by Janzen, Tara
“It’s just a cracker, Kreestine,” he reassured her.
“No. No, you’re wrong,” she said, her voice strained. “It was more than a cracker.” Arranging with one hand, she reached with the other hand and opened the refrigerator door. She’d have to throw away one of the other canapés in order to get everything right. In the split second of distraction she heard a telltale crunch.
Whirling around, she caught him licking his fingers.
“Good,” he said, offering her a smile.
It was too much. She’d fallen in love with a heartless barbarian who had no conception of the social graces required to host visiting dignitaries, or of the importance of symmetrical canapé trays. Tears she refused to let fall welled in her eyes, her tired, bloodshot, dark-rimmed eyes.
He reached up to caress her cheek, and his voice was soft with contrition. “What’s this, patni?”
“Don’t call me that, please.” She’d looked the word up and knew what it meant. Wife. She wasn’t his wife. She would never be his wife. He was too alive, too sexually male, too wild, too different, too everything, and she wasn’t enough of anything, least of all enough of a woman to please him. She tried to brush his hand away, but he captured her fingers with his own.
“In this you are wrong, Kreestine.”
Lord help her. All she wanted to do was die.
“And this I will not allow.”
“Stop it,” she moaned, mortified. She tried to pull away, but this, it seemed, was another thing he would not allow. His other hand slid to the back of her neck and closed in a gentle fist around her hair, tilting her head back and forcing her to meet his gaze. His eyes, lit with a dark fire, were shot through with gold and russet, and rich, sensual mysteries.
He guided her arm behind her back and forced her closer, entwining his fingers with hers and holding her hand at the base of her spine, taking complete control and leaving her helpless to resist.
“When we join, patni, we will both know the truth of which I speak.” His voice was a husky drawl, his lilt muted by the intensity of emotion. “Already I feel the warmth of your desire and the heat of your need matching mine.”
She felt the heat, too, waves of it like wind-fanned flames, and if he didn’t kiss her, she would die.
He saved her with the barest brushing of his mouth over hers, teasing her to the point of agony and pushing her beyond the barrier of past humiliation. She stretched up on tiptoe, wanting him, nipping at his mouth. He took her, sliding his tongue down the length of hers and filling her with slow, licking flames of molten passion.
She groaned and he held her tighter, intoxicating her with his erotic duel. Canapés disappeared from her thoughts, along with the kitchen around her, the floor she stood on, and the very air she breathed. All of her awareness focused on him and the sensations he created, emotional and physical. His body hardened against her, his arms tightened, flexing around her with power and strength, even as he freed her captured hand.
She found good use for it, tunneling her fingers into the auburn silk framing his face. She traced the curve of his cheekbones with her thumbs and discovered the delight of touching his lips as he kissed her. A soft bite proved he liked her hands there, and when she slid them lower, down the front of his chest, his low groan proved he liked her hands anywhere as long as they were on him.
Ah, woman, he said silently, willing her to feel his thoughts the way he felt hers, you are a welcoming softness in my arms. Your taste is sweet, your scent is lush with the perfume of arousal. Let me . . . let me . . .
Yes.
His answer to hers was the sound of his heavy belt hitting the floor. He swept her up into his arms, and this time she offered no protest.
“You have agreed?” he asked, carrying her across the living room. When she didn’t reply, he stopped with one booted foot on the lowest stair and kissed her again, his teeth grazing her lips, his tongue plunging inside her mouth, enticing her into submission. The long, deep strokes were unnecessary, but too pleasurable to stop. She met each one with a sigh, and Kit felt those sighs like a slow pull on his loins.
“You have agreed,” he growled, breaking the kiss and continuing up the stairs to her bedroom. He would take her there, among the white lace and pillows, the frills of woman’s things. Later that night she would sleep with him wrapped in the warmth of his arms and his blankets and robes, and he would take her again.
He lowered her to the bed, then followed her down into the disarray of cotton sheets and satin comforters, inhaling her lingering scent on the fabric and nuzzling his face into the crook of her neck, finding there the headier pleasures of the woman herself.
His mouth glided across her skin, tasting, leaving a trail of irresistible, wet warmth. She wanted his mouth again on hers.
The desire no sooner blossomed in her mind than it was fulfilled with urgency and passion, his firm lips stealing the need and answering the yearning, and bringing upon her an even greater yearning. The pressure of his weight upon her, of his thigh pressing up between her legs, did crazy things to her thoughts. She instinctively lifted her hips higher.
Kit slipped a hand beneath her, holding her there, and slowly raised his head. A languorous smile played about his mouth, and he increased the pressure ever so slightly, rubbing against her.
“This is a very good game, eh?” One brow lifted in knowing confirmation as she gasped. Fully clothed, he made her feel things she’d only ready about—and then he began to remove his clothes.
On his knees above her, straddling her hips, he unbuttoned the first few buttons on his black tunic, then pulled the shirt over his head. Muscle moved beneath his dark skin, smooth and graceful, rippling in a rhythm to match his every movement and making her long to touch him.
“This you shall do, patni, in many ways,” he assured her, pulling her upright. In one smooth, fluid motion, he slipped her long shirt off, removing the clip from her hair in the same gesture. It was magic, it had to be, but no more so than the look in his eyes when he saw what she wore beneath.
Her dark hair slid over her creamy white shoulders and the soft, heavy curves of her breasts cupped in red lace, and the knot of desire in his belly tightened. He had not expected red lace, not on Kristine.
He lifted his gaze to her eyes and knew the only teasing he dared was with his mouth. She wanted him, but was unsure of the path. The uncertainty bound her to him in yet another way. He wanted her, too, but first he needed to erase all of her doubts. When he took her, it would be as he’d promised, with her own fire matching his, with her own need pulling him farther than she’d been before.
Delicately, he traced the edge of the lace with his fingers, and he let all the wonder he felt fill his voice with tenderness. “There is much love in my heart for you, Kreestine,” he murmured, easing her back on the bed. He lowered his mouth to her breast and lost himself in the erotic sensation of tasting her softness through the barrier of red lace.
Soon that barrier became too much, and with another skilled movement he left her wondering about a Far Eastern barbarian’s understanding of the workings of Western lingerie. Her bra joined the pile of clothes building on the floor, piece by incredible piece. His mouth trailed over her, leaving gentle love bits on her skin. His hands followed with tantalizing caresses, until she had no choice but to touch him in turn.
His body was like satin and steel, hard and so very alive, and soft on the tips of her fingers, so warm. The heat of him invaded her on every level of feeling, from the sentient layer of her skin to the hidden corners of her mind. He took the dark coldness of her doubts and filled them with light and drugging sensation. Her senses pooled wherever he seared her with his mouth, making her believe each place was where she needed him most, until he moved to the next, and the next.
This time, when she tilted her head and rubbed her mouth against his skin, he let her taste. Her teeth grazed his jaw, lightly, with just enough force to let him know she was there. She rolled with him when he removed he
r leggings, thinking only of retracing the path with her tongue and returning to the hot, sweet magic of his mouth. With just his kiss he gave her more pleasure than she’d ever known, for his kiss demanded everything from her and returned it all twofold.
Willingly, she fell deeper under the spell he wove, moving to the gentle commands she felt and marveling at his responses to her. Her every caress heightened his arousal, giving her the power he relinquished and sweeping her higher and higher. He laved the satin softness of her inner thigh with his tongue, then went farther, teaching her things no monk had ever imagined. She gasped, and he relented, but only long enough to reach her bare breasts and start the spiral of desire anew.
He was masculinity personified at its gentlest and most invincible, an erotically fascinating mix of carefully controlled physical strength and unleashed emotions. He gave her the best of both, inciting her mind with the visual clarity of his most sensuous thoughts and inducing a fever of need in her body. He touched her in places and in ways she’d never dreamed of until he’d given her the dream in her mind.
With the quiet insistence of his thoughts he told her what he wanted. With the guidance of his hands he taught her the moves. When she hesitated, he urged her on. When she complied, he whispered words of satisfaction in her ear, his voice rough with the depth of his pleasure.
“Ah, Kreestine . . . Kreestine . . .” He stiffened above her, his breathing unsteady. He’d played the game too long; she’d learned too quickly. She caressed him again, her hand slipping between the gaping opening of his pants, and doing only what he’d asked, but it was too much. Against his wishes, he found himself pressing into her palm, his thoughts chaotically focused on one driving need—to be inside her.
The picture of his need was clear in her mind, shimmering in waves of heat and the sensation he promised her. With his smoldering gaze he forced her to hold the thought, living with him the loving to come. His hands were sure and quick as he stood up and took off his jeans, and never once did he let her lose sight of what he wanted, what he would have—her melting over him, tightening around him. The heat built and built inside her, fueled by his desires and her understanding, until she closed her eyes and moaned.
He covered her then, lowering himself onto her, pressing her deeper into the bed, and slowly, ever so slowly, sheathing himself in her white fire. Moment by moment he replaced the vivid fantasy with the hard reality of his body, capturing the soft sounds of her pleasure with his mouth. The game was over, banished by the ache he strove to ease. Yet he wanted the easing to last forever.
Kristine tunneled her hands through his hair, releasing his plait and dragging her fingers down the length of auburn silk. She kissed him. From the very bottom of her soul she kissed him. His skin grew slick beneath her hands, dampened by the exertion of his flexing muscles, his power, the strain of his control. She welcomed the weight of him, the exquisite pressure of each stroke, the friction, the scent of him, the strength.
Kit filled her endlessly, again and again, physically losing himself inside of her and mentally waiting, waiting for her search to bring her closer to the elusive fountainhead of consummation. He thrust deeply and groaned at the pleasure coursing up his spine. The waiting could not last much longer. He sucked her tongue into his mouth and slid his hand between their bodies, giving her what she sought.
Ah, woman, woman, what you do to me, what you give . . . These things I have not known before. Take of me, Kreestine. Take everything and still I will find more to give, for you are the one . . . the only one . . .
She gasped, her breathing stopped, her body stilled at the potent sensations ripping through her; and suddenly he was the one taking, taking the shuddering power of her climax and using it for his own. He surged into her for the last time and released himself in concert with the rapt pleasure consuming her.
In the gentle aftermath, they lay in each other’s arms. Visually, Kristine traced the curves of muscle in his chest and the taut plane of his abdomen, down to where her hand rested, slender and pale against his darker skin and the soft auburn hair disappearing beneath the sheet. She gently raked her nails through the enticing pelt and felt the strong arm around her waist tighten and draw her closer.
She glanced up and caught the hint of a smile playing about his mouth. His eyes slowly opened, capturing her. He raised his head off the pillow and teased his mouth over the upper curve of her breast.
“I have not seen skin such as this, Kreestine, like cream on my lips and sugar on my tongue. You are very beautiful . . . very beautiful. And you are mine.” His other hand came into play, sliding up her thigh, his bracelets chiming together and making the music she heard in her heart. A long hank of hair fell over his shoulder and down his arm.
Lord, what had she done? She wondered at the serenity she felt in his arms, at the desire rising within her to touch him, to spread her hand through his thick hair and bare the column of his throat for her kiss. No monk he. Kautilya Carson had been made for love, for loving a woman senseless. Every beautiful line of him begged for her touch, and she longed to feel again his hardness and strength. He’d taken her outside herself, and in the taking had bound her to him.
Her fingers tightened on his wrist as he cupped her breast, to hold him there, not to push him away. The knowledge he’d given her made it impossible to push him away. He offered too much pleasure. She lowered her head and pressed her lips to his temple, wondering how she’d become so easily addicted to the taste of him and the warmth of his response. Here was the man she’d never dreamed of, the man she couldn’t have imagined, and he was in her arms, teaching her once more of his ways.
She surrendered herself to him in the second mating, knowing it was more than pleasure he gave, more than pleasure he took. Awkwardness turned to grace under his caresses, shyness to boldness, and through it all, an outlaw slowly turned into her heart’s love.
Eight
She couldn’t take her eyes off him. She didn’t want to take her eyes off him. Shepard and Stein had been thankfully late, wandering for over two hours amidst the unmarked, unpaved roads on the hill. Two hours burned into Kristine’s memory with all the passion she and Kit had shared.
She watched, mesmerized, as he tapped his pouch of tobacco into the paper bent between his fingers. She remembered every touch of his hands. He lifted the paper to his mouth and glided his tongue across one edge, his eyes meeting hers across the distance of the coffee table. She blushed but held his gaze, reliving for a moment the memories reflected in his eyes.
“Remarkable,” Thomas Stein murmured, looking through a magnifying glass at one of the wooden printing blocks Kit had laid out for their perusal. Thomas was the older of the two curators, his salt-and-pepper hair ringing a bald spot he didn’t attempt to conceal. His gray pinstriped suit was immaculately tailored. “Absolutely remarkable,” he repeated.
Kit grinned, and Kristine’s blush increased, but still she couldn’t tear her gaze away from him. He knew what he’d done to her, and she couldn’t forget, not even with other people in the room.
“Amazing,” Lois Shepard agreed. She stood over by the carefully packed storage boxes Kit had carried from the garage to the living room, tallying them. She was crisp and neat in a navy gabardine suit and white blouse with matching spectator heels, the epitome of cool professionalism.
From here on out the Kāh-gyur would be handled with the awe and respect it deserved, and handled by Kristine. Kit had made his wishes clear in that respect, letting both curators know that all test results and specialist reports were to pass through her hands before any others. They had balked at first, but Kit had insisted, and they all knew who held the winning hand in this particular game.
Kit rolled the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, then struck a match with his other hand, content beyond measure with the day and what he’d found deep inside Kristine. She had filled him with wonder, made all the choices of his past the right ones, for following their path had brought him to her.
>
He drew deeply on the cigarette and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. Still smiling, he blew a smoke ring across the room and watched in satisfaction as it settled around her wineglass and wrist, drawing her amazed gaze back to his eyes.
“Have you stabilized them?” Thomas asked, still peering through his glass.
“We spent three days at Narthang having them blessed and wrapped for the journey,” Kit said, as if that explained the Kāh-gyur’s good condition.
“Nothing more?” Thomas asked, raising a doubtful gaze.
Kit’s smile broadened. “And some temporary first-aid. PVA on the front where necessary. PEG Four Thousand, fungicide, and ethanol on the back. Your lab shouldn’t have any trouble reversing the treatment.”
“They traveled remarkably well,” Thomas said, choosing another printing block for inspection.
“Have you translated them?” Lois asked. “Do you know what section of the Tripitaka we have?”
“One hundred and forty-two nonconsecutive pages of the Discipline, the mystical antidote for the original sin of lust, Rāga.” Kit answered Lois, but his gaze lingered on Kristine.
If there were an underlying irony in his tone, Kristine chose to ignore it. She hadn’t even known what lust was until he’d taught her the craving. Her skin burned wherever his gaze settled, melting her hard-won composure. She only prayed Lois and Thomas couldn’t feel the heat filling the room. Sang Phala must truly have had his hands full with his bartered-for renegade. A good portion of the power she had felt from their first encounter, she now realized, was pure sexual energy.
“Well, its amazing,” Lois said.
Yes. The thought drifted from Kristine’s mind, cast forth with an unconscious sigh.
