, when and where to squeeze. He’d even allowed her a brief taste or two, quick butterfly licks, but he always managed to distract her before she got her fill. Tonight Temair wasn’t going to be distracted. She’d wanted him all day -- sweet Mother, she always wanted him -- but the dance, and Dathan’s touch, and Miach’s eyes on them had all combined to create a seething, boiling whirlpool of need that she knew wouldn’t be satisfied by merely laying back and letting Miach make her feel good.

  She wrapped her fingers around him near the root of his cock and, Sacred Elements, he was so thick she couldn’t even make her fingers meet. Pressing it up against his flat belly, she nuzzled her face against him like a kitten, breathing in his spicy, musky scent and rubbing his cock over her whole face.

  “Fuck.” His free hand fisted, slammed back against the door, as every muscle in his body drew taut. Leashed power, that’s what he was. Coiled, and ready to spring.

  She opened her mouth and rubbed wet, hot caresses up the throbbing length, memorizing every taste, every texture. Miach’s cock lured her, endlessly fascinated her. She wanted to touch and taste and devour every burning inch.

  Settling back on her heels, she went to work. He filled her hand to overflowing -- hard, hot and vitally alive. Resting her cheek on his thigh, she explored him with her fingers; first the heavy shaft, then the velvety skin of his balls. His skin was so soft, satin along the shaft, velvet underneath. She wanted to rub him all over herself, feel that satiny warmth over her cheeks and chin.

  Moving closer, she nuzzled her cheek along his throbbing length. When he moaned and slammed his fist back against the door again, a rush of liquid heat flashed through her, soaking the thin fabric of her gown where it was trapped between her thighs.

  Rubbing her cheek along the length, she pressed his cock up flat against his belly again, exposing the tender sac beneath. The fragile flesh was rosy here, slightly crinkly and soft to the touch. Temair cast her gaze up the length of Miach’s body, loving the strained, agonized look on his face almost as much as she loved the musky, spicy scent of his arousal.

  He’d tipped his head back and the line of his throat was beyond beautiful to her. His mouth parted under ragged breath; his eyes were tightly closed. The hand that wasn’t buried in her hair clawed ineffectually at the door.

  He must have sensed her scrutiny because those chaos-black eyes opened just a sliver, just enough for the fyre crackling in their depths to sear her. With his eyes on her like a fiery touch, Temair leaned in and very deliberately licked a path up the shallow valley between his balls.

  “Sweet Mother, Temair.” She’d never heard his voice so deep, almost animalistic. “When I get my hands on you…” He trailed off, and she figured he must have realized that it wasn’t much of a threat. She loved it when he got his hands on her.

  She cupped his sac in one hand, gently toying with the loose flesh. His scent intensified, as did his heat, leaving her giddy with arousal.

  “Fine,” he hissed, twisting his fingers tighter in her hair. “If you’re going to play down there, then fucking suck it.”

  He tugged upward, trying to guide her mouth where he wanted it, but Temair resisted.

  “Bossy,” she breathed against him, and almost laughed at the sheer power of it when his cock twitched in response. He groaned, a low rumble of sound. “I’ll get there, my Lord Husband,” she murmured, drawing her tongue along the heavy vein that decorated the under-side of his shaft.

  “Spark.” She looked up the length of his body once again -- the clean, sculpted lines of his torso, the slight twitching of over-stimulated nerves under satiny pale flesh. So beautiful.

  All at once she knew his patience was at an end. She could tell by the tension in his muscles, the grip he kept on her hair. Rising higher on her knees, she bent with one graceful motion and captured the very crown of his cock between her lips.

  Time slowed, then snapped into fast forward as his taste exploded over her tongue, salt and burn. His low, growling moan rose to a roar, and his whole body jerked, arching forward ’til only his head rested against the door.

  Both hands were on her head now, fingers clenched, but he didn’t shove her down, didn’t try to control her movements at all. It was more like he just needed something to hold on to, to keep from flying apart.

  She sucked lightly, trying to catch every drop of his essence, to make it a part of herself. He tasted so good.

  She confined her attentions to the head, using her tongue to probe the ridge beneath the crown. She rubbed over the spot beneath, and Miach made a noise that ventured dangerously near a whimper. His thighs trembled on either side of her, and Temair redoubled her efforts, determined to draw more of those amazing sounds from his arched throat.

  No longer content with just a taste, she lowered her head, savoring the pull of his hands in her hair as she slowly engulfed him in her mouth. There was so much of him; he overflowed her hands, overflowed her mouth. She took him deep, not stopping until she felt him touch the back of her throat.

  He panted, hands clenching, breath stuttering. She lifted her eyes, catching his glinting gaze with her own, and swallowed. Miach gasped, and a great billow of heat engulfed them. Before her dazzled eyes, licks of fyre crawled over his skin, crimson-gold whips of flame casting every ridged muscle in dramatic relief.

  Those chaos-black eyes glowed almost solid red, deep and as desperate as his voice when he gritted out, “Finish me, Spa
rk. Sweet Mother, I’m dying here.”

  She would have smiled if she’d been able to do so around the thick length of him. Instead she just reveled in the heat, in the fyre passing from her to him, then back in an endlessly electric circuit that burned away all fear, all doubt.

  It took a moment to get it all coordinated, but then the rhythm fell into place; a hard suck and bob of her head coupled with the hard, fast pump of her fist, and in seconds his hips were jerking, those delicious, choked off whimpers stroking over her body like a physical touch.

  “Now, Spark,” he gasped, and his hands tightened painfully in her hair as his release flooded her mouth. Bitter salt, burning fyre, and a sweet spice that was addictive. Temair knew she’d never get enough of the taste of Miach’s cum.

  He’d barely finished, not even giving her the chance to lick him clean, when he pulled her up, using his grip on her hair to bring her mouth almost violently to his.

  “I should fucking spank you,” he grunted between hungry kisses. When he pulled back to lick traces of his own release from the corner of her mouth, Temair’s pussy clenched demandingly, needing to be filled.

  “You could try,” she gasped back, licking at his jaw, his chin, anywhere she could reach.

  “Is that a dare, Spark?” His cock was still half-hard, pressing against her hip in wet promise. His eyes kindled anew, and Temair shivered at the intent there.

  “And if it is?” she questioned, catching his chin lightly between her teeth for a warning nip.

  He gave no warning at all. One moment she was pressed against him, held in place by his grip on her head, the next he’d swept her into his arms and was tossing her onto the bed. She started to push up on her elbows, but he didn’t give her the chance. A flick of his wrist and she was bound, manacles of fyre around her wrists, pinning her hands high above her head.

  Revenge was sweet, and Miach set about it with every bit of his concentration, every bit of the strategizing he excelled at. Precise blades of flame dealt with the bodice of her dress, baring breasts swollen with need.

  Flames light as a feather’s touch brushed over aching nipples, sending her writhing on the bed, hands fisted as she pulled desperately against the bonds that should have burned her, but didn’t.

  Miach’s mouth followed, hotter even than the flames he tortured her with, tracing a winding path over her breasts and down her ribcage. He sent his flame ahead, a heated taunt on her already burning skin.

  “Miach, please.” The words were a whisper, forced from a throat tight with sensation.

  “Turnabout’s a bitch, isn’t it?” he murmured back, sending a teasing tendril of flame to lick over her clit. Temair screamed as the sensation seared through her, arching in a pleasure so intense it was painful. “Shall I let you come, Spark?” She could barely make sense of his words, so caught up was she in the pleasure. “Or shall I hold you on that edge?” Flame licked along her slit, a deeper pleasure, a clenching in her womb.

  “Please, Miach.” Now the words were a sob, a wrenching of emotion and sensation as his flames licked over her, stroking her skin, teasing the entrance to her body, electrifying the heavy coating of moisture on her thighs and the lips of her pussy.

  He was hard again, fully hard and pulsing against her hip. “Please what, Spark?” His voice was dark with the promise of pleasure.

  “Please be inside me,” she cried. “Please fill me with your flame.” The words came easier, rushing from her like lava from a volcano. “Please fuck me, Husband, and burn down the world.”

  He groaned, a primal growl of warning and lodged the head of his cock at the mouth of her pussy. She arched against him, desperate for his penetration, but the bonds of fyre he’d tethered her with did their job, holding her firm against the bed.

  Another groan and he leaned over her, covering her with his body, sheltering her and owning her all at once. Wrapping long fingers over her wrists, over her marriage cuffs and the bonds of flame he’d used to bind her, Miach swiveled his hips and entered her one slow, agonizing inch at a time.

  Her hands were bound but her legs were free, and in an inspired move Temair arched up and wrapped them tight around his waist. That was all it took, and Miach’s iron control finally shattered. His hips moved, a graceful, swirling thrust that filled her, stroked everywhere that needed stroking, and sent her careening toward insanity.

  She came with a billow of heat that lifted tendrils of his hair where they’d worked loose of his top-knot, breaking against him in waves of intensity that grew rather than subsiding.

  As she clenched around him, he pulled her closer, lowering one hand to drag her hips higher, slide her tighter and faster over his cock.

  It felt like hours before she came down, hours of pounding, punishing pleasure before her brain cleared enough for her to be aware of her surroundings.

  Miach was still inside her, still searingly hot and achingly hard. His lips pulled back in a grimace, and a low groan rasped from his throat, and Temair was struck once again by his sheer beauty. And he was hers.

  “Fuck me, Miach.” Still bound, she couldn’t reach his mouth, so she turned her head and pressed her lips to his arm. He jerked against her, that low groan rising in volume, and she pressed harder with both lips and words. “Come in me, Husband.” She licked daintily at the corded muscle of his forearm as he gritted out a curse. “Fill me with your heat, with your fyre.” The steady rhythm of his hips hitched, stuttered. “I’ll come again,” she promised wickedly, “just from feeling you spurt your flame inside me.”

  He came with a roar, hot surges of his hips, scalding sprays of his seed, and to her shock, Temair kept her promise, convulsing helplessly around him, sharing his pleasure.

  Chapter Four

  “So what do you think of them?” Temair’s voice was soft, as she lay draped languidly across Miach’s chest.

  “The Sons?” He considered for a moment. “Aquil seems… adequate,” he finally answered. “I haven’t really talked to any of the others.”

  “Oh, really?” Temair tipped her head back enough to give a teasing smile. “I could have sworn I saw you speaking with the eldest before he joined me in the dance.”

  Miach’s body tensed beneath her. “I thought he wasn’t up for consideration.” All the lazy satisfaction of the previous moments had drained from his voice.

  “Well,” she agreed, “he certainly wasn’t first on the list. But there’s something about him…” Something. The amazing chemistry that sent desire flooding through her veins.

  “He’s obnoxious,” Miach stated flatly. “He’s presumptuous and completely inappropriate.”

  She propped her forearms on his chest and looked at him. His face was totally closed to her, much like when they’d first met. “I can see he made an impression. He might have been a bit… friendly,” she allowed, “but he didn’t do anything obnoxious or presumptuous with me.”

  “He’s frivolous. He doesn’t have the moral fiber to be a Consort.”

  He had the same look on his face that he wore when discussing his younger brother, Vashti, whom she knew he despised. Curiouser and curiouser.

  “All right. What on Emetra did he do to make you so angry?”

  A dark flush spread over Miach’s cheekbones, staining the ivory flesh with hot color. Her stoic, serious Consort actually fidgeted beneath her.

  “He implied…” he trailed off, seeming almost unsure of how to continue.

  “Implied?” The blush darkened at her question. She could practically hear his teeth grinding.

  “He implied that your Rayne Consort would be… accessible…” Another pause. “He said that your Rayne Consort might expect…” Finally, in one breath he gritted out, “He implied that he’d be happy to become as close to me as he would to you.”

  “Oh,” she said, nonplussed. Then, as his full meaning dawned on her, “Oh!”

  “He’s completely amoral. Completely ruled by the head between his legs instead of the one on his shoulders.”
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  Temair couldn’t repress a small smile. He was protesting awfully hard. “So, I take it you would not be open to such an offer?” Miach’s mouth dropped open in a most endearing manner, and Temair giggled.

  “Of course not!” Those black eyes crackled with agitation. “It would never even occur to me!” He looked at her in silence for a moment. “Besides, your Consorts are there for you, not for each other.”

  “Oh, Miach,” she sighed. “My Consorts will be family. They will have to be a support system for each other and for our children as well, if we are to be happy together.”

  “He’s still a poor choice,” Miach muttered, looking away. Temair pressed a kiss to his rigid jaw, and let the subject go.

  But she couldn’t quite get out of her mind the fact that, under the shock and agitation in his black-ruby eyes, there had been a flicker of something that looked suspiciously like interest.

  * * *

  The next morning, Temair wandered through the lush grounds of Villa Rayne. Large, lacy fronds hung low from the trees in varying shades of blue and green, while pink and purple blossoms provided startling pops of color. The humidity made for a place of tropical beauty.

  It was difficult, in a place of such tranquil beauty, to worry about her would-be attackers; especially since there’d been no attempts made since they’d left the Fyre Lands. Miach and Sorcha didn’t seem to have the same problem remembering the potential danger, though. She’d finally resorted to begging Nuriel to distract them so she could slip away and have some time to herself. They’d be pissed at her machinations, but it was worth it to be able to relax.

  She followed a winding path until she came upon a blue-green lagoon, complete with mini-waterfall. Faint rainbows shone in the mist where the cascade of water made contact with the calm waters of the lagoon. Temair laughed out loud in delight. Until taking this tour, she’d never really been anywhere in Emetra other than the Capitol. She’d heard some stories of her fathers’ homelands, but the stories paled in comparison to the realities she’d experienced.