Pinning her arm behind her back, he pushed her forward until the stone bit into her skin. The altar sacraments swam before the tears in her eyes.
"I really wanted this to be romantic," he said, "the long version, but since..."
"Let me go."
"Not on your life."
"So I can tie my robe. I refuse to be handfast with my breasts hanging out. Besides, it's chilly in here. Maybe I could build another fire? No?"
She ruched her lips. She tied the belt with slow, intense concentration. Finally, she said, "I'm ready."
"Good," he said.
He took her hand in his, marveling how malleable it was to his touch.
"Ancient ones," he began. "We call upon you to heed our vow of devotion..."
"Huh." Lania snorted loudly.
"...De-vo-tion." He nudged her. "Say the words. Say them!"
"I ... I ... take ... theeeee ... not!"
"What did you say?" the warrior prince asked with deadly calm.
"I said no as in not, nada as in no way, Joseeee."
Swoosh!
Lania found herself on her back, on the bed, gasping for breath. He rammed open her legs, the rough fabric of his cords scuffing her inner thigh. She cried out, trying to buck him off. But he pressed her, without mercy, into the feathery mattress, his body flat against her, covering her so completely that she could feel the indention of his belt-bucket, the rapid beat of his heart, the rustic silk of his shirt.
"Let me go. I said to let me go!"
"Lady, you're like a broken data loop. One more word..."
"Word." Why do I insist on toying with him?
"Hell and the devil! That's enough, enough, enough. Sigil here. Sigil there. Silence now." Jock tapped the corners of her mouth in rhythm with each hex word, then drew a stiff line across her lips. An aged ribbon appeared and rolled, like a living thing, across her mouth. Her lips were sealed.
Her mouth moved under the ribbon and continued to move even though Jock could not hear a word that she spoke.
"Sorry about the smell of the ribbon. It's been eons since a Darkling prince has had to resort to a sigil to tame his..."
Lania got an arm free and lashed out. He grabbed it, and there was a mini-war of his hand to her wrist in midair, before clamping it to the bed.
His castle realm trembled. The quake jarred the heavy bed. Then stillness.
"There is no more time," Jock said.
He eased from her. She saw her chance and fought with all of her might.
Her struggles spurred a black chuckle from him. And a flick of his hand. The bed sheets moved on their own accord, twisting like vines and took shape anew. As silken ropes, they wrapped around her limbs, her ankles, her wrists.
She was spread-eagled, pinned to the bed, her robe open yet closed. Opened enough for a nipple to peep out of the folds. Closed enough for the snowy hairs between her legs to be hidden.
When I get free, this warlock bastard is going to walk funny for the rest of his immortal life. Damn it! What's he up to now?
Jock slipped from the bed and stood between the twin posts. He surveyed his handiwork, taking a moment to feel pride in his magick prowess, for she was truly his captured prize. He frowned.
She's wearing too many clothes.
With a lazy wave of his fingers, he remedied his mistake. She was nude, gloriously nude, and he was ready. He stroked her thighs, his touch soft and gentle, then spread her legs further apart, so far apart that she thought she would split in two.
He took her feet in his hands. He examined them carefully, as if he had never seen this part of the human anatomy before, paying particular attention to her soles and the delicate area between her toes. Next, her legs and knees and the back of her inner thighs where he paused to bestow butterfly kisses. Then, her torso and navel and her firm buttocks. And more butterfly kisses. He moved on, up her body, inspecting it like a scientist looking for clues, until he reached her breasts.
No. No! He's looking for my coven mark. Lania tried to squirm away and got a stinging slap, chased away by a gentle caress, for her defiance.
Jock's examination was impersonal. He fought the waves of desire that built up in him, stamping down the desire to stick his cock in her and get relief from his thudding discomfort. But he could not resist her breasts. Her proud, sassy breasts. Not when he rolled then between his thumb and forefinger. Not when the large nipple sprang to life. Not when he knew, on some gut, primal level, that tiny orgasms were pricking through her.
The business at hand, Jock. Steady. Stay focused. We're talking about saving the world here. You'll have lifetimes to fuck her brains out.
With effort, he cleansed his mind. He turned her over and studied her smooth back. Not a mole, not a speck, not a blemish. He swept aside her long hair and checked her nape. The skin was soft there, calling for his careful perusal, but no special mark proclaimed her as a white witch.
"Where is it, Lady?" he asked. "Make it easy on yourself."
Lania shook her head, straining away. She buried her face in the pillows.
Jock searched her body again, angry at each moment's delay, at each roll of thunder, at each passing second when another lad like TaPai could die.
"I bet you're about to explode," he said, "not being able to talk."
His hand crept down her leg until it detoured to the center of her heat. He peeled back her folds and flicked her nub. He got her undivided attention for her hips flexed upward and her head stuck forward like an arrow in its shaft. She glared at him with fire in her eyes.
"I could keep you silent for, say, an eternity. But no. I'll give you a choice."
His voice turned to liquid chocolate.
"Either this." His large finger circled her nub. "Or this." His lips brushed hers through the ribbon. "Which will it be? Are you strong enough to turn down pleasure?"
He flicked her nub again and heard the moans deep in her throat.
"From the way you're wetting my palm, I don't think so."
He stroked her, long and slow and from cunt to cleft, until her body twitched.
"Had enough? No? You want to curse me? Sorry, I can't hear you. What's it going to be? Raining curses or your body betraying how much you can't resist? I'll play the gentlelock and let you surrender," he said. "Sigil begone."
The ribbon disappeared and Lania spoke with venom.
"I hate you, despise you. I scorn you, you bastard, you ... oooooh..."
"I know my duty," Jock said, his hands renewing their search. Perhaps, the mark, the special mark, that he couldn't see, he could feel.
"You will pay," Lania swore. "Sisters of my coven unite with me ... unite ... no!"
"The pain worsens every time you try to spellcast in my realm," Jock said, leaning back on his haunches. He rested his great weight on the balls of his feet. His brood claimed that his mind was like quicksilver, but he couldn't solve this simple riddle. It had to be somewhere. He recalled Wiccan Lore and the tales of the white witches' coven. Every witch, every witch, has a special mark, the mark of her coven, and when touched, it... Suddenly, he knew. He vaulted from the bed to grab a nearby candle. Shielding her soft skin from the dripping wax, he held it close to her opening.
From her position on the bed, Lania craned to see what he was doing.
Damn it! No, he wouldn't, her mind screamed. He wouldn't take away my powers.
Jock opened her gently. With the tip of his callused pinkie, he searched her inner walls with meticulous care. Drops of sweat clung to his brow and his eyes were focused black dots. He found it, the tiny brand at the inner crest of her vagina, which proclaimed her the princess of the Whitelings. He stopped, paralyzed by the thought of what he was about to do to the woman he loved.
"Jock... Lucky," Lania spoke compellingly.
He looked up and directly into her eyes.
"Don't do this," she said.
"If there was any other way, I wouldn't."
"You don't know what this will do to me."
/> "I do, Lady. I do."
"Anything, but that. I couldn't live without my powers."
"I'll make it up to you. Somehow, I will. I promise."
"You promised not to hurt me."
"I have no choice."
"Stripping me of my powers. How can you?"
"There's no other way."
"Please, Jock."
Lania's eyes filled with tears. She began to weep, softly weep.
"Please, don't. Please don't make me beg."
"Lania... Lania... Try to understand. With our rank come sacrifices..."
"Wiccan Lore..."
"Yeah, Lady, Wiccan Lore..."
"You were never like this before ... cold ... unreachable."
"TaPai is dead."
"I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry too. Some things are bigger than both of us."
"I'll do anything," she said. "Don't take my witching powers from me."
"It's the fate of the world versus you. Those lives. More people can't die."
"But if we handfast... If I agree... If what you say is true, I'll do it. I surrender."
The warlock prince studied her face. He wanted to believe her.
"I'm sorry, my love-my truemate-so sorry. I can't-don't-trust you."
"You can!"
"I'll make this right. Somehow, I swear, I'll make it up to you."
"Taking away my powers? You can never make it up to me."
Jock knew that Lania spoke the truth. He could never make it up to her.
Hell and the devil! This is my destiny. In a few moments, with a few words, I'll strip her of her powers and the woman I love will loathe the very sight of me. And I always thought I was so lucky.
Lania no longer tried to stop the hot tears from falling. She tensed, preparing herself for the inevitable.
The bastard! The cold-hearted, vengeful bastard! He can't love me. This isn't about saving the world. It's about his ego, his massive ego as the prince of the Darklings and his need to always master.
"Forgive me," he said softly, almost whispering.
"I will never forgive you," she said shouting, her eyes shut tight.
They spoke at the same time, at the same time that he touched the mark of her coven and telepathed the sacred incantation that would render her impotent.
"It's over," he said. "Done."
He cradled her in his arms, rocking her, her wet cheek resting against his strong chest. He felt an indomitable sorrow at each sob that racked her, at each shudder that tore through her. He had destroyed her to save the world, but he felt no triumph as its guardian hero. He felt the indomitable sorrow, only. Sorrow that ate at his soul.
Chapter 10
The Darkling prince raised Lania's tear-streaked face, steeling himself to see the rage in her eyes. His words of succor froze on his lips. Instead of grief, her face radiated raw, sexual desire.
Lania threw her arms around his neck and pulled him into a kiss that was scorching in its intensity. Her hands skimmed over the corded muscles of his neck, over the broad girth of his shoulders, over the smooth plane of his chest. Taking his nipple into her mouth, she sucked until she heard him groan from the pleasure.
She ripped his fly open, the zipper giving way under the rapacity of her hands. She yanked his cord jeans down over his taut buttocks. When he popped free, she seized him, manipulating him to rock-hardness. From her labor, from her skilled, sensual labor, his cock stood tall and erect, a massive oak springing from its root. She flipped onto it, taking him in one downward push, pushing all the way down, her juice-soaked muscles stretching and contracting, until he disappeared inside her. She sat on him-he was like a heaving oak-her legs bent and curled close to his body to set a pace he was hard-pressed to meet.
Her grunts rent the air, air filled with the smell of fucking, until they grew louder into a guttural scream.
"Hell and the devil, Lady!" the warlock prince said. "What has come over you?"
She neither answered him nor responded in anyway, except to swat his hip and to pump him faster, to urge him to slam into her as hard and as fast and as furious as she was slamming into him.
"Slow down!" Jock ordered, his voice ragged and hoarse. "Give yourself a chance to enjoy it."
She was oblivious to his pleas, never missing a stroke, her face closed and rigid, and her mind solely on one object: to use him to sate her lust.
"No, you're liking this too much," he said. "I like this too much. It shouldn't be this way. Don't do this."
He couldn't stop her. He couldn't stop it. The lust. The seductive lust-rush for fulfillment. Against his will, he was propelled onward toward the end, the inevitable climax, for her lust was flaming him, consuming him, forcing him on.
"This should be a tender mending after all we've been through ... after all you've lost."
She cupped his balls and squeezed.
He gave up the struggle, shoving aside his noble intentions.
He jerked away from her clawing hands, listening to the whimpering emanating from deep in her throat. He wanted to be naked, wanted skin on skin sex. He paused in tugging off his shirt-his pants hung to his hips, freeing him enough so that his bulging cock stuck out between the steely teeth of the zipper-and brought his hot, questing lips to hers. It was a kiss, just a kiss, but when his lips slanted over hers, all the heat, all the passion, all the desire culminated into a lustful bolt that nearly blew his mind. He shook his head from the daze, not believing that a kiss alone could send him over the edge. He wasn't even in her, but he felt the oozing of his semen and felt the trickle down the length of his cock to nest at the flexing juncture between his legs.
With his mouth locked to hers, he flung off his shirt, grunting in pleasure when her hands pulled and yanked at it in assistance. From the force of their combined efforts, his shirt whipped through the air. As it landed in a rustle on the carpeted floor, he pulled her hips against him, his large hands spanning her waist, his thumb playing with the velvety skin around her navel.
To the sound of rain pattering on the castle battlements, they knelt on the bed, their knees sinking into the downy softness of the mattress, their bodies upright and tight against each other while their tongues continued to dance to silent music that generated wave after wave of pleasure.
He frisked his body against her softer one, lurching as if struck when her hands went to his nipples, only to give himself up to the sensual sensations. He threw his head back, rumbling groans deep in his chest, as the tips of her fingers circled his nipples, teasing the beady areolas, puckering them until they became devil's points. Palming them, spreading her hands wide, gripping the firm, muscular flesh of his pecs, he felt her mouth replace her hands and she bathed each nipple until it was shiny and liquid-smooth, a tiny, mirror image of his protruding cock.
Lost in the strange lust, he let her make love to his body. With her lips and her hands everywhere, she feasted, tracing a hot path down to his middle. Her kisses caused his skin to quiver and ardor was telegraphed to each nerve ending.
His mind cleared for a moment, for only a moment, and he snapped his fingers. The troth offering, glowing eerily in the candlelight, appeared his outstretched palm. He took her hand, and with his fingers woven with hers, tried to glide it on.
"No, no, Lucky, not yet," she said, her voice nothing more than a whispery growl. "Not yet."
"When, Lady, when? I've waited so long, wanted so long, for you to give yourself to me."
With a finger under her chin, the prince lifted up her head. His dark eyes bored into her light ones. He saw lust there, certainly. He thought that he saw affection, too and, perhaps, something more. But not trust. No, not trust. Then, he knew that he had destroyed that coveted tie when he had destroyed her witching powers.
He rested his head against her temple.
"Soon, someday soon, soon." He murmured the words like a sacred chant.
She pressed her body, eager and fierce, against him, bellying him. She began a slow grind, the bump and g
rind of frantic foreplay, her gyrations forcing the insertion of his cock, his big, large, long cock. Once he nested there, her thighs contracted, her muscles tightening then easing to draw in every inch. The dreamcast, the spell that had gotten her with child, became reality. She felt the same delightful fullness, the same massive bloating of his thick erection, the same burning fire.
"Yeah, one day soon. Until then, we have this," she said rubbing her vulva against him. He was such a colossus that her thighs were stretched achingly apart. Yet, she intertwined her legs, closing around him, increasing the friction, to stroke the full length of him.
Her actions sent him reeling and shut out every thought. He functioned on the primitive, on the visceral, on the blinding need to pump out his release.
He hurled her onto her back and hoisted up her legs, letting her ankles dangle over his shoulders. With one fluid motion, he was in her to the max, trembling violently, when she clamped down on the thick reef of his cock, constricted her muscles, and pumped his essence from him.
"This feels so good, so right," he said. "It shouldn't."
"Just fuck me. Just fuck me! All I want is for you to fuck me."
She intertwined her ankles around his neck, meeting him, matching him beat for beat. He pumped heavily into her, over and over, until she sobbed for release. At last, the coil of lust that locked them tightened for the final time and sprang free, ricocheting tingling sensations of the purest pleasure through every fiber in their bodies.
Later, much later, Jock rested his damp brow in the nook of her shoulder. Although he barely raised his head, his words resounded clear and distinct.
"What the hell just happened?" he asked.
"It didn't work," Lania replied. "I still have my powers."
The Whiteling princess burst into tears.
"It's all true," she said between sobs. "What you said-the handfast-the First Sign-the end of the world."
Jock gathered her in his arms, knowing that her understanding would shake the foundation of her being.
"I'm gonna have to..."
Chapter 11
Romantic Days, Romantic Nights Page 6
