The Skypirate

by Justine Davis

  She lifted her head. “I’ve seen what you can stand,” she repeated softly. “And I see you as you cannot. I only wish you could.”

  Then, without a warning to him, she moved to retrace, inch by inch, that most intimate of paths. At the first touch of her lips a throttled groan broke from him. When her tongue crept out to stroke him, his entire body went rigid. She lingered for a moment, but again the temptation was too great and she moved upward.

  The feel of the satin hardness of him beneath her lips thrilled her nearly as much as the groaned litany of pleasure that was rising from his throat. But soon it wasn’t enough, and she parted her lips to take him inside.

  “God, snowfox!” It was a burst of sound that seemed to rip from somewhere deep in his belly. His hands left the cot and shot down to clutch at her, his fingers tangling in her hair as he held her to him as if he feared she would leave. She tasted him, stroked him, drawing him in deeper, until he was arching beneath her tender ministrations.

  She felt the moment when he broke. In the instant before he did it, she sensed he would; he grabbed her shoulders, pulled her up his naked body, rolled and came up over her.

  “I have never,” he growled between panting breaths, “felt anything like that in my life.”

  Did he think it just some skill learned by a slave trained for pleasuring? she wondered with a stab of disappointment. Did he not sense that the difference was the feeling with which it was done?

  It did not matter, she told herself. She had not begun this for anything more than to return some of what had been given to her. And then his mouth was on her, and she had no room for thought.

  He did not have to wait to arouse her for further caresses; her attention to him had aroused her beyond imagining. When his mouth came down on her breast, suckling her with a fierceness that, had she been less ablaze, might have hurt, a rocket of flame and heat and sensation shot straight to that swelling pool of wet heat low inside her. He moved to her other breast and it came again, that burst of flame, and she cried out.

  When he seemed about to move she moaned a protest, arching her back to thrust her breasts up to him in a plea for more of the sweet suckling. He returned to her then, his mouth at one taut crest, his fingers at the other, flicking both to a tightness that made her fairly undulate as her body responded.

  Her plan had rebounded on her, searing her intentions to ashes. She had meant to arouse him beyond sanity, and had wound up doing it to herself. She had hoped to break down that last barrier that held him back from her, and had instead shattered all of her own. She was what they had tried to make her as a slave, but never succeeded: a willing, eager, ardent vessel wanting only the man who was about to take her. Yet she knew it was because it was Dax; only for this man had she, or would she ever become this purely sensual creature.

  When he did take her, it was as she had wanted it, in one swift, sure thrust that drove him into her to the hilt. She cried out at the sudden, thick invasion. She could feel the pressure of his body as, lifting himself up, he ground his hips against her, each movement sending impossible rushes of shivering pleasure through her.

  It was going to happen too fast; she hadn’t wanted it this way, she had wanted so to make it go on and on, on this night that could be their last. But she hadn’t counted on the savagery of her own response to her efforts to drive him over the edge that he couldn’t jump himself, and she knew she had lost. She felt the tiny pulses begin deep inside her as he lengthened his thrusts, felt the increasing slickness of her body as it readied itself for that flight beyond any star journey she’d ever taken.

  It swept over her then, fierce, hot, bursting, an explosion of sensation and light. She cried out his name as she clung to him, the only support in her spinning world. It went on and on as he continued to move, never letting up, never letting her drift back down to the dazed peace she’d known before.

  He, too, knew it was their last time, she thought hazily. But if he thought she could do this again . . . she had to tell him, she was spent, she couldn’t possibly—

  Something about the way he was moving stopped her foggy thoughts. Always before, he had withdrawn from her the moment he was certain she’d gained her release, and after he had finally explained, she had realized it was too painful for him to do otherwise. But now he was still deep inside her, thrusting, his breath coming in harsh, gulping pants, sweat beading up on his golden skin.

  “Dax?” she whispered.

  “I . . .” He thrust again, hard, deep, and the cot thumped against the wall. “God, snowfox, I . . .” And again the driving thrust, and again, his still swollen shaft cleaving her climax-slickened flesh with a renewed urgency that she’d never felt from him before.

  It was then that she recognized the faint undertone she’d heard in his voice. Hope. God, was it possible that urgency had sprung from feelings that had been absent before? Sensations long unfelt, long denied his body by the Triotian strength of his mind?

  She erupted into motion then, writhing beneath him, adding her motion to his. She touched him wherever she could reach, stroking, caressing. She kissed any spot of the sweat-sheened golden skin she could reach. She felt tremors sweep through him, heard the almost desperate, guttural sounds that ripped from him. His eyes were closed, his head thrown back, the cords of his neck standing out tautly, the dark mane of his hair, damp with sweat now, tumbling down his naked back.

  She arched her hips upward. He seemed to grow even harder, and impossibly larger inside her. Then, in the same instant, she raised herself up and flicked her tongue over his left nipple and slid her hands down his back to cup his buttocks, spreading her legs as she tried to pull him so deeply inside her that even fate couldn’t part them.

  His eyes snapped open as his entire body tensed. For an instant he didn’t move but stared down at her, jade eyes boring into pale blue. Then, with a harsh shout, his body arched, curving like his bow, driving into the very depths of her. Amazement, shock, and awe combined on his face.

  “Oh, God, snowfox,” he moaned.

  For one startled instant, Califa could have sworn she saw a faint glow, like that she’d seen when he used the flashbow, clinging to him as the beads of sweat clung to his skin. And then she felt it, the rush of liquid warmth, the shudders that racked his body, echoing the pulsing of the flesh buried so deeply inside her. It seared her with unexpected, sudden heat, and to her shock her body convulsed around him once more, catching her unaware with hot, heavy pulses of pleasure that were unlike anything she’d ever felt, as if they were coming to her through the connection of their bodies, as if the incredible sensations had jumped that infinitesimal gap between them, and she was actually feeling what he was feeling.

  Dax shook with the intensity of it, crying out at the sweet release as he poured himself into her, the barrier of years broken at last. It went on and on, and Califa found herself weeping at the sight of him rising above her, at the feel of him quivering against her, at the fierce, explosive force of his climax, but most of all at the look of his face, drawn tight with pleasure and joy in equal parts. She didn’t know if she had succeeded in driving him to this, or if it was simply because he was home, and she found she didn’t care; in some small way, at least, he was healed.

  And when he at last collapsed atop her, nearly dizzy from the power of it, she didn’t try to hide her tears.

  THEY SLEPT LITTLE that night. Again and again they came together, heedless of the guard posted outside the door, Dax still not quite able to believe that barrier was gone, and Califa marveling at the difference it made. The old Califa would never have thought that it mattered so much, as long as she got her own pleasure. This night proved to her more than anything could that the old Califa was no more.

  They did not talk, not of what was to come, or of what had passed, but only words of the moment, words of need and pleasure and the incredible wonder that had happen
ed between them. And neither spoke of the irony of finding this joy now, when it was too late for either of them.

  It was only when the first rays of dawning began to lighten the darkness of the room that, reluctantly, they rose to use the ewer of water to wash. Califa felt a guilty enjoyment as she watched Dax; how could she take so much pleasure in just looking at his naked body when they knew not what awaited them? They dressed slowly.

  But in the end she was glad she had clung to that small luxury, for when the summons came to their little dungeon, it was for her.

  Chapter 26

  THE SAME YOUNG man who had brought them here had come for her. He was barely more than a boy, but there was nothing childish about the weapon on his belt; he said he was merely to escort her to the royal quarters, but Califa knew he was no less a guard than the man posted outside the door.

  She flushed now to think someone had been there all night, no doubt listening to their long hours of passion, especially when she heard him mutter “Coalition scum,” as she passed. She was glad to be out of his sight as the young man led her down a long corridor.

  The royal quarters. Was she to face Dare now, alone? Would he exact his vengeance in private, since he was not, in time of war, compelled to give any of the usual Triotian considerations to outworlders? Would his retribution take the form of like for like, would he order her to submit to him as she had once let him be ordered?

  A shudder rippled through her at the thought of mating with any other man, even one as magnificent as Dare. The involuntary reaction made her see the completeness of her transformation; there had been a time, when Dare had been merely the slave Wolf and she had been filled with Coalition arrogance, when she had contemplated sampling his wild, golden beauty. But instead she had saved him for Shaylah . . .

  And had unknowingly set in motion the events that had brought her here, their positions reversed, with she now the prisoner being led to a man who could only wish her dead.

  But when they reached the imposingly carved door, and the young man ushered her inside, it was not that man who awaited her.

  It was Shaylah.

  She was sitting at a table, folding a piece of paper with quick, graceful movements. She looked as she always had to Califa, like the epitome of Arellian grace and beauty: tall, slender, with long legs and an elegant carriage. Her hair, gleaming black and kept long in the Arellian tradition, was swept up off her neck in an intricately entwined style that Califa had never been able to manage and had been a chief reason she had defiantly kept her hair short. Shaylah wore a flowing gown in a vivid blue that matched her eyes, much closer to the typical Arellian sky blue than Califa’s own pale blue shade.

  She rose instantly, and Califa saw the same progression of emotions flash across the face of this woman who had once been her friend as she had seen cross Dare’s when he’d first seen Dax; first joy, then wariness, then a combination of pain and regret.

  “Thank you, Gareth.”

  Her voice sounded the same, Califa thought. Richer, perhaps, with more depth. Older, she supposed wryly. If Shaylah’s relationship with Dare had been anywhere near as chaotic as hers with Dax, it was no surprise.

  The young man nodded, then, as Shaylah held out the paper she folded, he stepped forward and took it. In that instant, Califa could have easily stripped him of his weapon. She never moved. But when she looked back at Shaylah again, she saw the knowledge of both the opportunity and her refusal to take it in the other woman’s eyes; Shaylah might have left the Coalition even farther behind than she had, but the training was still there.

  “You wish me to deliver this, my lady?”

  Shaylah smiled at the young man. “Yes. To Freylan. I believe he’ll be able to find room in his class after all.”

  Joy lit the young man’s face, and for the first time he looked as a boy his age should look. War, Califa thought, made even children old before their time.

  “Thank you!” The boy barely managed to retain his dignity as he went out the door, but Califa knew from the sound of his steps that he’d broken into a run the moment the door had closed behind him.

  At last they stood there alone, assessing each other, two women who had once flown and fought together, who had once been tied by the powerful bond of a mutual debt beyond repaying, that of each other’s lives. It was a bond that had been lacerated by her own arrogance and ignorance, Califa thought, and she could only hope that it hadn’t been severed altogether.

  Then Shaylah started toward her, the flowing cloth of her gown clinging to the slender lines of her body. Slender except for the rounding of her belly. Califa’s breath caught.

  “You’re with child,” she exclaimed.

  Shaylah smiled as her hand smoothed over the small mound. “Yes. A son.”

  “A son? So certain?”

  “Yes. Alcaron, who serves as our physician, has said so. She has her own methods, and is rarely wrong.”

  Califa smiled then; she couldn’t help herself. “A baby. It is hard to picture the woman who wanted nothing more than to fly free with a baby.”

  Shaylah’s expression cooled, the momentary warmth vanished. “The price of my flying was far too high.” Then, proudly, “And my son will be the Prince of Trios.”

  Califa tensed. “It is . . . all true, then? What we’ve heard of you and . . .”

  Shaylah drew herself up straight. “I know not what you have heard, but my child’s father is King Darian of Trios. My bonded mate.”

  Califa’s eyes widened. “You are bonded?”

  “We are.”

  Shaylah’s eyes were glittering now, almost angrily. Califa understood; they’d argued so often about this in the past, she could hardly blame Shaylah for her reaction. She drew herself up straight, much as Shaylah had, and braced herself to pay a long-owed debt. She spoke formally.

  “You may think this merely an effort at begging for mercy, now that I am in your power, but it is not. I owe you a great apology, Shaylah Graymist. I know that it will make no difference now, that words now cannot atone for the things I said when we . . . were friends. I plagued you mercilessly about your beliefs about life and slavery and mating. I called you foolish, naive, and backward. Worse, when you refused to follow the Coalition rule of annihilation of a target, I thought you fainthearted or a coward.”

  Shaylah said nothing, but Califa saw the shadow of remembered hurt in those eyes so much deeper blue than her own. So Shaylah had known, all that time ago, the insulting thoughts her supposed friend had been harboring. She had known, and had remained her friend anyway. Shame flooded Califa anew, but she made herself go on.

  “These words should have been spoken long ago. I was horribly wrong and blindly arrogant. You saw the truth, where I saw only what I wished to see. That the Coalition was the only kind of family I’d ever known was no excuse. You . . . you were my closest, my only true friend, but I was too much the conceited fool to realize it until it was too late.”

  Califa saw Shaylah’s eyes widen, heard her breath catch, but didn’t pause in her self-castigation.

  “It was I who was the coward, not you. It was you who possessed the true courage, not to deny what you felt. It was you who saw the truth, and acted upon it, long before the scales fell from my blind eyes.”

  “My God, Califa,” Shaylah said in quiet awe, “what has happened to you?”

  The emotion in Shaylah’s words nearly broke Califa’s determination. She swallowed tightly; she must get this said now; she might never have another chance.

  “I have seen the truth, but it has not set me free. It has only shown me the ugliness of the life I have lived.” Califa’s mouth twisted into a painfully remorseful smile. “I did not treasure you when you were my friend, as I should have. But that you chose to be, in spite of my blindness, is one of the few things left in my life that I value.”

 
There was nothing more she could say, Califa thought. It was up to Shaylah now. All she could do was refuse to flinch under the steady perusal of the woman who had been a better friend than she ever had realized.

  “I’ll not deny I was sometimes hurt by your words,” Shaylah said after a long silence. “And that there were times when I wondered if I had ever really known you at all. But I also know I was the one out of step, the one who was seen as different. I didn’t expect understanding.”

  “You had the right to expect it from one who was supposed to be your friend.”

  Shaylah lifted one perfectly arched brow. “You have changed, if you believe that.”

  “I’ve learned much of friendship lately, from a . . . very unlikely group,” Califa admitted. “I’m only sorry I didn’t see it then.”

  “I didn’t expect you to. I know my beliefs were, according to the Coalition, deviant. Slavery was the law, and bonding a myth.”

  Califa winced inwardly. In those few words, Shaylah had opened the two most painful subjects, but Califa knew they had to be dealt with if she were to truly atone for her unthinking cruelty.

  “Shaylah, I . . .” She hesitated, then grimaced. “The difficulty of this for me convinces me even more that it has always been you who has had more courage.”

  “I think,” Shaylah said slowly, “that perhaps I just traveled the road first.”

  “Perhaps. But you always seemed to know what was wrong. I didn’t see it, even when it was in front of me.” Califa took a deep breath. “I swear to you, I never knew who . . . Wolf was. If I had, I think that even the woman I was then would have had . . . reservations about what had been done to the royal Prince of Trios. But now . . .”

  “Now?”