Knight Avenged (Circle of Seven #2)

by Coreene Callahan

  Oh gods.

  Scorching heat on her skin. A wet stroke over her nipple. Instant, devastating pleasure.

  With a groan, he suckled her, each pull gentle and sure, yet somehow rough too.

  The throb between her thighs intensified. “Henrik!”

  “Hmm, you’re sensitive.” Stroking her with his tongue, he tugged at the lace holding her braes in place. Nestled just below her belly button, the bow let go. The leather tie loosened, widening by the moment, revealing her skin an inch at a time. He nipped the tip of her nipple. Her back arched. Her breath hitched. Suspended in pleasure, she bit down on her bottom lip as his hand slid over her bare belly, then slipped between her legs. Eager for him, she spread her thighs wider. Separating her folds with gentle fingertips, he slid into her heat and groaned against her breast. “Oh God. You’re perfect here too. Gorgeous, iubita. You’re gorgeous. So hot and tight, so slick . . . almost ready to come for me.”

  His voice—the deep stroke of it—unraveled her control, leaving her at his mercy. A very nice place to be, particularly since he didn’t have any. Stroking the top of her sex, he drenched her in bliss, pumping the pleasure so high she couldn’t tell where he ended and she began. And all the while he talked to her, whispering naughty things in her ear, praising her with words and—goddess, she enjoyed the sound of him. Loved the way he spoke to her, tone full of enchantment and awe and oh so much need.

  Head thrown back, she listened to his voice, yet barely heard him. She was too busy chasing the sensation to pay attention. Illusive and thick, it gripped her body, strumming a chord while he played between her thighs, teasing her with the promise of . . . something. A something she wanted. Now. This instant. Hmm, she was close. So very close, yet still too far away.

  “Henrik . . . I cannot . . . I need—”

  “To come. I know.” Nipping the underside of her chin, he withdrew. She protested the loss. Kissing her gently, he knelt beside her. Still dressed, knees sinking into the mattress, he fisted his hands in her braes. He tugged. She raised her hips, allowing him to draw the pair down her legs. Chest pumping, gaze riveted to the red curls between her thighs, he tossed her underwear over the side of the bed. “I cannot wait to feel you come.”

  “Come?”

  “The pleasure I promised you.”

  “Is that what I’m chasing?”

  “Aye,” he murmured. “Do you want it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fast or slow?” he asked, unlacing his leather tunic.

  “Which is better?”

  “Depends. Both are good, but this time . . . your first time . . . I think I’ll give it to you fast.”

  “Fast works.” Was the best, really. An excellent plan in every way. She squirmed against the mattress. “I need—gods, Henrik. Do something.”

  He grinned, the quick flash of white teeth all wolf. “With pleasure, my beautiful wanton. I’ll give you all you want . . . everything you need.”

  Eyes locked on her, Henrik drew his tunic over his head and sent it flying. As the leather went the way of her braes, he unlaced and shucked his trews. Cosmina’s mouth fell open. By the gods, he was incredible. Long limbs. Hard-bodied. Broad, strong, so beautifully made he stole her breath, then gave it back, kissing her deep, filling her lungs with his scent as he settled solid and warm against her. Opening wide to appease him, she tangled her tongue with his. He groaned. She hummed, welcoming him, cradling him in her arms, stroking her hand down the wide expanse of his back. Raised ridges ghosted against her fingertips and . . .

  Scars. Many of them crisscrossing his back. Except . . .

  ’Twasn’t lash marks made by a whip. ’Twas a pattern. A distinct one rooted in pain and suffering, as though someone had cut into his skin with deliberate precision. The realization startled her, dimming pleasure, raising questions, her concern for him paramount. Backing off a little, she gentled the kiss and skimmed his scars, a silent question in her touch. Cracking his eyes open, he met her gaze.

  “Henrik.”

  “Nay, Cosmina.” Mouth brushing hers, he shook his head. “No thinking allowed.”

  “Later then,” she said, caressing his back, tracing the awful lines carved into his skin. He’d been hurt . . . badly, in the worst way. Someone had done this to him. A someone he despised. She saw the truth in his gaze, felt the sudden tension in his muscles even as he shrugged, denying the abuse without words. Raising her head off the pillow, she brushed her lips against the corner of his. “You know I’ll ask later.”

  “But not right now.”

  “Not right now,” she whispered, bowing to his wishes, allowing him his way.

  Relief sparked a moment before the heat returned to his eyes. Powerful. Enthralling. He devastated her, using his hands and mouth to stroke her into submission. All thought, questions and curiosity included, left her head. Mindless for him, she spread her thighs when he asked, watched him slide down her body and lick his way across her abdomen. Need swirled into an incendiary whirlpool. Bliss rose on a ravenous wave, dragging her under as he kissed the curls atop her mound. She blinked and held her breath. He wasn’t going to . . . couldn’t be planning on—

  Mouth hot, he licked into her folds.

  “Henrik!”

  Using his shoulders, he pressed her knees wider, sank between her thighs, and laved her again. A delicious stroke right where she wanted him. A delicate flick of his tongue to the bud atop her sex. A hard swirl followed by a gentle suck and—oh aye, that was delicious, unlike anything, better than . . . than—good goddess, Cosmina didn’t know. She couldn’t breathe, much less string two thoughts together. Could only listen to her body, heed Henrik and feel . . . everything, all he gave, wave after glorious wave of sensation. Deep in the eddy, pleasure slammed through her, making her toes curl. She keened, throbbing hard, tittering on the edge of something magnificent as he settled in, took his time, and bathed her in delight.

  “You like that,” he growled, finding a rhythm, tongue stroking deeper, “don’t you, iubita?”

  On the cusp of ecstasy, she didn’t answer. She allowed herself to feel instead, bowing off the bed, moving with him, begging for release. Relief. Anything. All of him, just as long as he made her come. Right now.

  “Henrik, please . . . please.”

  “Hard and fast,” he said, stroking her again. “Hard and fast, love.”

  One hand pressed flat to her abdomen, he lapped at the nubbin atop her sex and slipped one finger inside her. Beautiful withdrawal. Devastating advance. Thrust and retreat. Again and again as he prepared her, stretching her gently. He sent a second finger deep. ’Twas too much, yet not enough. It was incredible, diabolical, the sweetest kind of torture. And as she lost her mind beneath him, he made her work. Made her writhe and fight for each gasp, controlling her so completely she felt nothing but him. Naught but his heat and the shocking pleasure he lavished on her. The advance and retreat, each stroke, every stunning suck and flick, and she undulated, raising her hips, fisting her hands in the sheets, begging without words.

  “Scream for me, Cosmina.” Watching her from between the spread of her thighs, he nipped her gently. “Now, love. Scream for me.”

  His deep voice washed over her. Bliss detonated, and she exploded into delight. Ecstasy tore his name from her throat. His grip on her tightened. Muscles flexed as he pushed her knees up and out. With a rough sound, he surged between her thighs, settled deep, set himself to her entrance, and—

  Thrust hard to her center.

  She screamed again, the pleasure so intense she lost herself all over again. He started to move, his hips driving against her own. Stretched to the limit, overwhelmed, deep in a maelstrom of sensation, rapture spun her around the lip of wonder. Tears rolled from the corners of her eyes. She wrapped her arms around him and held on hard, amazed by the man, ambushed by emotion, matching him stroke for incredible stroke. On the verge. Teetering on the edge of another orgasm, she moaned as passion cracked the hard shell protecting her heart.
Awe and need combined, shattering her control, rising hard inside her, allowing reverence and more to bubble between the cracks of her crumbling guard.

  Dangerous emotion. Inescapable weakness. Beautiful, catastrophic disaster.

  Cosmina didn’t care. In that moment, she loved him true. Needed him deep. Wanted him hot and hard against her—inside her—always. A foolish hope. A dreamer’s dream, more ridiculous than real. But as he pushed her to new heights, and she listened to him shout her name, felt him tense and throb deep inside her, Cosmina held him close and made a promise to herself, vowing to fight. For him. For her. For a chance at a real future together. Henrik belonged in her arms. She knew it, felt it . . . believed it. So aye, she would fight, defy destiny, and hang on to Henrik for as long as the fates allowed.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Nestled against Henrik’s side with her head on his shoulder, Cosmina slid her hand across his chest. Muscle rippled beneath her palm, and she sighed, letting her pleasure show. Being held was pure heaven. Absolute bliss brought on by the fact Henrik hadn’t pushed her away. He wanted her right where she lay—snug in his arms, surrounded by his strength and her rabbit fur throw, skin pressed to warm skin. Oh she’d tried to save face after the first loving. Had made for the edge of the bed, a little unsure, a lot embarrassed by her reaction to him, by how she’d moaned and pleaded for his possession . . .

  For the pleasure he’d given her.

  But Henrik hadn’t let her escape in the aftermath. He’d drawn her close instead, wrapped her in his embrace and held on, coaxing her into relaxation, tempting her to trust him, stealing another piece of her heart. How many that made, Cosmina didn’t know. Too many to count or was wise, but—gods—she couldn’t help herself. Hadn’t said no when he’d made love to her a second time. Nor would she object to a third. Strange. More than a touch disconcerting. Neediness didn’t suit her. She didn’t moon over men or yearn for connection. Ever.

  Independent. Capable. Able to look after herself without needing anyone.

  Well, at least, under normal circumstances.

  Making love with Henrik, though, didn’t qualify as ordinary. Hot. Erotic. Fierce. Pleasure-bound exotic. Henrik epitomized each one. Which catapulted him into a category all his own—one named things she couldn’t resist. She wanted to deny it. Longed to bypass the realization without examining it, but couldn’t. So only one thing left to do: admit it. She was in trouble, way past the point of no return, standing in uncharted territory . . . in danger of losing her heart to the hazel-eyed, hard-bodied warrior cradling her as though she were precious to him.

  Precious. She huffed. Such a frivolous thought, yet one she wished would come true. The hope made her a first-class fool. Hanging on to him—fighting to spend every moment with him, waking or otherwise, before he left—was one thing. Yearning for something more, however, was quite another. Cosmina knew it like she now knew his body.

  Which was to say . . . very, very well.

  He’d allowed her exploration during their second loving. Sated by the first round, he’d slowed them down, encouraging her to touch and taste, whispering naughty instructions, giving her free reign before rolling her beneath him again. She’d taken complete advantage, reveled in the power, in her ability to tease and please him as he did her. Now, though, in the body-drain of bone-melting afterglow, with the fire crackling and his chest rising and falling beneath her cheek, all kinds of questions cropped up.

  Each one centered on him. His scars, and how he’d come by them, occupied her mind. But more than anything, she wanted to ask about the birthmark on his chest. Stamped over his heart, she understood what the mark represented. Unlike hers, the moon-star hadn’t been burned into his skin. He’d been born with it. Solid proof of his relationship to White Temple, and more precisely, to the royal family that ruled the Order of Orm.

  Henrik was the son of the former High Priestess. A prince with magic in his blood, one anointed by the Goddess of All Things while in his mother’s womb.

  An occurrence that had never happened before.

  She knew the history. Had studied the tomes inside White Temple’s library as part of her training as a member of the Blessed. And yet, as she shifted against him, slipping her thigh over one of his and staring at the flames flickering in the hearth, she struggled to understand . . . to put two and two together and come up with four. Naught added up. No neat columns filled with numbers recorded by the precise strokes of a quill. Everything felt skewed, out of order, as though history had shifted sometime during the last few hours, calling into question all she knew to be true.

  A mystery. One at least twenty years old.

  Not that the time frame mattered. ’Twas the circumstances—the trail of misinformation—that tweaked her curiosity. Eyes narrowed, she shuffled through all she knew of White Temple, the former High Priestess, and the resulting history. Huh. Interesting. She didn’t possess all the facts. Henrik was living proof of that. Particularly since a crypt with his name on it sat inside the holy city’s cemetery.

  Raising her head, she pressed a kiss to his shoulder. He murmured her name. Her mouth curved as she glanced at his face. Replete, body relaxed and eyes closed, his thick lashes formed half-moons on his skin, making him seem almost boyish. She knew better. Henrik was all man. He’d spent the better part of the afternoon proving it to her, so . . .

  She scanned his face again. Her heart kicked behind her breastbone. Heat pooled in her belly. Muscles deep inside her coiled in abject appreciation. By the gods, he was beautiful, every muscled, masculine inch of him.

  “Hey, Henrik?”

  Turning his head on the pillow, he cracked his eyes open. Hazel-gold glinting from behind dark lashes, the corners of his mouth tilted up. Holding her gaze, he trailed his fingertips up her arm. As she shivered in pleasure, he brushed over the bandage circling her bicep. “How is your arm, Cosmina? Not too tender?”

  “A little sore, but all right,” she said, wondering how to ask about his past.

  She wanted to know everything about him. Longed to be the one he talked to like she needed her next breath. And yet, fear stilled her tongue even as curiosity urged her to ask. Nerves getting the better of her, she chewed on the inside of her lip, searching for the best way to start the conversation. Should she just plunge in and let the first question fly? Or would he be more receptive to a gentler approach? Cosmina frowned. She didn’t know. Couldn’t begin to guess, but one thing for certain? His history with the Order hinted at a rough beginning and a painful past.

  The empty tomb with his name on it told her that much.

  Which meant she should probably leave well enough alone.

  Most men didn’t tolerate prying. Some became violent. Others attacked without using their fists, maiming with cruel words or, more often than not, harsh silence. She didn’t believe Henrik would do any of those things. Not to her. Not after all that had happened. No doubt a foolish conclusion, but one she held close nonetheless. She wanted to believe she meant something to him. That the way he treated her—with respect, affection, and passionate need—would pave the way to sharing. The true kind in which physical intimacy reached across boundaries, sliding into emotional connection.

  A pang tightened her chest.

  ’Twas probably idiotic. Naught but a silly feminine urge, and yet, she refused to discount it. Or back away. She needed to know him. Wanted every scrap of his trust and interest focused on her, and her alone. True closeness arrived that way, minting memories that would last her a lifetime. Which meant she couldn’t turn from the truth. Deduction and common sense combined, telling her something more than just bad had happened to him. Her Seer’s eye expanded, calling upon her instincts. Abuse. Abandonment. Agonizing betrayal. He’d suffered all three. Its cruel delivery perpetrated by the one woman who should have protected instead of hurt him . . .

  His mother. The former High Priestess of Orm.

  Not surprising when she thought about it. Ylenia hadn’t been a saint. She’d
been closer to the devil, possessing a terrible temper, wielding cruelty the way most women did love: with unconditional aplomb.

  Watching her closely, Henrik cupped her cheek. She leaned into his touch. He hummed, caressing her skin before reversing course to tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “What is it, iubita?”

  She swallowed and reached for courage. Here went nothing. “I was wrong before.”

  He raised a brow, asking without words.

  “Remember when we met and—”

  “Collided, you mean?”

  She pursed her lips. “Probably more accurate.”

  Amusement sparked in his eyes. “I have a slice in my favorite trews to prove it.”

  “You are fortunate you have very fast reflexes,” she said, mischief in her tone as she slid her hand across his abdomen. Taut muscles tensed beneath her touch. Without mercy, she cupped him, taking liberties beneath the covers. “If you hadn’t been, I might have ruined something other than your trews.”

  His breath caught as his hips curled, lifting off the mattress. She stroked him again, watched his gaze grow dark with desire, loving the feel of him hardening in her hand.

  “Sweet Christ, Cosmina.” Breathing hard, he gripped her wrist and tugged, his message clear: talk first, another round of loving after. “What about how we met?”

  Excellent question. An even better segue. Especially since it led exactly where she wanted to go . . . toward answers and the truth.

  Drawing in a fortifying breath, Cosmina untangled her hand from his and pushed up onto one elbow. The bed creaked beneath her. The soft sound broke through the quiet as she reached out. Her palm touched down on the center of his chest. His heat bled into her fingertips, making need rise and her want more of him. The notion tugged at her, challenging her will, then whispered in her ear, urging her to forget the truth and turn toward desire. Tempting. Oh so much easier too, but she refused to be distracted. He had a secret. She needed to know, so . . . ’twas now or never. Here or not at all. So instead of shying away, she set the course, sealed her fate, and, holding his gaze, drew a gentle circle around his birthmark.