by Zoë Archer
Somehow, it was just right that she should share this experience with him. A man who’d set himself apart from ordinary life.
Yet she was an ordinary human, and hadn’t his telumium-enhanced endurance. Her legs ached with weariness, her breath coming in shallow gasps. This had been an extraordinary and long night.
“Need … a break …” she panted.
He immediately stopped, his gaze both sharp and concerned. Tilting his head, he listened intently. “We’ve lost them.”
“They might still be patrolling the streets, looking for us.” She glanced around, taking note of their surroundings. “There’s a cupola on that rooftop. We could have a rest until it’s time to meet al-Zaman.”
“I don’t need much sleep,” he answered, then added with a frown, “but you look ready to collapse.”
There was no use in pretending she was superhuman. “Wouldn’t mind sitting down for a few minutes.”
They headed toward the cupola. Mikhail plucked a few blankets from wash lines along the way. Normally, she didn’t condone thievery, but tonight—indeed, this whole voyage—had already played havoc with her ethics, so she didn’t object. She most certainly didn’t complain when Mikhail leapt over the cupola’s low wall and lay the blankets down upon the dusty floor.
Once she was inside the small structure, she finally allowed her legs to give out from under her, sinking to the blankets with a long exhale. She leaned against the wall and stretched her legs out, debating whether or not to unlace her boots. Better to keep them on, just in case she needed to run. At last, however, she could have a few moments’ respite.
His back to her, Mikhail stood at the wall, hands braced on the stone. With the lights of the city all around, his stance wide and confident, he was an emperor surveying the lands that depended on his protection. Tonight he’d proven himself both physically capable and a strategist. But he wouldn’t have risen in the navy, and wouldn’t have been chosen to be a Man O’ War candidate, if he was merely brawn.
Nor was he simply a mercenary, as he claimed. Again and again, this very night, he’d protected her.
Because he wants his diamonds.
No, it went beyond merely protecting what he thought was his investment. She’d seen it in his gaze, in the way he feared for her, encouraged her. At some point during the night, a boundary between them had been crossed.
Tell him. Tell him now. He needs to know.
“There’s the waning crescent moon.” He pointed to the sliver hanging in the sky. “In Virgo.”
“Looks like a scimitar,” she said.
He chuckled lowly, and despite her exhaustion, the sound of his laughter sparked her nerves to life. Brilliant little constellations of awareness.
Words formed within her, words she needed to tell him. Yet they couldn’t move past her lips. The connection they had created tonight would be shattered, and she was selfish enough to want to cling to it a little longer.
From her satchel, she pulled out the astrolabe. It was dark in the cupola, so she couldn’t make out much of its detail, but her fingers traced etched lines and ornate plates.
“A wondrous device,” she murmured, “fashioned long before such things as tetrol and telumium.”
To her surprise, he moved to sit beside her. To her even greater surprise, his legs pressed against hers, their arms touching, and the pace of her heartbeat quickened. The cupola was a small space, she reminded herself, so naturally he needed to sit close. His heat soaked into her, making her both languid and energized.
“All we had were dreams and wind-filled sails.” A small, bittersweet smile curved his mouth. “That’s what brought me to the sea. Dreams of faraway places. And dreams of glory,” he added, a note of self-deprecation in his voice.
“And now?”
“I’ve got faraway places in abundance. But glory …” He shrugged his wide shoulders. “That dream slipped through my fingers.”
They were silent for a long while, hearing the distant sounds of the city far below. Despite the lateness of the hour, the strained merriment continued in Medinat al-Kadib. As much as she enjoyed studying human societies and cultures, this night she found greater pleasure in looking at the sky, and the uncomplicated mysteries of distant stars.
She tucked the astrolabe back into her satchel. It had to be kept safe until she could hand it off to al-Zaman.
“An academic and a mercenary,” she said softly. “Not the most likely of teams.”
“A good one, though.” Approval warmed his words. “We did a top-notch heist.”
She didn’t anticipate how much gratification she’d feel, both to be commended for her skills at theft, and to receive his praise. In only a few days, she’d become entirely altered, far more wicked, decidedly more bold.
I think I like it.
Exhaustion ebbed. Energy and potential moved through her like a golden tide, glimmering within. And with it, hunger for him surged just as brightly. She’d seen him at his most deadly tonight, and his most insightful. They’d worked together with an uncanny ability. As though they had a natural affinity for each other.
He broke the silence. “Get some rest. Dawn will be here in a few hours, and then we’re convening with al-Zaman. I’ll keep watch while you sleep.”
Her secret was enclosed her heart as if by a cage of iron. She held the key, yet dreaded freeing what would surely destroy everything she and Mikhail had created together.
She bargained with herself. A little while longer with him like this. That’s all she wanted. She would suffer later.
“It’s a strange thing,” she murmured, staring at the sharp, clean lines of his profile and the sensuous fullness of his bottom lip. “Tonight alone, I met the emissary of the warlord who’s keeping my parents prisoner. I broke into one of the most secure buildings in the entire Arabian Peninsula. Crossed electrified grids. Swung across chasms, solved riddles, was chased by armed guards. Ran through the city and jumped across rooftops. One would think I’d be weary beyond imagining, and desperate for sleep.”
Her heart pounding, she cupped the side of his face with her palm. The bristle of his close-cropped beard prickled against her skin, another reminder of his potent masculinity. She turned his face toward her.
“But I’m not sleepy,” she whispered. “Not in the slightest.” Their faces were close, and lambent light from the streets below gleamed in his sharply hot gaze. The guardedness in his eyes had fallen away. She saw desire there, and respect. Over the course of the night, they had each transformed, both within themselves, and to each other.
His hands came up to cradle her head. His face was a tight mask of need. “To hell with sleep.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking.” And then their lips came together, and she stopped thinking entirely.
Chapter Ten
* * *
FEVER BURNED IN Mikhail. It had started long ago, when he’d first kissed Daphne, setting him afire with the promise of what could be. He’d thought her dishonesty would have annihilated his desire for her, but that wasn’t the case. They had worked perfectly together tonight. He’d seen her intelligence, her bravery. She’d trusted him, and his own mistrust had slowly peeled away.
Need for her burned brighter than ever. His blood was already aflame from the night’s adventure, his control barely in check. And when he saw the hunger in her eyes, the same desire blazing through her, control snapped.
As they kissed, he took her mouth savagely, tasting her, drinking her deep. She met his kiss eagerly, her tongue stroking against his. The same boldness she’d shown in the vault was here, too, in the way they tangled like tigers, fighting for more, and more.
She rose up onto her knees and pushed at his coat. He readily shucked it. But that wasn’t enough. Skin to skin—that’s what they wanted. She tugged at the buckles of his waistcoat, and though he wanted to feel her hands on his bare flesh, he allowed himself the sweet torture of her fingers playing over him, the tease and frolic of her hands taun
ting him through the fabric.
He hissed in a breath when she dipped a finger between the buckles, stroking over the taut skin of his abdomen.
“Not a professorsha,” he said, hoarse, “but a tantalizing minx.”
Her smile was as ageless as Woman. “Always joy in the process of discovery.”
“Enough of process,” he rumbled. “Your hands on me. And mine on you.”
Buckles scattered as he pulled his waistcoat open, then threw it aside. Finally, he was bared to the waist. He turned to her, so they knelt and faced each other.
She softly gasped, and her eyes widened as she held herself still. He willed himself patience. Few people ever saw a Man O’ War. It had to come as a surprise to her, the way his body had been transformed and shaped by his implants.
“You’re … incredible,” she whispered.
His body was a weapon. Sometimes a lure to women. Until this moment, he’d cared only how it could serve him as a tool. But maybe it could be something more. Maybe … he could be something more.
Through her exploration, he changed. Her hands traced over the ridges of his stomach, the dips of muscle on his hips. There was power in her touch, his need brought higher and higher by it, his blood loud in his ears. She slid her palms up over his chest. Damn that he couldn’t feel her though the telumium implant that covered his right pectoral and continued up onto his shoulder. The admiration and amazement in her gaze was almost enough.
“Like armor,” she murmured. “But it isn’t rigid. And it gives off so much heat.”
“Keeps its flexibility when implanted.” He went to work on the buttons of her blouse. Keep your damned hands steady, Misha. But desire throbbed through him. Much as he wanted to tear the damn thing off of her, he had to keep himself under control. The implants pushed him to the very limits of his discipline.
As the buttons parted, revealing the column of her neck, his mouth followed the path, tasting her, biting and licking. Blessed saints, the sweet and smoky taste of her skin.
She moaned, tipping her head back.
Opening her blouse fully, he revealed a necklace covering the hollow of her throat. Three rocks were strung on the necklace, each the size of a walnut. An odd and unlovely ornament for a woman as pretty as she, and he reached to unfasten the clasp so he might get to the bare flesh of her throat.
Her hand stopped his, and her voice was tight. “Leave it on.”
He wasn’t about to argue, not when he was so close to uncovering more of her skin, so, ignoring the necklace, he continued to work at the buttons of her blouse.
Finally, the garment parted open fully, and this was also thrown aside. Beneath her blouse, she wore only a chemise, her breasts tantalizing and ripe beneath the thin muslin. He’d once thought her prim and straitlaced. He’d known nothing. Here she was now, uncovered, soft, keen with desire. This was the real woman.
But he didn’t want to waste time with more fabric. Impatient, he tugged her chemise up and away. Then she, too, was bare above the waist, save for the necklace. Erotic, seeing her naked but for this ornament.
His large hands fully covered her breasts. Such sweet handfuls. He stroked and caressed them, toying with the tight points of her nipples. She writhed against him, her hips pressed to his, and his aching cock couldn’t decide if the sensation was torture or ecstasy.
Bending down, he took one of her nipples in his mouth. His tongue swirled around the bud, drawing more moans from deep in her throat. One of her hands gripped his shoulder, the other cupped the back of his head, urging him closer, demanding more.
He was only too happy to oblige. He took her nipple between his lips, lightly pinching. Ah, the sounds she made … Opening herself to him, not hiding from her desire for him. He shuddered with wanting her, this woman who’d proven herself again and again with her courage. Her fearlessness stoked his need, and he wanted inside of her, to know her in every way.
Somehow, he managed to get the front of her trousers open, and worked his hand down within them, through the opening in her drawers. Until he found her pussy, slick and hot.
“So wet, my professorsha.” His voice was nothing more than a rasp. “So wet for me.”
He considered it a triumph that she was too lost in sensation to have an answer beyond a low, husky moan.
As he continued to lick and gently bite on her nipples, his fingers stroked her pussy, between her lips, rubbing tight circles around her clit. Her back arched, continuous sounds of pleasure spiraling up from the back of her throat.
“Need to know,” she gasped, her hand going to the waistband of his trousers. “If you want me the way I want you.”
“No doubt of that.” He wasted no time undoing the buttons. Groaning, he freed his cock, and gripped it tightly in his hand. He couldn’t remember ever being this hard, this desperate.
“This is what you want.” He held it out, an offering and a tease—for them both.
“Yes.” Her hand wrapped around the base of his cock, and they both gasped at the feel. Though her hand was too small to fully encircle him, he didn’t care—all he cared about was the sensation of her fingers around him. He released his own grip, and let her stroke him, up and down, circling the swollen head. “Yes,” she murmured again, or it could have been him who said it. All he knew was the marvel of her touch, bold and tender.
He continued to stroke her, too, caressing her folds, finding all the places that made her whimper and keen with sensation. His lips covered hers, swallowing her sounds with lush, open-mouthed kisses. The more he touched her, the more open she became, her tongue stroking against his. And all the while, her hand continued to pump him, slow, then fast, then lightly, then firmly. She seemed born with an instinct to torment and pleasure him.
It was as if he’d been made not for war, but for this, for her. To feel the growing demands of her body. To sate those demands. All for her, and no other.
She stiffened, whole body tensing. Yes, he thought, savage, when sounds of ecstasy tore from her. Her climax was powerful as a hurricane, and just as leveling. The woman who’d moved self-consciously through the tavern in Palermo was gone. This woman cried out in pleasure, trusting him, free in herself.
But he needed, demanded, more. The last of her shudders subsided. He wasted no time in unlacing and removing her boots, before peeling off her trousers. Pliant with release, her eyes heavy-lidded, she watched him strip her—but she wasn’t entirely passive. When the bottom cuff of her trousers caught on her heel, she helped tug it free. And then she was nude.
He caressed her everywhere, feeling the sleek softness of her limbs, all her rounded, sweet places that had fascinated him from the moment he saw her. The freckles dotting the bows of her collarbones. The curve of her waist. The trim lengths of her legs. She didn’t shy away from his touch, but curled into it, purring and sensuous.
“This is how you’re meant to be, lapochka,” he rumbled. “Naked and pleasured. Not stuck away in some dusty library.”
“Almost never in libraries,” she said, her voice a honeyed rasp. “And it’s not mutually exclusive—being a scholar and a wanton.”
“I’ll have both.” Knowing these two aspects of her was exciting, that she could be rosy from orgasm, and also possess a mind as bright and clear as a diamond.
He moved so he leaned against the railing, legs stretched out in front of him. She straddled him. Reaching down, she adjusted his cock so it was at the perfect angle, the head just skimming her entrance. He held them like that for a moment, savoring. When she struggled against his grip, wanting to lower herself down onto him, his hold remained firm. Taunting them both with what could be, what would be.
She growled in complaint. “Now, Mikhail.”
The sound of her commanding him snapped the very last filament of his control. He brought her down, hard, in one thick thrust. His eyes closed, and a groan tore from him. God, she was so slick, so tight. As hot as he ran, she burned him with her own heat.
She tensed all around
him. He pried open his eyes, and his heart seized when he saw the faint flicker of pain in her face.
Damn him—he’d forgotten. He’d never been a little man, but the telumium implants had made him bigger. Everywhere. She was so small, so snug. He must be hurting her. And he’d gone plowing into her without any gentleness, like a rutting bull.
Though it almost killed him to do so, he started to lift her up. She gripped his wrists.
“No,” she gasped. “Need … only a moment …”
“Don’t want to hurt you.”
“I’m not … I’m …” She took several deep breaths. “So full. It’s …” In gradual waves, the pain left her face, replaced by rich pleasure, and she sank down onto him, taking him fully within her. “Ah. Yes … so good.”
If he could form words, he would have agreed with her. But he had no vocabulary. No thought beyond the feel of her delicious sheath all around him and the look of ecstasy on her face. He surged up into her. Riding him, she gripped his shoulders. Their sounds of pleasure mingled together with each thrust.
She angled her hips, grinding hard against him. A tiny frown of concentration appeared between her brows as she hunted more sensation. Eager to give it to her, he twisted up to press tighter against her clit. He loved watching her grow frenzied, eagerly taking his every firm thrust, straining toward release. That he could take her beyond the limits of her control, the way she’d freed him from his.
Another climax hit her even harder than before. Her mouth opened soundlessly. Heat stained her cheeks, her chest. She was a tableau of pleasure. No artist could have captured a finer image of a woman in ecstasy.
His own release gathered. He couldn’t hold back much longer.
He pulled out, then stood them both up, and turned her around. Placing her hands on the railing, he widened her legs. Over her shoulder, she cast him a look of such raw demand, he nearly came from that alone. The view was perfect: her shapely arse, the slickness of her waiting pussy, the curve of her back and lust in her eyes. And the whole of the city and night sky spread out before them.
