by L. A. Banks
Force met force, and there was enough trust that they wouldn’t drop each other by pulling up in a sudden move. His knees bent and his feet pushed against the ground; so did hers, until they stood back-to-back, and turned at the same time. He went to the left, she cut her blade to the right, slow motions, moving clockwise and counterclockwise to each other’s controlled moves, eyes closed, sensing the motion before it happened, knowing where the other would be, mirror images, moving faster.
He could feel dampness coat his skin, tasted salt as he licked his lips and kept pace with her. The air was cool flowing through his hair; it had dampened, too. She smelled good; he knew where she was at every moment till time stopped, sound abated, nothing existed except the sound of her breaths.
He’d glimpsed her expression from the corner of his eye as they passed each other in a blur of motion. His back slammed against hers. She froze and didn’t move. Enough. Time to slow it down, slide back to the ground, and regain their breathing. He was so turned on that for a moment he couldn’t will his knees to bend.
She waited, had caught the look on his face. Gooseflesh covered her arms beneath her sleeves. His eyes burned with pure silver light. His Neteru marking on his jugular glowed white hot. He was majestic swinging a blade under the sun. They had to sit down, they had to sit down, they had to sit down. All she had to do was simply bend her knees.
She did, and they buckled, causing him to almost plummet, then pause, wait for her, and continue the slow descent to the blanket, adding pressure to pick up the slack when her weight shifted. He was trailing pure male Neteru; she sucked in a huge breath and allowed the scent to coat her tongue and her insides. It was all in his sweat, mixing with rarified air, and flowers, and grasses, and rich, dark earth. She hit the blanket with a thud. He’d stopped breathing for a second. Her blade trembled in her hand, not from fatigue. She was one with the blade, she was one with the blade, she was one with the blade…. She dropped it. She heard another one thud as it hit the dirt.
“Listen, D—”
“I know.”
“You think he’s coming back anytime soon?”
“That old dude pops out of thin air,” she said after a moment.
He nodded, and took in a huge breath of air. “Yeah, I know.”
“I think we’re synced up.”
He nodded and swallowed hard. “Yeah.”
She closed her eyes and opened her hand. His filled it, not the sword. He nuzzled her shoulder with his chin, slightly turning. She breathed him in with a shudder.
“You smell so good it doesn’t make any sense.” She opened her other hand and his filled it.
“I can feel your Sankofa, like it’s burning right through your coat.”
She squeezed her lids shut tighter. “It’s climbing up my back, like you,” she said hoarse. She turned her arms inward, but didn’t turn to face him as he wrapped them around his waist. She dropped her head back to touch his and pressed her knees together. “You’re apexing.”
He nodded. “I know. I can barely breathe.”
A shudder claimed him as her pulse quickened in his palms. Suddenly he could feel the gooseflesh on her arms. His mouth craved hers like a dying man craves water. It was beyond a thirst, it had become a necessity.
Every pulse point she owned lit within him, fusing his to hers, until he dropped her hands, spun, and took her mouth. His fingers found her hair, a sensation so missed that they trembled in the lush texture. Her skin, her gorgeous, rich cinnamon skin was alive, even the color of it was living heat beneath his palm as it caressed her cheek, and the sound she sent into his mouth made him cover her on the ground.
His opened coat became one with hers, creating a double, moving, writhing blanket of hair and animal skin and bits of crushed flowers. Her voice muffled his as he moved against her, fabric creating friction, heat, resonance on the wind. Sound echoes clashed with the distant, steady, rhythm of rams horns locking in to-the-death imperatives established at the dawn of time.
She looked up into solid silver irises, a safety net catching her before she fell, yet she was one with the elements; yes, free from fear and worry, a hand touched her face in gentle surrender. Hers was covering where a misguided blow had landed, echoing truth from the soul, I’m ready. Just say it. Her spirit understood the slap was for another. Truth permeated it all.
“I love you.”
She closed her eyes and felt the brand on his jugular, the heat seal that said he was on her side and in the Light. “I love you, too,” she whispered. “But with no intent to carry.”
Just say it, her mind called out to him again. She looked into eyes that told her no matter what his mouth said, there was a fifty-fifty chance she’d get up from the encounter planted with life. “Just say it.”
“I can’t lie to you.” His voice was hot and ragged against her ear. “My intent is shaky.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. “You’re apexing, you know what that means.”
He nodded and covered her mouth again, his tongue tangling with hers until she gasped and broke the kiss. “Don’t make me make promises I can’t keep.”
Truth vibrated within his words, truth resonated within her soft moan. Layers of wool now seemed a divide as vast as the mountains surrounding them. Each peeled-away, pushed-up bit of cloth sent shivers. Touched torsos burned skin-to-skin, quaked backbones in jagged shudders. Hands worked fastenings to open hidden caverns and close gaps within the fabric of the universe, still held within the fabric of wool and jeans. Legs shackled to the knees in pants that stopped at boot tops contributed to a blackout-level frustration to connect. Blinding pleasure, wet slide hard arching one with lightning arcs; unsettling nesting birds now taking flight due to the cosmic disturbance.
If he had only known what it would have been like to apex in her arms, he would have never wasted time taking a walk on the dark side. Every touch she landed exploded pure white-light pleasure beneath her smooth caress till it went down to his marrow and resurfaced on his skin. She hunted sensations, trapped them, and knew just where to send them to climb up his shaft.
Oh, God, yes, this woman knew … Her hands knew him; she siphoned truth in unintelligible groans of consent. Yes, she could suck pleasure from every pore, making rain with his sweat, hard thunder from his voice, then evaporate it all in a hot-steam bath—she knew how; she knew all. It was her right to open up the heavens and transform stone into pliable clay. She could take his rib and create whatever she wanted, just so long as she didn’t stop taking him into her … and she knew that.
The old man was wrong; he knew the questions to ask. He just couldn’t get them out between sobs. Oh, damn … She was an element, hot wax, fire, oil. You didn’t ask the elements, you begged them … paid homage, made sacrifices, lit butter lamps, left gifts, and prayed hard. Yes, she was one with the universe; he was one with her. Elements fused with known hysteria, because his woman knew him so well … shit. She felt so good; he knew everything but his name. She knew the hidden mysteries within, and had opened the door to transformation when she’d opened her warm thighs, and allowed him to pour himself into her.
The moment he entered her, she knew. She couldn’t breathe. Her hands molded the curve of his ass; she knew the muscle cords under his skin like she knew her name. She knew his rhythm, his pulse, knew so fully that the tips of her breasts stung with remembrance. She knew the thick sinew that created leverage within his thighs, pushed his knees against the earth, sent his hot, staccato pant through her system, chasing deep, subsonic moans up from his diaphragm.
Oh, God, yes, she knew those slightly rough hands splayed wide across her back and behind, a mouth harsh and tender, butter tea sweetened with salt, yet never bitter. Yes, she knew this man from all imposters, knew him before he stuttered her name, knew how he fused Spanish and English when he was near the edge … and knew this time he couldn’t thread together a sentence to save his life.
His energy was wrapped around her like his earthy, fabulous, aphrodis
iac scent. That’s how she knew how to move with him, against him; knew that this apex was making him sob, fight a losing battle with control; it had stolen hers, made her careless, even though they both knew the consequences. There was never any question when her voice rent the air. They both knew a bite was coming that wouldn’t break the skin, but would send ribbons of colors to spiral behind shut lids.
Rites of passage, rites of spring … seasons blurred. Too much time had gone by, yet not enough time remained in the world. This man, her man, had synced up with every element in the universe. He brought pure thunder to her valley, sudden lightning strikes of pleasure, then rained hard within her, and made her want to be mother earth. For him she would be whatever—she didn’t care. Everything within her converged on their sacred central joining … his touch, his voice, his ragged breaths, his scent and sweat, until her internal heaven opened and poured forth all she had with her tears.
Yeah, she knew quite clearly that they were both infected … infected with each other…. That’s what had them amid the cliffs losing their minds.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Breathing hard, sitting back-to-back, they kept their eyes closed and tried to pull themselves together before Bonpo Master Zang Ho, the Naksong, returned.
They heard him before his tiny little feet hit the ground. They knew he was scowling as he swished around them in a circle. It was not necessary to open their eyes.
“So!” their teacher said crisply. “It is near sunset. Have you aligned your energies?”
Damali felt a smile creep over her face and connect to Carlos’s. “I think so,” she said and offered him a slight bow by tilting her head down while she kept her eyes closed. If she looked the old man in the face, she knew her eyes would tell all and she’d burst out laughing.
“And you?” the master snapped to Carlos’s.
“Oh, yeah …” he said, his voice slow and mellow. “I’m real straight.”
For a moment, the Bonpo master didn’t respond. He paused, fidgeted a bit, and then began walking again. “Good. Then would you care to demonstrate what you have learned?”
Damali’s eyes popped open, she could feel laughter rising within her and connecting to a belly laugh swirling within Carlos. He broke before she did, and it was all over. He fell on his side and shook his head. She tried to keep her stoic facade, but it crumbled and gave way to gales of laughter.
“No, man,” Carlos said, wheezing through heavy bursts of laughter. “Some secrets are not to be revealed.”
The Naksong walked away and stood with his arms folded. “The swords,” he said in a peevish tone. “In your hands. Now!”
“All right, all right,” Carlos said, recovering and trying not to smile. “My apologies.” He pushed himself to sit up and pressed his spine to Damali’s again. He closed his eyes, laughter still erupting intermittently. “On three, baby.”
“I got you,” she said, unable to swallow away the mirth.
Carlos opened his hand at the same time Damali opened hers, and a sword appeared in both of their palms.
Shocked, they both stared down and marveled.
“That was deep, D,” Carlos whispered.
“I know,” she said, turning her wrist so the blade caught the setting sun.
Zang Ho rubbed his beard and allowed a half smile. He glanced at Carlos and then began walking. “Your eyes are silver,” he said coolly. “I take it that you have been properly realigned.”
“Master Zang Ho,” Monk Lin said, bowing deeply as the party of three approached the small settlement camp.
Zang Ho frowned and returned Monk Lin’s deep bow. “I am done teaching for a lifetime,” he fussed as he stood with folded arms. “Incorrigible. Nondisciplined. Unorthodox. Slow to learn!”
“The oxen are slow, master. But the earth is patient,” Monk Lin said with a quiet smile.
“They are ready,” Zang Ho said begrudgingly, as he eyed Carlos and Damali, and then the rest of their team. The old master walked back and forth in front of the group, which was assembled before a large yak-haired tent. He glanced down at the ammunition trunks on the ground. “It was wise of you not to put innocent nomad protectors at risk.”
“Yes, revered one. We let them know our approximate location, but have moved our team away from their campgrounds … just in case.” Monk Lin smiled and kept his eyes lowered.
“He is apexing,” Zang Ho snapped, pointing at Carlos as he walked away. The old man spun and folded his arms again, stopping his agitated movements. “Correction. Apexed. Past tense.”
Monk Lin nodded and gave the Bonpo master a slight bow. “I know, esteemed master. We heard it echo through the glen.”
She was done. She must have packed and unpacked and checked and rechecked artillery a hundred times, and there still wasn’t a good place to keep her line of vision. She wasn’t trying to see a single smile or smirk. She didn’t want Carlos to say a word to her to make it any worse. Oh, my God, if her team had heard all that … no wonder the nomads had picked up tents and rolled.
Damali kept her eyes on the steel blade she was polishing. She’d begged silence in order to so-called concentrate. When she did speak, it was strictly business. Monk Lin, thankfully, was as discreet as ever, and worked at distributing night gear with Rider, whose expression remained unreadable. But Inez’s glee was wearing her out. No, she was not discussing this with her girl. Not!
Conversely, Juanita still issued glances that could cut metal. Now that was one heifer that had better stay out of swing range—she was in no mood. Jose remained aloof. Damn. But that was cool. Had to be that way. Big Mike kept nodding to himself and showing off his silver-spiked hiking cleats while wearing a huge smile, and joking about kicking demon ass till it sizzled. He wasn’t fooling a soul; Big Mike needed a diversion to allow him to belly laugh at something so they wouldn’t take direct offense. Bottom line, though, Mike was all in their business. That was working her nerves to the bitter end. Bobby and Dan just seemed to walk around bumping into each other, all nervous, while Krissy and J.L. couldn’t get out of each other’s faces.
Damali let out a breath of frustration as she glimpsed Marjorie from the corner of her eye, noting that in the poor woman’s distress, she’d brought some wildflowers into a daggone artillery tent, and was sprucing up the hovel like a spring wedding was in the offing. Berkfield seemed lost, his worried focus on his daughter, who was now clearly in full bloom. Hey, what did the man want? It was springtime in the mountains, and the girl was grown.
Damali let her breath out hard again. Her business was all in the streets. Was it possible to die of instant mortification, she wondered? The only ones who were somewhat cool were Marlene and Shabazz. They simply raised eyebrows with a knowing smirk and kept their conversation on neutral topics. But, that damned Carlos couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. He was so cheerful that she couldn’t even look at him.
Carlos plopped down behind her. Pressed his back to hers and began polishing his already gleaming blade. Damali laughed softly, unable to help herself.
“Get away from me,” she whispered. “Your eyes are still flickering.”
He smiled and turned his blade back and forth, catching the dim lamplights and tent center fire in it. “Really?”
“Stop,” Damali said, working harder on the steel she held.
“That’s not what you said a little while ago,” he said under his breath, a low chuckle rumbling through his back into hers.
She had no words.
His laughter abated, but his mood remained light as he began polishing his blade behind her. After a moment, he abruptly stood and walked to the other side of the tent, blade pointed to the ground, studying it. No one paid him any particular attention, but she’d seen his lids lower by a quarter just as he’d turned to walk away. It was the sexiest of nuances, just a slight tremor unnoticeable to the others around them, but unmistakable to her. Then he quickly gave her his full back, as though trying to regain his cool.
In
that moment, time seemed to slow down once more. She could feel his energy waft across the interior of the tent, enter the tip of her blade, and travel up the length of steel in her hand as though it were a giant antenna. Soon the blade in her hand became a lightning rod of sorts, picking up sensations that made it difficult to continue to hold the sword and keep polishing it. The more she rubbed it, the shakier his breaths seemed to become. She looked at the sword and stopped polishing it for a second, saw his breath hitch, and mouthed a silent wow … He was one with the blade. Very, very deep.
She’d promised herself that she would ignore him, but she couldn’t help watching Carlos slowly sit on the ground and fold his legs Indian style, take in a quiet but shaky breath, and lay his sword across his thighs. Ever so slowly she noticed a slight mist of color begin to overtake his aura. It was a very deep navy, nearly indigo, that was close to black, with flicks of silver iridescence threaded through the hue. Although she kept the observation concealed within sidelong glances, the entire spectacle was mesmerizing as the vapor emanating from him began to fill the tent and mingle with the plume of smoke coming off the fire, and exiting the center chimney hole above.
Just watching him struggle for composure did something to her. With all the eyes around and the unseen dangers, she knew he was fighting a losing battle between the intellectual and the primal. Zang Ho was wrong, he hadn’t apexed; he was apexing. This wasn’t something that just happened quickly and was over. It was a process, and took a month to get out of one’s system. She’d been there, almost pushed to the brink of her sanity when it had been her ripening time, and there was no one there when it happened … no one that she wanted to be with like she’d wanted to be with him.
