Zauran

by Poppet

  He stands tall, exuding instant overpowering masculinity. She smells the same?

  “Yup.”

  Where do I find her?

  Try Darise, I shrug. Now fuck off before I help you out with force.

  *

  Zaria:

  The man gives me a wink before disappearing from view in the direction of the front door. This home sure is busy at night.

  Two dark eyes send sparks into my heart when Zauran walks back my way. He's so tall and well defined that I'm having a hard time not appreciating the carve of his stomach flexing with each step. The ridges of muscle corded from his shoulders to his arms dance with motion. He's stark naked and not even a little self-conscious.

  Hair tilts off the tops of his ears when he reaches me and leans a hand on each side of the door to support his body, slanting to look down on me.

  I love his hair. It's wayward. Long on top but so short in the nape you want to keep running your palm over the velvet pile of it.

  Soot dark eyes stare into me, his full lips quirking in that naughty but sensual way he does when hiding a laugh.

  You're bloody reading my mind again, aren't you?

  “Yes I am. Keep going, don't let me stop you there. My ego is loving this.”

  “What's with this sister thing?”

  “What sister thing?” he says, his smile widening.

  He's so close, the scent of his warm skin is washing over me with rain saturated forest. Inhaling, I can't think. It's the smell of secret groves and wilderness; the essence of wild and free and unchartered.

  Reopening my eyes I'm surprised to see his smoking with that erotic aegean swirl, and it occurs to me that he has the same look in his eyes as he does when he's compelling me.

  Does this mean compelling women turns them on? His eyes mist when he's turned on and I don't need radar to notice his entire body is tense and standing to attention again.

  “Yes, it turns us on. But more to the point, you turn me on.”

  It's spoken so close as his head dips deeper, aligning his lips with mine, that I'm torn between the liquifying warmth of his breath and staring at the way his muscles are now bunching to prevent his weight from falling on me where he braces on either side of the doorframe.

  It triggers warmth in my belly, wafting dreamy laziness into my legs, reminding me of pleasure so angelic it's borderline psychic control.

  It's natural to hold on, wrapping arms around his neck and leaning against him, welcoming the kiss, vertigo jumping into my head when his tongue slides slowly onto mine and my lips are caressed and massaged.

  He cracks the kiss, inhaling as if in sharp pain.

  “Enough. You're human. Let's be human and get a drink, refuel your blood with energy, and, oh I dunno, put some music on or something?”

  Bereft with the abrupt change, I'm clueless as he leads me back down the passage toward the kitchen.

  “Candles? Women dig that shit, right?” He pauses to stare down at me, as if confused, torn in too many mental directions, sliding an impatient hand through his hair again to swipe it off his brow.

  “I don't follow. Candles? Zauran, what are you on?”

  He collapses heavily against the wall, giggling. It's enough to perplex me and make me worry that I broke his sanity or something.

  “Sorry, petal. It just occurred to me that this is supposed to be romantic. Here I am screwing you into the afterlife and there was fuck all effort put in. I didn't do all the stuff women expect...” He trails off, giving me a goofy grin.

  Darn he's delectable.

  “You can make up for it next time, but no woman requires candles and flowers to know what her body wants. That's just a mating ritual.” Reaching out, touching that strong band of muscle curling around the back of his arm to the front of it, I mumble, “We've pretty much known each other too long to fall into that trench. A simple hug, sitting on your knee when my heart was in anguish and my mind in the throes of misery, that was all the romance I needed. You balmed me in ways you can't fathom when you said you'd feed my heart soup.”

  It brings hot moisture to my eyes remembering that moment.

  Venix came to say goodbye to me on a winter's day when there was so much rain I thought we were being attacked by the water god. It was so cold, and I couldn't stop crying remembering how my family died in the war. Recalling the way I had to hold my brother's hand when he died in the back seat of my car, the road bombed to shit, with no other way for me to get to the hospital.

  Swallowing against the lump in my throat I look up into graphite eyes, replaying the way Venix pushed me in here to examine my heart. I was so angry with Darise and the vampyre, and I came into Zauran's home because Venix gave me no choice.

  Zauran simply brought me to the warm kitchen, sat me down on his knee, and held me until I started to thaw, wiping away my tears and being the strength I was missing.

  He asked what my heart wanted, and all I could smell was the comfort of home. In this kitchen, in the form of vegetable soup bubbling on the stove and billowing comfort into the air. I told him my heart wanted soup.

  And soup is what he gave me. He understood my soul in that moment.

  The neuri are a race created to defend mankind from tyranny and the vampyre chased them out of their homeland. It left Serbia vulnerable to attack. The war I lost my family in could have been prevented – if not for the vampyre expelling our spiritual line of defense to a place where they couldn't protect us.

  I still blame the vampyre for leaving me alone in this world. I lost both my parents and my brother in that war.

  Coming back to the present with hot tears dripping onto my cheeks, I take an exaggerated breath reliving how Zauran's humble kitchen brought the ghosts to life. I could literally see Mama wiping her hands on her apron as she crossed the kitchen.

  A sob breaks the silence and I am appalled that I'm ruining this moment with my perpetual heartbreak.

  His warm hand cups my chin, lifting my blurred vision so he can thumb away a tear.

  “I understand. I held no expectations.” He lowers, bending his body to curl over me like an umbrella to block out the pain, “I'm so grateful you're here, Zaria. The vampyre will never understand our ways, or how much we are one with this land. To others it seems cold and unforgiving, but it's in our blood. Serbia is ancient, holy, in ways only a Serbian can understand – in ways only we remember. Our pain is in the sand, it runs down every road, it floods the Danube, we've lived through so much but it's made us a nation like no other. We're unique Zaria. No foreigner can understand how resilient the past has made us. Because of it we are born with the history of this land in our veins.”

  Lifting my head pressed against his chest, so I look up at him again, he smiles tenderly, “No one can take it away from you. It's who you are. Every step we take is shadowed with tears and pain. But it hasn't stopped you from living, from celebrating. We don't need to fit into this world because Serbians need only each other. Only we understand how we can laugh and party on the very spot our brethren died in their struggle for liberty.”

  Trying to get a grip on the emotional flood breaking the banks and eroding my joy, I fold against him when he cradles me closer, pressing his heat into my skin.

  He's the blanket that warms a desolate heart. I'll never have this connection with Darise.

  What was I thinking shacking up with a freaking vampyre?

  His laugh is a deep bass rumble under my ear and he speaks over my head with a wry tone, “You aren't in his arms tonight, petal. You're in mine.”

  That shatters the chains of the past, bringing me fully back into the present.

  A strong arm links around my waist, urging me across the threshold and properly into the kitchen, “Would you like soup, or something a little more alcoholic this time?”

  It's spoken with mirth, and I love him for his sensitivity and manner. He gives me a cheerful wink as he crosses the kitchen.

  Yup. I inhale a shuddering breath of lucid realization
. I love you.

  He pivots, breaking his stride to the fridge, turning on me with full might. Lordy, he really does look like a warrior.

  “You are flirting with danger if you keep on throwing thoughts like that at me.”

  He looks delighted by my little confession.

  Okay – so it's not so little. It's as big as he is. The crime, after all, should fit the man.

  He tickles my inherent defiance and my humor returns in full force. Leaning on one leg and crossing my arms, I flick the curtain of my hair to my back, exposing nudity as I challenge him, “Oh yeah? You can't stop me.”

  “I wouldn't bet on that, Zaria. You'd lose.”

  “But you cheat with the eye mojo you guys use. It's not a fair fight.”

  He holds his arms out dramatically. “Are you blind girl? Nothing in this dynamic is a fair fight. I'm twice your size and five times stronger, if not more.” He shakes the hair out of his eyes and narrows his gaze, “Plus, I like my women complacent, adoring me and wanting to suck my dick until it hurts.”

  He flashes gossamer aqua across his eyes, taking a threatening step closer, “Want to suck my dick 'til it hurts? Look into my eyes and I promise I'll be gentle in our next round in the ring.”

  It's too late and I am looking in his eyes. My heart skips nervously.

  His laughter jolts me with relief, he's not compelling me.

  “I am not a tyrant,” he chuckles deep and low. “You have free will with me Zaria. I love you too much to force anything on you.”

  “I'm not sucking your dick until it hurts, so you can throw that fantasy out right now.”

  He sweeps his hand down the length of his torso as if displaying a new product for sale, “How can you resist?”

  “Forget it.”

  I was built for midgets, I doubt I could suck that even if I wanted to.

  Throwing his head back, his shoulders shake with an outburst of laughter.

  “Cheeky man,” I grumble, taking initiative and walking to the fridge myself, extracting a bottle of rakija, and the cheese.

  I am hungry, in every way.

  Moving to the knife drawer, I warn him over my shoulder, “And if you think I'm finished with you, you can think again.”

  Chapter 9

  Zaria:

  Strong hands with neat fingernails are placed on the countertop on either side of me.

  While I'm staring down at the appeal of those hands, his warmth covers my back and the softest stubble brushes my hair away when he parks his chin in my neck.

  “Let's cook.”

  It's said in a sultry drawl which vaporizes my thoughts into insubstantial tendrils. I could live on his voice. When he speaks that way nothing in the world matters but listening for the next melody to be uttered.

  “Zaria?”

  “Hmm?”

  “If food creates memories, let's start building our own,” purrs deep enough to hum my throat.

  Leaning back, cradling my cheek against his, lost in the zone, I'm struggling to focus linear responses.

  His arms fold around me and I release the knife in a loud clatter, to indulge in my new haven. Wilting against him I try to look up at him with my head supported below his chest.

  This is like dating the Eiffel Tower. I'd get dizzy if I had to live with my head up there.

  “What are we cooking?” I finally manage to utter.

  This is a sterling view. That neck and chest should be painted onto a temple's ceiling somewhere.

  “Focus petal,” he says, snapping fingers at me with a smug smile enhancing his perfection.

  Blinking, I pull myself reluctantly out of the spell to concentrate. “Soup?”

  “You read my mind. Should I be worried?” he chuckles, releasing me and walking back to the fridge.

  It's cold without him.

  The temperature dive-bombs when he opens the fridge door and starts passing ingredients to me.

  “I should have thought of this earlier. Your nipples, that hard, are thoroughly enchanting.”

  He still manages to make me self-conscious. His gaze is zeroing in on my chest and I defensively hold the onion and tomato up to hide behind.

  “Stop it.” Flouncing back to face the counter, I move to the sink to wash the tomato. “What soup are we making?” I ask with my back to him.

  “A future, a past, a binding astral cord that joins us...”

  His tone is so serious that I face him when drying the tomato.

  Meeting his determined expression, it knots my internal organs. “Zauran?”

  Oh god, I'm nervous as all hell now.

  With hands overflowing with vegetables, he closes the gap in three strides to stare intensity into my soul, “Zaria, food happens to be the one part of your life that you bond all memories to. Don't deny me the honor of joining those ranks.”

  Scrunching the drying towel in my free hand, it reflects the effect his words are having on my heart. It's in the palm of his presence and it's squeezing so tight. It's safe, thoughtful, considerate.

  “You have a poet's soul, Zauran.”

  “No, I don't. What I am is a neuri who can't believe the woman of his dreams is standing in his kitchen wearing nothing more than pink lace shorts. I keep wondering when the demolition ball hit the house and offed me.”

  Curling his tall frame to lower to my level, cradling vegetables against his chest precariously, he looks directly into my eyes, “I never want to wake up if this is a dream. While you're here I want to be that man who denies you nothing. Cooking makes you happy Zaria, and more than anything in this world I want to be the man to give that joy to you.”

  Uncaring, he opens his hands, littering the floor with carrots, celery, leeks, a tin of lentils which thunks hard enough to leave a dent, other random vegetables - but he simply captures my face between his palms to whisper heartfelt throaty words, “I want to give back to you the delirious happiness you've given me.”

  Oh god. How do you do that? You dive right in and punch my heart and make me ache to hold you.

  The answer is a kiss, delicately positioned and so soft it couldn't scuff a bubble.

  My body moves of its own volition, effervescently reaching pores to pores, skin to skin, vulnerability to vulnerability. With my hands holding his muscular back and my arms around his middle, I sink deeper to merge into him. I've never had a man speak such beauty to me.

  So invincible, so incredible... wow.

  You've made me realise my heart was really starving. It's been fed no sustenance. You truly are feeding my heart soup.

  The emaciated four chambers of my heart open up to gorge on the fuel flowing from him, sipping greedily on love, tenderness, sincerity.

  Held in a hug so crushing it's like being in the coils of a boa constrictor, his meaningful embrace is showing me brutally how strong his own emotions are.

  Darise really can get fucked. He went running after whasserface, and thank the angels he did or I'd slowly wither away in the mundane death of the living, never knowing how my mind and emotions were malnourished.

  Kissed, coddled, cherished, my tears are dried, my lips plumped with pressure, and I learn the dance of chopping vegetables with my hands cloaked in his, his body shielding mine from the cold where he stands at my back, working as one unit simultaneously creating sustenance which feeds body, spirit, soul.

  It's beyond romantic when we sit down naked, one bowl between us, microwaved to hurry the process so we can indulge immediately in our concoction, sharing a spoon and feeding each other the first blessings of a union built on a foundation that never crumbles.

  Food is my happy place.

  Caught in his eyes, we lick lips in tandem, laughing with the spills and scalded tongues.

  I've never felt more adored and understood than I do right this second.

  Fortified with food and drink, I wipe my eye lazily, feeling a little tired.

  However, the soft lips now pressing over mine chase the lethargy clear away. Leaning in, I kiss him r
ight back, savoring his gentle approach.

  Hmmm, I could live with this for a very long time.

  His kiss becomes more insistent, communicating urgency I fully comprehend. It unravels my hibernating libido back into a ravenous monster. His arm clamps my waist and I'm lifted, carried away, held tight over a man so rigid he's like a testament to invincibility.

  Our lips continuously meet in silent confession and all guilt is absolved.

  We're going back to the hideout. I would hate an interruption when I'm deep inside the woman I've pined over.

  Just the thought floods my blood with thorny endorphins.

  Carried tight against him through the roaming landscape of his home, I have sensations chasing into me. The infusion of heat from his skin skips my pulse and I surrender to the delightful strength and security he radiates.

  Are you controlling my mind? My reactions?

  He shakes his head, clasping the back of my head with his free hand and guiding it to his lips, pausing to press me against the wall in front of the secret den, supporting me while removing my underwear.

  I'm totally immersed in the fevered biting of my lips, the flirting of our tongues, the pressure of our nipples trying to out-harden each other. I can feel his sex pressing against my leg as if laying in ambush.

  He's sinfully sexy and refreshingly uninhibited. There's no shame. His body is proud to exhibit its response to me.

  To me.

  Wow! The powerful realization gives me a shiver down my spine while a familiar ache starts to palpitate in the lips above his erection.

  As if sensing the gnawing need gripping my insides to run juicy enticement to kiss his arousal, he slowly slides into me. Shoving me fast to the wall like a mussel clinging to a rock, unable to move or let go no matter how vicious the storm, he pulls me down onto the heat fusing with my own, joining us in a silent promise.

  It's a dedication of salacious intent.

  But it's also charity. Sweet merciful charity to have him press with precision against the desire spiking my body.