Romantic Days, Romantic Nights

by Lynn Jae Marsh

  Yet, he could not stand the aching bareness without her. He pulled her limp body into an embrace, cradling her against his chest. He felt her tears wet him there and let her cry it out.

  "I'm sorry," he whispered softly into her hair.

  "I'm gonna get out of here," Lania vowed, wiping the tears from her face with an angry, back-handed swipe. "Even if I burn this place to the ground."

  Chapter 7

  Jock kicked off the wall to land imperfectly on the padded mat. He did it again, this time swinging the broadsword in an arc over his head. At the end of the swing, the broadsword penetrated its target off-center. Pulling it free, he leaped, twisting his torso in midair, and back-flipped to the ground. Once there, his holographic foe quickened the pace of the battle.

  For the past hour, he had been working through his routine, performing the reps with slipshod accuracy. After his behavior with Lania, he felt the need to work off his anger, to prove to himself that he didn't care that he was dying inside without her love, that she hadn't gotten under his skin, that he wasn't suffering the agony of the damned because he had hurt her. The only thing that he had proved was that she had destroyed his concentration to the point that he couldn't complete a rep without error.

  Lowering the broadsword, he stood at rest and inhaled deeply.

  Hell and the devil. That lady makes me crazy. She makes me lose control, to want to do things that no Prince of the Darklings worthy of that title should even think about doing. I wanted to take her by force, to use my prick like a weapon, to thrust it high and back, to deny her pleasure. I wanted to fuck her without mercy until there was a howling in my ears, until I heard her screams of pain, until I heard her screams of pleasure, until my balls rose and tightened against me and my shot was free.

  He strode to the weapons cabinet and selected his favorite battle axe. He sliced the air with it, enjoying the nasty hiss as it cut through the pungent smell of the garrison. He reached for a mace and looped the strap around his left wrist.

  Wyvern, his holographic foe, executed a simple attack, slashing with the heavy saber. Jock parleyed badly, his timing off, seconds before the blade would have severed his arm from his shoulder. When his foe feinted and renewed the attack, Jock failed to return thrust.

  Why does she have to be so stubborn? the warrior prince thought.

  Seeming to sense blood, Wyvern attacked again, pressing with bravura. Jock was forced back under the onslaught, his feet slipping from under him, awkward and graceless for a seasoned warrior.

  Why does she have to be so beautiful?

  Picking up the tempo, the holograph drove Jock to the wall. Jock's stop-thrust was weak. He again had to give ground, barely beating back the sabre point.

  Why do I get hard just thinking about her?

  There was a slicing at his chest. If this had been a real clash, Jock's blood would be spilling all over the stone slabs of the floor. This was not his best day.

  Maybe it was the fire in his loins. Maybe it was the searing knowledge that he had almost raped her. Maybe it was the wrenching in his gut from knowing that the one woman on his plane of existence that he desired above all others did not want him. He stopped short, in mid-attack, at the thought. Right before the point of Wyvern's sabre pierced his heart.

  "Pause program," he ordered.

  He grabbed a fleecy towel from the door of the weapons cabinet. Wiping the sweat from his chest as he walked, he caught sight of himself in the garrison reflector. He was not a conceited man, but he knew his own worth. Handsome, rich, with a remote darkness that was dangerously intriguing, females had been at his beck and call from his age of ascension. He had taken many into his bed, but none into his heart.

  "Come down, Lania," he ordered.

  He looped the towel around his neck, clasping an end in each hand, and watched her from brows that formed raven wings.

  Drawn by the clank of metal against metal, Lania had wandered into the garrison balcony. The sight that had met her eyes sent every female corpuscle racing.

  Jock's body glistened with sweat, his muscles flexing from exertion in a very manly activity. That was not the only fact that had gotten her hot and bothered and had sent her blood pressure skyrocketing. He was nude-magnificently nude-except for the breechcloth, which scantily covered the evidence of his endowment.

  Time had become timeless, as she had watched the interplay of his sinewy muscles. His triceps had bulged when he had whipped the weapon around. His buttocks had tensed and tightened when he had lunged. His washboard chest had rippled, his pectorals undulating to some unheard music, when he had dodged the slashing sword. At the sight, she licked her lips with hunger, biting down hard until she drew blood. Now he was asking her to enter, to see the glorious sight of his body close-up and personal.

  "Scared?" he asked, as if he had read her mind.

  "Certainly not," she snapped, but she did not move from the balcony.

  "Should I send Wyvern for you?"

  "No!"

  Lania shuddered at the thought of being confronted by that beast. She had gotten a good view of its fury during the holographic battle. She had no desire to face it, even if it was a computer-generated image.

  "I think I should," Jock said. "Computer..."

  "But you said that you won't hurt, me. You said..."

  "...Children's Wyvern One."

  "Don't. Please don't! I'll come..."

  In a twinkle of an eye, Jock's recent foe-a dragon beast of fire and sword-transformed into a cartoon playmate. Standing meekly at Jock's side, the once ferocious beast waved a pudgy hand in greeting. Jock leaped on its back and the dragon took flight, soaring to the balcony to stop there.

  "Hop on," he said.

  The prince held out his hand, the fingers long and well-shaped. Lania placed her hand in his much larger one. Straddling the battlements, she got one leg over when she felt his sinewy arms encircle her waist. Holding her tight, Jock lifted her onto the dragon's back. Her thin blouse grew wet from his sweat. She inhaled, smelling the pungent scent of his virility.

  With a gentle flapping of its gargantuan wings, Wyvern took off again. Lania gasped, clutching at a horny spike. The garrison ground was a long way down.

  "Don't be afraid," he said. "I haven't lost a rider yet. Relax and enjoy the ride."

  Lania tried to do that, but how could she with Jock's chest pressed against her, the beating of his heart bold and sure? With his barely covered, bulging cock snuggled against her, recalling days and nights of dreamcasting pleasure? With his thighs, encasing her soft ones, the muscles flexing and relaxing at each swoop in the dragon's flight. The combination of sensations bombarded her as she fought to speak.

  "What? I don't get it?" she said, bemused. "How..."

  "That's a first. The princess of the Whitelings robbed of speech."

  "First he was... Now..."

  "We hold our children's parties here. The kids gave a great time."

  Lania could imagine. Even Disney World had nothing like this. The realism was unbelievable from the rush of the wind on her cheek to the heaving sides of the beast.

  "Speaking of kids. How do you feel about them? Not that I care," she hastened to add. She was glad that he could not see her face. She knew that an anxious frown marred her brow.

  "I love kids," he said simply, and Lania knew that he was speaking the truth. She also knew, on some bone and blood level, that Jock would be an excellent father.

  "I plan on having seven or eight," he said, reaching down to caress her belly, only to grunt when her elbow sharply connected with his side. "Or whatever the market will bear," he corrected hastily.

  Wyvern took a final lap around the garrison, winding down, to land like a mechanical hobbyhorse in need of more quarters.

  "We had to add a timer," he said, "otherwise the kids would never get off."

  "You certainly have a strange home, even for a warlock."

  "It's your home now."

  "It doesn't feel that way. It's har
d to feel at home when..."

  "Salem," Jock granted her that dangerous bit of information.

  "Ah," she nodded her understanding. "The warlock capitol of the world. What's the old saying? Salem is to sorcery what Vegas is to gambling."

  Sensing her softening mood, Jock seized his chance. He pulled her into his arms. They stood thus, in the vastness of the garrison floor, a powerful man and a powerful woman, trying to come to grips with strange and wondrous circumstances.

  "I want you to be happy here," he said solemnly. "I'd rather cut off my sword arm than to see you unhappy. About before..." He went down on one knee and encased her small hand in his much larger one. "I most humbly beg your forgiveness. If you'll trust yourself to me, then it will never happen again."

  "You promise?"

  "That should be good enough."

  "Swear."

  "No one doubts me, Lady."

  "On your oath as liege-lord."

  The muscle at Jock's strong jaw pulsed dully as he strove to keep his temper. "You could tempt Archangel to lose his wings. If only you'd behave like a proper Darkling consort."

  "I will never be that."

  "You understand the consequences if I break my vow?"

  A devious smile curved Lania's lips as she nodded her head.

  "Then, I..."

  "I pushed you too far," Lania said, suddenly willing to accept her part in what almost happened, suddenly unwilling to humble him further. Her smile changed from devious to tender. She resisted the urge to stroke his face.

  "I went a little crazy. An oath-breaker is a terrible slur for a warlock. As the prince of the Darklings, I am bound by the truth."

  "Then why did you come to me by dreamcast?"

  "Dreamcast seduction is one thing, but what almost happened is quite another. Plus you were too powerful otherwise. I'm not proud of what I did, Lania. It was the only way. At first. Later, I couldn't resist the magick. Since I got you pregnant with my son, I'm delighted at the results if not the means."

  Jock rose to his feet. Silence fell and it mellowed them both. When Lania rested her head on his shoulder, he risked breaking the mood, asking, "Lady, why did you refuse my troth offering? Is the idea of handfasting with me so terrible?"

  The face of the witch princess shadowed. She raised her head to stare at a point beyond his shoulder.

  "I didn't know ... what it was." she said.

  "You didn't? Then all those claims..."

  Jock threw back his head and shouted with laughter until he got another sharp elbow to his ribs.

  "I'm no expert in Wiccan Lore," the princess said with a flash of temper.

  Jock snapped his fingers and the troth offering appeared in the palm of his hand.

  "It is very old, rare. Open it." At her hesitation, he said again, more urgently this time, "Open it."

  She lifted the jeweled lid. The eerie talisman, like nothing that she had ever seen before, came to life. Suddenly afraid, she closed the lid, but the prince was quicker.

  "Trust me," he said simply.

  He pushed aside his breechcloth. His semi-erect cock grew under her gaze until it was long, hard, and beautiful. She licked her lips, longing to caress it.

  "Put it on me," he directed.

  Unable to resist, she slipped the talismanic circlet over soft foreskin, past throbbing veins, until it was nestled in the black curls of his pubic hair.

  "Turn it," he said, gritting out the words.

  "What?"

  "Turn it."

  His hand covered hers, guiding her, showing her how, and then dropped free. Her hand, alone, turned until his moan of pain-perhaps pleasure-slipped from his clamped teeth.

  "More ... more ... tighter ... tighter ... if you want to hurt me."

  "No!" Regardless of her threats, her vows of vengeance, she didn't want to. She pulled the talisman off and put it back into its case.

  "The ancient ones were right," he murmured, "the talisman does unveil the soul." That epiphany shook the foundation of his being. For the first time in his life, Jock "Lucky" Steele, the proud warlock prince of the Darklings, had been willing to be dominated by another.

  "Lania, I..."

  "Don't say anything." She stopped his words with a kiss.

  Their lips met, at first teasing, then more determined as all of their emotions merged into passion.

  Her arms encircled his neck, feeling the tension there. He was like a coiled, restive animal needing its home.

  Stepping back, he stripped away his breechcloth. With arrogance he stood, a proud conquering prince before his battle maid. He stretched out his arms, willing her to come to him. On passion-quick feet, she flew into his embrace.

  She felt him at her belly, like rock-hard cement, seconds before he kneed apart her legs. Moving with unerring knowledge, his hand found its target. He fingered her, her clothing causing twin sensations of hot friction and hotter desire. Sinking one finger deep, he brought forth the juices that would pave his entry and then stilled his hand. When her muscles contracted around him and she cried out in ecstasy, he lost control.

  "I swear it will always be like this," he vowed, his voice low and harsh.

  He reached under her skirt and, finding her panties, tore them with savage need. They hung in shreds of silk and lace. He hoisted her onto him, taking all of her weight on his mighty frame. His breathing grew hot and rapid, his lungs pumping in anticipation. Tangling his hands in her long tresses, he held her still, staring straight into her eyes as he impaled her.

  "I want access," he said, darkly, crudely. "Spread. Spread for me."

  She thought that she would go mad as she did as he requested, squirming against him, trying to get closer, trying to suck him in, trying to milk him dry. She screamed in agony when he separated them, only to urge him on when his hands roamed over her. Her remaining clothes ripped under his wild, questing hands until she was nude and exposed to his will.

  The soft, white skin of her breasts beckoned him, crying out for his attention. He tongued the areola, until the nipple grew into plump ripeness. He nuzzled it, then when it popped into his mouth, sucked hard, sending a sharp stab of pleasure to the core of her being. She strained against him, arcing as if she wanted to shove him away. Yet, she clung to him, wrapping her legs tight. And tighter still when he grabbed her bottom to grind his cock against her. The primal nature of his act sent another stab of pleasure through her, and she felt herself teetering on the edge of an abyss.

  He tore his mouth from her breasts, resting his head in the hollow of her shoulder. With controlled concentration, he started the age-old rhythm, thrusting himself into her yielding softness. She lifted herself higher so that she would cradle his slick fullness in the notch between her thighs, so that she would rub with delicious friction against her aching bud, so that she would receive the ultimate fulfillment.

  He shouldered her, sending them to the garrison floor in a tangle of arms and legs, their bodies too glued together by sweat and semen for them to separate. He turned, accepting the brunt of the impact, rolling her onto her back to continue pounding out his need. And hers.

  She fought against release. She didn't want the delicious sensations to end. Yet, she wanted the end. Her mind whip-tossed, she recoiled against the slate floor, pushing away from his relentless thrusting. It was all too much, too soon. She gripped his shoulders to buck him off. She could not. He held her securely, his body so imprinted upon hers, that she could not gain advantage.

  Her mind pulled back from climax, from all that it meant. This was more than a mere coupling. This was a bonding and it frightened her.

  The consummate lover, Jock sensed her withdraw. He fought for control, reaching deep into the pit of his gut to deny himself what he most wanted. With tenderness, he kissed her cheek and slowly pulled himself free.

  "Someday, you will be ready," he vowed.

  He pushed off her to lie at her side. When she pulled away, he stopped her with encircling arms. He held thus for a long time, givi
ng her the solace that she needed.

  "This is for real, isn't it? Our marriage?" she asked.

  He grunted, wary, not willing to destroy their fragile concord. "It's simple, the handfast. After, you may do as you please-within reason."

  "Simple for you. You won't be reduced to less than nothing."

  "I didn't make the rules, Lania. Don't punish me for something that I didn't do."

  "So my fate is to live here, in your castle realm, without my powers."

  "Unless I grant otherwise."

  "Unless you, and the chances of you letting me spellcast in your realm are what? Less than a dupleki demon doing a job for tin."

  Jock maintained a tactful silence.

  "I thought so," she said with a sneer of her lip.

  "Maybe not."

  "Then prove it. Let me mental search to my coven. Please."

  She tugged on the back of his neck, bringing him close for a kiss.

  He yielded to her soft embrace, sucking in air when her hand swept low to bring him to hardness. His temper flared at her blatant manipulation and at his desire to please her whatever the cost. He was tempted, very tempted, to give in. If he didn't watch his step, she would turn him into an impotent faerie. He pushed her hand away.

  "I don't like being on the receiving end of a control fuck."

  "You bastard. You..." Her mouth formed the O of the forbidden slur.

  "Don't say it, Lady. Don't go there..."

  "A thousand pardons, my liege, for the interruption," a gruff voice was heard from the doorway. Houston stood in the garrison arch. His eyes were downcast, in strict observance of warlock protocol. Dripping wet, not having taken the time to remove his trench coat, his appearance indicated the urgency of the interruption.

  "If you will excuse us, Lania," Jock said. With a wave of his hand, she was covered in an overlarge cloak.

  She threw him a speaking glance-her eyes like haughty, twin flames-and walked out.

  With Lania gone, Houston relaxed. Jock was his friend as well as his prince.