by Jory Strong
From the white-gray nothingness, a welcome figure emerged, a beautiful woman wearing a silken, flowing robe made of woven feathers. “The soul you seek has already been claimed. He resides now in a place you can’t visit, or I for that matter.”
Aisling thought of the blood-fed fetish and wondered if the payment already made would gain an answer to another question. She couldn’t quiet the doubts and fears that had plagued her earlier, or dismiss her curiosity. “Does my father reside here? Is he demon?”
The spirit guide lifted her arm and the material gave the illusion of a wing unfolding. She offered a hand and Aisling took it without hesitation.
Warmth flowed into Aisling, as if in this land of gray, the sun still found its way in. With a gentle tug, she was pulled forward. The woman leaned in, pressed a kiss to her forehead. “You will know in time. For now I give you something of greater value. Return to your body and find it healed.”
Aisling returned as her front door crashed open. Before she could react, Aziel was there, followed immediately by Zurael.
She hurriedly slipped the bloodred falcon into her fetish pouch. Zurael’s eyes flashed with fury and the same promise of retribution she’d seen when she returned from the ghostlands in the witch’s garden.
“You followed him into the spiritlands,” he hissed, sparing a quick glance at her assailant’s body.
Aisling’s chin lifted though a shiver of erotic fear slid down her spine to stroke between her thighs in response to his expression. Phantom talons scraped across her neck as real ones had done earlier in the day. And in that instant the healing she’d been given by her spirit guide was far more important than answers about her father.
With a confidence that was part bravado, Aisling erased the protective circle. Aziel jumped onto the front of her shirt and scrambled to her shoulder as masculine fingers wrapped around her arms and pulled her to her feet.
Molten eyes narrowed, bored into hers. “Are you hurt?”
“Not now.”
“What happened?” Zurael asked, barely able to contain the guilt-laden fury he felt for not having anticipated their enemies would strike so quickly.
Aisling told him, though he’d guessed much of the story when he saw the dropped owl fetish, the folded bills and the house keys on the floor near the body.
He stripped her assailant with barely contained violence. Other than the tattoos of a lawbreaker, there were no clues to his identity.
Aisling discovered a concealed knife and garrote in the man’s clothing, nothing more. Her hands trembled slightly as she set them aside. “There’s no way of knowing who sent him.”
Zurael stood and pulled her to him so he could bury his face in the silk of her hair. “No one is beyond suspicion.” His lips brushed the delicate shell of her ear. “I’ll dispose of him. Our dinner is next to the front door.”
“I can’t-”
“You will. By your own hand or mine. You will eat.”
He released her and knelt next to the corpse, lifted it in his arms and stood. “Open the window, then close it behind me. Lock the front door. I’ve still got your keys.”
Zurael didn’t wait for her to respond. He let his physical form dissolve, and when she opened the window he joined the night long enough to take her assailant’s remains to a deserted area.
This time when he returned to the house, he found the living room glowing with candlelight and Aisling waiting for him. She’d set the table and transferred the food into serving dishes. He laughed when he found the ferret on a chair busily eating from a saucer of food in front of him.
“Aziel couldn’t wait,” Aisling said, her soft voice winding its way through Zurael’s chest and downward to curl around his cock. In a heartbeat the hunger for food was replaced by a different hunger.
He didn’t yield to the temptation to carry her from the room, but he couldn’t stop himself from going to her. Her assailant’s possessions were on the counter separating the kitchen from the living room. “The keys fit your locks?”
“Yes.”
He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
“Do you know who my father is?”
The question surprised him, made him curious. “No. Why do you ask?”
“I think… I thought he might be demon because of something Elena’s brother said in the spiritlands.”
“John is not someone to be trusted.” And because Zurael wanted to give her something more, he said, “If it eases your mind, I know your pet is something other than what he appears, but I don’t know what.”
“Neither do I,” she admitted. “The names you wrote in the dirt-”
“Are the names of my enemies,” he said, unable to keep centuries of rage out of his voice.
Wariness flickered in her eyes. She stepped away from him, but he caught her arm before she could retreat further. A small tremor passed through her, and he again fought the urge to carry her to the bedroom, to whisper that she had nothing to fear from him as he coupled with her.
“The food will be cold if we don’t eat it soon.” He brushed his knuckles across her lips, then stepped away before the temptation she presented became too great.
She settled onto a chair across from him and he hated the distance. But she ate, and as she did, the candlelight caressed her features, made the angelite blue of her eyes become violet and the gold of her hair darken to rich honey.
Zurael found it impossible to take his eyes off her. He ached to free the coil of her braid and unbind her hair, to comb his fingers through it in a rare intimacy.
Desire filled the space between them. It grew and pulsed in the air as wax-fed flames undulated in a sensuous dance of heat and light. His breath escaped in a rush when she lowered her eyelashes to shield her expression in an effort to hide from the lust.
The fantasies that had tortured him throughout the day rushed in along with new ones. Protective, possessive urges filled and overwhelmed him. She was delicate vulnerability hiding strength of character, a female created for a man’s pleasure, for his pleasure.
Zurael waited until they’d finished eating. As she cleared the table, he went into the bathroom and turned the faucets on so water began filling the large, claw-foot bathtub. From a shirt pocket he pulled several of the substance-filled beads the Djinn used for bathing and during sensual play. He set them at the edge of the tub and didn’t allow himself to wonder why he’d brought them with him when he left his father’s kingdom, professing a desire only to kill the one who’d summoned him.
Aisling stood in front of the sink, preparing to wash dishes. Zurael stopped in the doorway as he had on the first day, only instead of watching her with suspicion and fighting the desire raging through him, he said, “Disrobe, Aisling.”
Color rose to her cheeks, and a tremor in her hands served as acknowledgment she’d heard him. He read her intent to deny him in the curl of her body before she whispered, “We shouldn’t.”
The truth only inflamed him further, filled his head with the roar of lust and his cock with aching need. He pushed away from the doorway and went to her, trapped her between the sink and his hard body.
“I could take you here, now, as I did earlier today in front of the mirror. Do you remember how you begged me to fill you, Aisling? How you cried out in release when I did?”
“Yes,” she said, shivering against him, exhaling on a shaky sigh when his hands traveled up her sides and around to take possession of her breasts.
Zurael pulled her back more tightly to his front. He needed to feel her against him, wanted to feel the instant she softened and surrendered, gave herself over to him completely. He traced the shell of her ear with his tongue. “Obey me tonight, Aisling.”
Aisling closed her eyes against the desire pulsing through her, burning her from the inside out and making her cunt lips slicken and part. He was dangerous to her, more so now that she knew the depth of his rage toward her most powerful protector, the one whose sigil he’d drawn in the dirt. Yet still
she was a moth to his flame, helpless against the needs of her body and the security she found in his arms.
She felt bereft, lost, when his hands dropped away from her breasts and his heat left her back. Lust swirled in her belly when he once again said, “Disrobe, Aisling.”
She didn’t understand herself when she was with him. Didn’t understand the dark cravings, the need to submit that blossomed inside her. He was beyond anything she’d thought to experience with a lover, anything she’d done previously, though the farm’s remote location and Aziel’s presence as guide and guardian hadn’t allowed for much beyond fumbling, hurried experiments with passion.
The need to obey and please him turned her nipples into hard knots and her clit into a stiffened, erect knob. Her fingers trembled as they worked to unbutton her shirt, slowing the process of disrobing as he’d ordered, but intensifying the desire burning between them.
Zurael’s sharp inhale as her shirt fell away made her heart flutter with satisfaction. His command to turn around made her cunt clench.
Aisling turned to face him. She looked at him from beneath lowered eyelashes and wanted to go to her knees like a supplicant in front of an ancient deity. In the candles’ glow he was a being made of golden light, a predator with no equal. He was raw power and invincible strength, masculine perfection almost too painful to behold.
“The rest of it, Aisling,” he said with a purring, sensual menace that made her shake with need.
His gaze scorched her when the cloth binding her breasts joined her shirt on the floor. She trembled at the hungry look in his eyes but knew instinctively that while he might demand her obedience, he was just as much a slave to desire as she was.
Embarrassed, vulnerable heat added color to her cheeks as she removed her short boots and socks then slid her pants and underwear to her ankles before stepping out of them. He’d seen her naked before, already knew her body intimately, and yet it was different stripping at his command. It was both arousing and erotically frightening to stand in front of him while his eyes traveled over her bare flesh as if she belonged completely to him and was his to do with as he pleased.
He stepped in to her, hard heated flesh and leather, desert wind and exotic spice. His hands went to the coil of her braid and unwound it, freed the locks so they fell in honeyed waves to her buttocks as they did each time she entered the spiritlands.
He cupped her breasts, rubbed his thumbs over nipples that ached for his touch, his mouth. Golden eyes darkened and became molten.
“Do not touch me,” he ordered, his harsh voice revealing what the command cost him as his hands trailed down her sides and he knelt in front of her.
She widened her stance without being told, though her hands curled into fists in an effort to keep from freeing his braid, from tangling her fingers in his hair and pulling him to her parted slit and wet channel.
Her clit hardened further, so the soft, delicate hood no longer concealed the tiny, sensitive head. “Please,” she whispered.
He cupped her buttocks and kept her from pressing against him in sultry invitation. He leaned forward, slid his tongue through her wet folds and over her hardened knob, sent nearly unbearable ecstasy through her, before abruptly standing and lifting her with casual strength then carrying her into the bathroom.
Zurael placed her in the nearly filled tub. He turned off the faucets before stripping out of his clothing, his eyes never leaving her.
He was heavily aroused, his cock hard and thick. The testicles hanging beneath it made Aisling think of a stallion, a bull. He was elemental man and primordial force.
Despite his command that she not touch him, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to rise to her knees when he stepped into the tub, to grasp his hips and press her mouth to his hardened flesh. Satisfaction roared through her when he groaned her name and tangled his fingers in her hair, held her against his rigid cock.
He shuddered as she measured his length in kisses, in the wet trail of her tongue. He panted when she nuzzled the heavy sacs containing his seed, heated them with her breath.
“Take me in your mouth, Aisling,” he said, buttocks flexing, hands clenching and unclenching in her hair.
She ignored his command, and the shift in dynamics was intoxicating, thrilling, too heady to resist. She’d never felt so feminine, so powerful.
One hand left his hip to cup his testicles, to weigh them. He was silky smooth, hot in the palm of her hand. She traced the ridges and veins on his shaft with her tongue, sucked on them until his fingers tightened painfully on her hair and his breath came in ragged pants.
“Obey me, Aisling. Now.”
His voice promised retribution, punishment, complete domination if she didn’t yield. And her cunt clenched, her body hungered for it. She was beyond reason, beyond denial.
She curled a hand around his cock, defied him by pressing her mouth against the velvety soft tip of him, parting her lips only enough for a shallow kiss, for the dart of her tongue to explore the tiny slit.
When he thrust, she tightened her grip on him, warned with the press of teeth, the increase of pressure around his testicles, that she wouldn’t be rushed.
Zurael raked his fingers through her hair. He rubbed golden strands of it against his belly and thighs as he fought to regain control of himself and the situation.
Lust, desire, brutal need whipped through him in a heated maelstrom. He would punish her later, make her scream and beg for release.
She would learn the cost of disobedience. She would experience true submission.
He leaned over, scraped his nails against her back, her buttocks. Felt her jerk when he traced the tight pucker of her back entrance. He would have her there, too. He would have her in every way a man could claim a woman.
“Take me in your mouth,” he said, straightening, finding her breasts, her nipples, his fingers ruthless, making her whimper, shudder, surrender.
He nearly came when she sucked his cock head into the wet heat of her mouth and assaulted it with her sinful tongue. His hips jerked, thrust. But the tight fist of her hand kept him from forging deeper, from knowing the ecstasy of fucking all the way in and out of her mouth.
Zurael panted, groaned, fought against the restraint she imposed on him. He rubbed and tormented her breasts and nipples, whispered what he intended to do to her later. He dared her to continue defying him, but she didn’t yield. She drew it out until their skin was slick with sweat and the sounds of pleasure echoed continuously against the bathroom walls.
“Aisling.” Command had gone to plea, to naked supplication. And finally she relented.
He threw his head back and closed his eyes. His hips jerked, pistoned, the frantic thrust and retreat beyond his control as she took him deeper, let him take her as he’d fantasized.
The pleasure was nearly unbearable, and yet he fought against release, tried to draw it out. He forced his eyes open, wanted to memorize the sight of her kneeling before him, his cock sliding between her lips, her eyelashes lowered in submission, in the pleasure she found in the primitive, carnal act they shared.
She made his heart and soul sing, made him feel masculine, powerful, complete. “Aisling,” he whispered, wanting her more than he’d ever wanted anything in his centuries of existence, knowing all he’d ever have were what precious memories he made with her.
Eyelashes lifted to reveal eyes filled with unfathomable emotion, and he lost what little control remained. He thrust, panted, shuddered in ecstasy as he came-and nearly cried when the heated release only left him craving her more intensely.
Zurael sank into the water and pulled Aisling against his chest. His mouth pressed against her ear, his tongue traced the delicate shell then fucked into the sensitive canal as his fingers found her clit.
“Please,” she said, clinging to him, rubbing her mound against his hand, wanting release from the tight coil of need.
He should draw it out, reduce her to helplessness as she’d reduced him, but the danger wa
s too great. A tilt of her head and their lips would be close, nearly touching, and the temptation to do the forbidden too great to resist.
He found her plump folds and shoved his fingers into her slit. Retreated. Repeated it over and over again, his palm striking the naked head of her clit until the water was sloshing violently and she was keening, slumping, limp with the pleasure he’d given her.
Zurael turned her in his arms, kissed her neck, her shoulders. He murmured words of satisfaction as he stroked her breasts, her belly, cuddled her until both of them recovered from the first rush of passion. Then he picked up a translucent bead of soap and crushed it between his fingers, worked the lather in his hands before applying it to her silky skin.
The way she melted against him, went boneless as he bathed her, was deeply satisfying. He lingered, saved her hair for last. And the intimacy of washing it, combing through it with his fingers, was nearly his undoing, even though he knew it didn’t mean the same thing to humans as it did to the Djinn.
After the soap had dissolved as if it were never present, Aisling turned and rose to her knees. “My turn.”
Zurael’s cock hardened at the sight of her breasts, the nipples begging for his touch. Memories of the pleasure she’d given him, when he stepped into the tub and she knelt before him, left him struggling against the urge to stand.
She reached behind him and slowly freed his braid. Waves of incredible sensation rippled through him as she combed through his hair with her fingers.
When she started to pick up a light blue bead, he nudged her hand to a translucent one. She crushed it between her fingers and he gave himself over to her care, moaned as she stroked his chest and teased the small nipples before grasping his cock.
Zurael allowed her to bathe him as thoroughly as he’d bathed her. He willingly turned his back to her and tilted his head so she could wash his hair, touch him in ways he’d never allowed a female to.
It gentled him for a while, chased away thoughts of dominance, of punishing her for her earlier disobedience-even as it filled him with the need to possess her completely, in every way. His cock throbbed, leaked, was more than ready to provide the lubricant necessary to work its way into the virgin orifice he’d traced earlier.
