Captive Desires

by Diane Whiteside

  They made it through the doorway along with the mob and into the hallway. Alekhsiy continued to use the others for cover, always edging toward the group’s outskirts. When they reached a corner, she tugged slightly on his hand and slipped out of the crowd.

  They faded into the shadows and down a long corridor. She began counting intersections, learned during so many Cons here.

  “Ma’am? If you’re down here, Mr. Turner would simply like to have a few private words with you.” The voice echoing down the hall after them didn’t sound cordial at all.

  Danae’s skin tried to race ahead of her for safety.

  Alekhsiy’s knife appeared in his hand.

  Five, six . . .

  She stepped into a small alcove and pushed on the hidden door, praying her luck would hold. It swung silently open and she stepped quickly inside, followed immediately by Alekhsiy. An instant later, the door closed as quickly and quietly as it had opened.

  A man’s footsteps rushed past outside, barely audible through the heavy wood. “Ma’am?” he called again.

  Danae glanced up at Alekhsiy. Her heart was pounding harder than during any rotten dress rehearsal.

  He shrugged wordlessly, his expression more dangerous than the knife in his hand.

  They were in a small restroom, its marble countertops and floors testifying to the high-class customers the hotel expected to serve here. It was immaculately clean, down to the faint aroma of expensive forests. Next door was the associated executive conference room, rarely if ever used during GriffinCon.

  She flexed her fingers, not daring to pace, and forced her pulse out of her throat and into her chest. Dammit, she usually did better than this when faced with an attacker. Was the need to protect Alekhsiy making her more nervous?

  The footsteps came back, faster and heavier. “Sorry, sir. I must have missed her in the crowd.”

  Danae and Alekhsiy exchanged looks in the mirror. Their pursuer must be talking into his cell phone.

  “No, sir, I couldn’t read either of their badges. Didn’t the other women say anything? Damn. Yes, of course we can hack into GriffinCon’s computers and find her somehow.”

  Danae tilted her head back against the wall. If nobody else came by, they should be safe. This suite was normally reserved for VIPs’ private meetings with the media, something those hard partygoers didn’t do frequently.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll keep you free,” Alekhsiy whispered.

  She whipped her head around to stare at him.

  “It is I who’ll keep you safe! You’re the one who’s lost far from home.”

  “But you’ve never fought brutes like him before.”

  She snorted in derision. “You haven’t seen the neighborhoods they put ballet studios in. I didn’t get a black belt in kung fu because I use those moves every week on stage.”

  “You’ve been attacked.” He cupped her shoulders.

  “Three times.” She shrugged, still slightly chilled by the memory. “I was sixteen the first time. I’d decided a long time earlier that if I was attacked, I’d hit back. They didn’t expect that out of a prissy little ballerina.”

  She grinned, her fingers curving into claws. “It felt good to fight something and win for once, instead of being just a kid.”

  “My dangerous little dancer.” He kissed her forehead. “That is why you understand warriors.”

  She shot him a startled look. “No, I just couldn’t stand how Corinne Carson treated you. My God, every time she had a dirty, nasty job, she’d dump it on you—and never give you any pleasure or rewards for it! If there was a hundred-mile forced march through high mountains in the winter, she’d give it to you—especially if you had to fight the enemy at the end. So I tried to make things a little easier for you.”

  “Ending with the night after Tajzyk’s Gorge . . .” His mouth curved smugly.

  “Enjoyed it, did you?” she asked and tilted her head, watching him curiously. Her beautiful man, who she’d made love to so often on the page. A dozen stories, always told from his lovers’ point of view.

  “Definitely one of your best efforts, sweeting, although I prefer the night before the ice fortress siege lifted. I believe the hope you gave me then saved a thousand lives.”

  “Thank you.” She flushed, moisture pricking her eyes. “I didn’t know you were real but your emotions always affected me. Oh . . .”

  She wrapped her arms around him and buried her face against him. He immediately pulled her close, their heartbeats thudding together.

  “We should be careful how we hold each other, dearling. Or . . .”

  “You’ll stamp chain mail on my leather?” Enchanted armor might be useful but warm skin was more pleasant.

  “I’ll slide my hands over the bare flesh that beckons to me,” he whispered in her ear. “Like so.” He eased his hand under her vest and stroked the small of her back.

  Danae arched toward him and purred. Oh yes, indeed. She leaned up and kissed him enthusiastically. “But you need to take off your tunic and armor, Alekhsiy.”

  He rumbled disagreement and kissed her again, twining their tongues together. His fingertips seemed fascinated by the boundary between her skin and the black leather—her waist where her trousers rode and her ribs where the cropped bottom of her bustier sat. He teased and explored, lifting just a little but never enough to let cold air inside, only guiding his warm fingers in to swirl and fondle more enticements than she’d known of.

  She whimpered, writhed, and tried to move closer. She clung to his arms and cursed his armor in multiple languages.

  He chuckled softly and pressed onward, dipping his hand deeper down her backside. She moaned into his mouth and lifted her arms so he could remove her vest. Heat flickered through her and danced across her skin wherever he stroked.

  He petted and played up her spine, shaping her to fit his big, rough hands. Contrasts flooded her—his calluses, her leather, her sweating skin, her heartbeat drumming under her skin where he touched, the cool marble under her hands, her cream building between her legs.

  “More, please, more, Alekhsiy,” she begged against his mouth and kissed him again.

  He unlaced her bustier and eased his hand in. His warmth honed in directly on her heart, seeming to draw it into the palm of his hand, and lancing it with fire. Hunger pulsed through her blood, sparking between her breasts and her core. She twisted her hips, aching to rub her cream over his cock.

  “Danae, dear heart.” His tongue swirled over first one nipple, then the other. When had he removed her vest? Or her bustier? Who gave a damn when he teased her veins and areola so well? Her breasts swelled to meet him, making her breath catch in her throat. She was a creature blazing with sensation, trapped between his mouth and his hands.

  He untied her trousers and dragged them slowly down to her knees. Somehow his big hand crept inside and found her clit with first one, then a second big finger. He teased her hard, possessively seeking out her entrance and widening her ruthlessly.

  She gripped him heedlessly, eager for fulfillment—desperate for him. “Alekhsiy, please finish me!”

  He choked out a laugh and sucked his fingers. His eyes closed in ecstasy.

  “Dammit, Alekhsiy!” She clawed at his shoulders, threading his long, silky hair between her fingers.

  “Condom?” His blue eyes considered hers, barely sane.

  She snatched one out of her vest’s side pocket, reaching to where he’d tossed it over the stall’s partition. He rolled it onto himself with a speed and rapidity that suggested he’d watched her very closely the night before.

  Then he yanked her trousers the rest of the way off, unzipping them at her ankles to take them past her boots, and spread her wide. Her stupid heart kicked into triple time at the naked yearning—no, surely it was lust—on his face.

  He rubbed his thumb through her folds and she threw her head back, moaning. How could anything be so rough, gentle, and sweet at the same time?

  His hands gripped her hip
s and he pulled her down onto him. She sank home easily, every inch full of him. Even her skin and bones were so overwhelmed they sparkled with lust.

  “Oh my.” She wrapped her legs around his hips, latching her boots against his mail-covered ass. Oh dear God, only her warrior’s hands and cock were bare; everything else was still hidden by tunic and armor. His blazingly hot skin and iron-hard strength fed into her.

  She tightened her channel around him and squeezed his cock hard in welcome. Hers, dammit, hers.

  “Danae!” He plunged into fucking her, thrusting strong and fast. His hands molded her hips, holding her close, bracing her against the counter. He was wild and deep, driving her up and onward.

  She sobbed, hot fire spilling through her bones. Her hair spilled down her back, sweaty and tangled and as uncaring as her emotions.

  He twisted and hit a slightly different spot.

  She gasped and climaxed, consciousness and pleasure tumbling together into an enchanted whirlpool. Alekhsiy shouted an instant later, his own hot climax accelerating the spin until time itself meant nothing and only pleasure existed.

  She needed to rest her head against his shoulder for far too long before she could even start thinking about getting dressed again. At least it was a high-end washroom with real towels for cleaning up.

  She blinked and took a deep breath, ready to start becoming presentable. After all, she needed to get ready for tonight’s Torhtremer Masquerade.

  Presentable.

  She reconsidered the immaculate washroom. She’d never had sex while standing up in her own hotel room or in her tiny Manhattan apartment. There was no way to find enough vacant floor space near a wall.

  This had been fun. Hell, this had been damn good. Even worse, Alekhsiy had been just as wonderful when they weren’t having sex.

  Don’t get sentimental, Danae. This is a one-time affair with a particular guy.

  Right.

  She took a deep breath and prepared to leave his arms.

  “Would you ever write the seventh book?” he asked above her head a few minutes later.

  “Of course not!” This was an easy question, something she’d thought about and dismissed long ago. “I’m not that kind of author, for one thing, to figure out an entire book’s complicated plot. I write short stories, dammit. And it’s Corinne Carson’s saga and I don’t give a damn about King Mykhayl’s love life, for another, even if I do want to know how Azherbhai gets whacked.”

  “Turner offered a large sum to the new author.” Alekhsiy sounded all too neutral. He was facing the door, politely careful not to watch her get dressed.

  She blew a raspberry, hoping he understood its sheer rudeness.

  “Turner couldn’t buy me if he tried. But even if he did, he hasn’t mentioned a sum I’d listen to. I inherited enough when my family died, thanks to insurance and lawsuits, so that I don’t need to work. And being a prima ballerina pays pretty well, especially when you don’t get injured.”

  Even the bad angle the mirror gave her showed how his shoulders relaxed.

  “He may well try force next.” He leaned back against the wall.

  “In a public place like this? He wouldn’t be so stupid!” She gestured impatiently with her hands, then retrieved her bustier. “No, he’ll prowl around and check out every fanfic author that’s here. There are hundreds and he’s unlikely to find me.”

  “Why?” The single word came at her like a bullet.

  “Fanfic authors generally use fake names, or handles, not their real names like other authors. So you have to go through their ISP, or Internet service provider, to find out what their real name is.”

  “What difference should that make?”

  How did she explain the Internet to an axe-wielding barbarian? Probably easier than wiggling her trousers back on, over her boots. Should she take them off first or just figure that if they’d slid off over those high-heeled numbers, they’d slide back on over them, too? Yeah, right.

  She marched into a stall, smacked a lid down, and settled herself to do battle the straightforward way.

  “Just think of it as being coded, okay?” Oh, Lord, she hoped this explanation worked. Dating a paranoid banker had taught her a few things.

  He waved her on.

  “The usual code is based on where you live. Most fanfic authors have at least one layer of encryption, maybe two. However, I have at least two layers, more often three, whose codes vary all the time because I travel so much. And they change unpredictably.”

  She dumped the last boot on the floor and started to pull on her trousers.

  Alekhsiy frowned, his brilliant mind clearly revolving around a new and fascinating puzzle. “Decoding your identity would be very difficult.”

  “Probably not impossible,” she admitted, tying the laces at her waist, “but it should hopefully take longer than this weekend. Once I’m out of here, I’ll be back in my well-guarded Manhattan apartment and he can’t reach me.”

  “’Tis only a few days away.” Alekhsiy’s expression turned bleak.

  “I’m hiding in plain sight among fifty thousand other people here and he doesn’t know my name. ‘CrystalTiger’ isn’t even mentioned on my badge. The only link to me is verbal, a few words mentioned by people who know me.” It’d take a while before she referred to multiple friends. Larissa had shot her mouth off before, but this time hurt more since she’d done it so publicly.

  She stomped her feet to check her boots’ fit. It was a pity she couldn’t use Turner as a target.

  Alekhsiy was pacing the tiny room like a caged panther, poor darling. She needed to free him.

  “Which gives us through the weekend to charge up your amulet.” She cupped his face. “Right?”

  He tilted his cheek into her palm, his wintry eyes looking into a future so harsh she didn’t want to question him. Finally his expression shifted into something closer to joy. “Of course we will.”

  He slid his arms around her waist and pulled her against him.

  The small cage’s doors finally opened later that evening—an elevator, his lady called it—and released them into the corridor’s tight confines. The mass of people still inside quickly rearranged themselves to take advantage of the extra space.

  Alekhsiy dragged in his first grateful gulp of air in far too many candlemarks. By the gray gods of Chaos, the shield wall’s close-packed formation, which permitted no spear to pass through, was a wide-open plain compared to these folk waiting for an elevator or crammed into one. He shuddered. And Danae had assured him they were in a quiet wing on a spacious floor . . .

  Thud, thud, THUD. Thud, thud, THUD. Her next-door neighbor was having a very noisy party, threatening all who passed by with something called Celtic rock music. Blessings on the Goddess, Larissa had the room on the other side so there’d be some quiet tonight.

  Danae twirled beside him, rocking her arms in the air. Her feet traced intricate patterns across the carpet, following the last song the band had played. She wore the green and gold of the High King’s personal guard’s uniform, which Larissa had created for tonight’s Torhtremer Masquerade. It had lost to an extraordinarily gaudy—and inaccurate—version of the Amazon’s war costume.

  Afterward, she’d hauled him off to a concert where they’d danced and danced. And danced.

  She bumped her hip against his. “Hey, hey.”

  “Hey, lady.” He smiled and wrapped his arm around her waist. His musical rendition was a little closer to the actual notes than hers, although he didn’t understand what many of the words referred to. He easily matched steps with her and sashayed out of the lobby into the hallway.

  “You’re a great dancer,” he murmured to his lady.

  “I’m far better with the right partner—like you.”

  He came to a halt, only a few paces from her door.

  “There’s no need to flatter me,” he warned her.

  “I’m not.” Her green-gold eyes were direct and honest. “And I wouldn’t, not with you. The t
ruth is the greatest gift anybody can give you.”

  “Thank you.” His heart flipped over in his chest.

  “Now please open up the door, big guy, before we get interrupted again. We need to be up early tomorrow morning and I’ve got plans for you tonight.” She ran her tongue over her lips.

  He silenced her red, pleading mouth by the simple act of bringing his mouth down over it hard. She answered him eagerly, surging into his kiss as if they had all the time in the world, until he nearly forgot they were standing in a hallway and not in his room.

  He dragged his head away and shoved the key into the slot, then kicked the door open.

  Something hissed and popped in the bathroom. An instant later, two more of them did the same in the bedroom, followed by others in the sitting room.

  Alekhsiy pressed Danae against the wall with his arm and immediately drew his axe. What thrice-cursed devil’s spawn had crept into their rooms?

  A faint, acrid odor touched the air.

  The door fell slowly shut behind Danae. She sniffed. “What on earth?”

  “No demons, at least.” His axe’s blade glowed faintly blue-white. He didn’t sheathe it, though, since he misliked the scent lingering in the air.

  “Should your axe be that bright?” Danae asked with the slightest of stammers.

  “No. It’s reacting to traces of evil, probably from evil’s aides.” He swept it slowly from side to side, searching for where it would grow brightest. “Wait here.”

  “But . . .”

  He stalked into the bathroom, where his blade promptly blazed brighter. An instant later, it pointed to a small cream box lodged in the wall.

  “An outlet adapter?” Danae queried and flipped on the light switch. He tried to hold her back but she swatted his arm aside. “Ease up, big guy. I’m the one who understands this world.”

  She squatted down to look without, praise the Red God of War, touching it.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” Her finger lightly traced a path over its top, marking a slightly seared patch.