He cupped her breast with his free hand, then began to delicately roll her nipple between oil-slicked fingers. “Oh, you don’t have to worry about that.”
She smiled, shuttering her eyes in pleasure. “You relieve my mind.” He released her hand and started conducting an entirely different massage between her long legs. She arched and caught her breath.
Oiled fingers stroked and toyed with first one hard nipple, then the other, until she squirmed in helpless need. He gave her no quarter, teasing breasts and sex simultaneously while she whimpered.
Galar rumbled in pleasure at her reaction. She felt snug and delicious around his oil-slick fingers. He remembered how it had felt to drive his cock into that sweet, tight channel. His erection bucked, trapped between his body and her hips.
Her answering chuckle sounded distinctly feline.
As Galar’s fingers teased her nipple and sex, pleasure flowed through Jessica’s body like a wave of heated honey, shimmering and sweet. She let her head loll back against his shoulder. After that long, delicious massage, she felt as boneless as a plate of pasta. Even her arousal was lazy, a gently rising heat instead of the urgent storm of lust she’d experienced the day before. Yet it was no less sweet, no less intoxicating.
Leaning back in Galar’s strong arms, Jess let herself enjoy his slow, sensual teasing. His cock pressed against her like a wicked promise, and she grinned, anticipating.
“You like that?” he rumbled in her ear, sliding first one finger deep, then two.
“You’re the man with sensors. What do you think?”
“I think I want to fuck you.” The rough tiger growl sent a shaft of pure lust jolting through her. Before she could stir, he surged under her, sweeping her out of the water and into his arms.
Jess yelped, startled, as he turned and draped her across the side of the pool on her belly. “Hey!” She started to rear up, but he curled a big hand around the back of her neck, keeping her gently in place. “What do you think you’re doing? ”
“Take a guess.” Laughter rumbled in his voice as he stroked a hand over the curve of her ass, then found her opening with two fingers.
She gasped as he gave her a slow, teasing pump. To the outrage of her feminist sensibilities, the feeling of being held down actually increased her arousal. “Let go!”
“No,” he said thoughtfully. “I don’t think so. I’ve got plans for you.”
“Galar!” Her attempt at a tone of stern warning was probably blunted by the giggle she couldn’t quite suppress.
“Jessicaaaa,” he purred back, shifting his hold to the center of her back. Water sloshed around her knees as he wrapped his other arm around her thighs.
And buried his face right against her pussy.
“Oh!” She tried to rear up, startled, but his Warlord strength controlled her body effortlessly, keeping her in place for the long, wet lick that followed. “Gaaalaaarr!”
He made a rumbling sound and settled down to eat her in earnest, first circling his tongue around her clit in a delicious, burning spiral, then lapping between her lips, then finally thrusting deep into her core. In and out, in and out, drawing flickering hot patterns that maddened. In seconds, he had her writhing, but the powerful arm around her thighs kept her pinned and helpless.
Jess had never been so turned on, so fast, in her entire life.
He paused in those mind-blowing licks for a series of little nibbles, pressing his teeth gently into her lips and over her clit, careful to use just enough force to make her squirm, but no more. At the same time, he probed her with his free hand, pumping maddeningly deep. Teasing her until it was all she could do not to howl.
“Oh, God!” Jess tossed her head, panting. Every stroke, every nibble, every lick sent another blazing jolt of pleasure through her nervous system.
“You taste good,” he growled, an elemental male rumble. “So juicy, so sweet. And you’re tight too.”
She squeezed her eyes shut and panted. She was so damned close to coming, she could feel the fiery nimbus of the climax trembling right on the edge of her consciousness. “Fuck me! God, please fuck me!”
He gave her a slow, tormenting stroke with those big fingers. “You sure you’re ready?”
“Yes!” It was a scream of pure frustration.
“No.” He lowered his head and curled his arm tighter around her thighs. “I don’t think you are. Not quite.”
“You bastard!” Jess bucked against his hold, maddened.
He only laughed and went back to using that ruthless tongue again, avoiding her clit now, as if knowing all it would take was one tiny stroke to send her over.
Yowling in a combination of pleasure and pure frustration, she hunched and tried to kick, clawing at the floor around the tub, only dimly aware it was smooth tile instead of grassy loam. Out of the corner of one eye, she saw something sail past and bounce off the invisible wall of the chamber. She was far too absorbed in the oral torment to register what it was or what had sent it flying, though. “Galar, damn you!”
“Now,” he purred, straightening behind her and dragging her legs apart with both hands. “Now you’re ready!”
He drove his cock into her in one strong, ruthless thrust. She wailed at the piercing pleasure of being so completely filled.
Galar felt massive, thicker than her fist, and he pumped in and out of her in merciless digs that stretched her deliciously. Almost too much, almost too hard, but not quite. The feral intensity of his ride was just what she needed, shooting her up the sweet, searing curve to orgasm.
Until finally—finally!—Jess came in long, blazing ripples so hot, she literally saw stars.
Galar threw back his head in delight as her tight inner muscles milked his cock with long ripples. Gritting his teeth, trying to hold on just a little longer, he slammed his hips against hers, working the thick shaft in and out and in again. Each honeyed stroke made him shudder at the raw pleasure of possessing her.
He’d never in his life experienced anything as hot as teasing Jessica into a mindless frenzy. He fully intended to do it again. And again.
And again.
Imagining the pleasure to come, he felt the orgasm swamp him in a shuddering liquid blast that tore a bellow of delight from his throat.
Later, as they staggered around on shaking legs getting dressed, Galar found the bulb of herbal oil lying all the way by the far wall of the chamber. He frowned down at it, wondering how it had gotten there. He didn’t remember throwing it, and he didn’t recall Jess doing so either.
Then again, they’d been pretty turned on. Who knew what one of them had done in the heat of the moment?
Marcin slid the penitent’s rough gray robe on over his naked shoulders. The fabric’s stiff fibers pricked at his skin as if with hundreds of tiny claws. He worked to embrace the discomfort, knowing there would be worse to come. Atoning for his failure to apprehend the heretic would require blood. And a great deal of pain.
He’d chased her for the past endless week, getting close only to fail repeatedly as she’d Jump again and again until he’d lose the trail. She seemed to be able to sense his presence even when he was fully shielded, something that should have been impossible.
Those repeated failures weren’t just frustrating—they could cost him his life. His stomach twisted in dread, but he ignored it. Fear was an unworthy emotion, he told himself, a barrier on the path to victory.
Marcin walked across the cold black quartzion floor, grinding his heels with every step so the sharp stones dug even harder into his bare feet. An icy sting told him he’d succeeded in his goal. When he looked back, he saw with satisfaction that he’d left bloody footprints glistening on the stone.
Perhaps it would help appease the warrior priest’s fury.
Though even if it didn’t, he’d embrace whatever punishment he was dealt. That, too, was his duty. Failure had a price, and an honorable man paid it without stinting.
He strode along the stone corridors of the Cathedral Fortress, p
assing soldiers, pilgrims, worshipers, and priests. A frigid glare repelled any curious gazes that lingered on his penitent’s robes and bloody tracks.
The crowd thinned quickly as he found his way to the priests’ wing. Tarik ge Lothar’s quarters lay at the end of the corridor, in a coveted location in the tower that overlooked the Great Inland Sea.
When Marcin stepped through the unlocked door, the view through the huge window took his breath. The Inland Sea lay in a great sweep of blue all the way to the horizon under the pale violet sky, waves battering the black stone cliffs that formed the base of the Cathedral Fortress.
Leading a cohort of the Faith came with other benefits as well. Though low-ranking monks like Marcin might have bare stone cells with only a few amenities, Warrior Priest Tarik’s quarters spoke of battles won and the rewards of victory.
First there was the great fur skin that lay across the smooth marble floor, fully twelve feet long. The creature’s six legs were tipped in dagger blade claws. Its massive, bearlike head glared out at the room, snarl exposing tusks the length of a man’s forearm.
The colonists on Cambria called the creatures gravediggers for obvious reasons. Marcin would have hated to take on a beast of such size, even with full armor and a beamer.
Tarik had stalked it without armor, using naught but a knife, though it was said he’d spent a full week in regen afterward healing the resulting wounds. It had been one of the tests that had proved him worthy to lead his cohort.
Arranged on the gleaming black headboard shelves of his bed were trophies of other battles: an exquisite bronze of a nude woman looted during the invasion of Vardon; a katana from ancient Japan; an array of priceless objets d’art and weapons, all in gold or marble or encrusted with gems.
But the real centerpiece of the room was the massive cabinet that occupied the place of honor across from the bed. Like the warrior priest’s bed, it had been carved from gleaming black Xeran spiderwood. Marcin recognized the distinctive style of the intricate carving as the work of the finest artisan on the Fatherworld. The warrior priest must have paid a great deal for that cabinet.
Skulls lined the shelves, both human and alien, each painted in the dark, dried blood of its owner. Xeran characters described the death blow that had killed each of them, along with words of praise for their courage and combat skills. These were Tarik’s most honored foes.
Not a few of them had Xeran skull implants.
Marcin would have liked to examine them more closely, but he didn’t quite dare. Instead he moved to the center of the room, where a fire bowl sat on a piece of priceless crimson Takega silk.
Arranged on the silk on one side of the bowl were five silver boxes filled with herbs. Opposite the boxes lay a strand of shining wire studded with sharp thornlike projections.
Marcin knelt on the side of the cloth before the thorned wire, silently admitting his guilt.
Expressing his willingness to pay the price.
10
No sooner had he seated himself than Tarik entered on silent slippered feet. He was dressed in a black silk robe and loose trousers, both embroidered with silver thread in symbols of the Faith so that they had a somber gleam.
The first time Marcin had met Tarik, he’d been surprised to find the warrior priest a smaller man than himself—a full head shorter, built for muscular grace rather than the sheer bull power of a combat ’borg. Yet he would not have cared to meet the priest in battle. Even without the four sets of horns that revealed his rank, there was a stillness about Tarik, a kind of lethal calm. It was the icy serenity of a man who’d been learning the skills of the warrior from the time he could walk. He looked like what he was: the leader of the most deadly cohort in the Xeran priesthood.
Tarik studied him, light glinting on his horn implants. Marcin bowed from the waist, lowering his head to the depth required by Tarik’s rank, then a little deeper to indicate his personal respect.
Tarik inclined his head slightly in return. “Thou hast left the blood of thy repentance on the stone.” His voice was beautiful, giving the lyrical words of the priestly language a kind of dark music.
“I have not yet killed the heretic. My failure shames me.” He lifted his head and met Tarik’s eyes with his best calm and level stare. “But I shall succeed.”
“It is as well.” Tarik sank gracefully to his knees on the other side of the fire bowl. “We have decided we wish to execute the apostate publicly.”
The tensed muscles in Marcin’s back relaxed fractionally. He might yet get out of this interview with his life, though he knew better than to hope he would not bleed. “As thou will.” He inclined his head.
“Of more importance is the location of the Abominations, that they may be destroyed and the T’lir obtained. That must be thy priority.” He began to take pinches of herbs from each of the silver boxes, each gesture smooth, graceful, an act of ritual. “If the heretic does not survive thy questioning, do not concern thyself. The Abominations must be eliminated before they spread their poison. And the T’lir— it’s the key to the Fatherland’s victory over our enemies.” He lifted a sparker next, flicking the metal device in the fire bowl to produce a tongue of flame and a curl of glowing green smoke.
Marcin closed his eyes and breathed deeply, drawing the smoke into his lungs. In seconds, he felt his senses sharpening. Beneath his knees, the prickle of his rough robe began to feel like tiny shards of glass digging into his skin. He managed not to grind his teeth or shift his weight.
Opening his eyes, he met Tarik’s cool gaze. The pain of the robe’s fibers intensified, but he didn’t allow himself to blink. Sweat rolled down the small of his back, a silent testimony to his misery. I am the master of my body, Marcin chanted to himself. My body does not master me.
Another agonizing minute ticked by. Then two. Then three. Then ten, every second bringing more and more pain as his overstimulated nerves reacted to the drug. He never moved.
Until Tarik drew the knife from his sleeve and put it down before him. A faint smile curved the warrior priest’s mouth.
Marcin knew that if he’d failed the test, Tarik would have slit his throat with that blade. He didn’t allow his triumph to show on his serene face.
Tarik snapped his fingers. A panel opened, and a courier ball flew into his hand. “Here are thy new orders. A trap has been prepared for the other heretic, the primitive Jessica Kelly. You will lend thy assistance before returning to thy hunt for the apostate.”
Though a thousand questions flooded his mind, Marcin merely inclined his head. “As thou will.”
Tarik paused and lifted a coal black brow. He said nothing, but he didn’t need to. Marcin knew what he expected.
He flipped his robe open, baring his groin. Then he picked up the thorned silver wire and began to wrap it around his penis as his sensitized nerves howled in agony.
Approval lit Tarik’s icy red eyes.
The alien ship was dark and strange, a warren of snaking corridors, oddly-shaped rooms, and bizarre equipment that was obviously not designed for the use of anyone with two legs and ten fingers.
First Scientist Chara va Hol moved cautiously down one of the ship’s dim corridors, fascinated and wary as she examined the curving bulkheads. It was more like walking around inside a living creature than a vessel.
Which was actually an apt comparison, since sensor readings suggested the material around her was organic, similar to a neuronet computer. Was this entire vessel a comp?
Humming in interest, Chara contemplated data from the small flotilla of sensor globes that orbited her like floating silver apples. Her headset projected the information into her mind in a gentle shower of data.
“Any sign of the T’lir?” Warrior Monk Decarro ge Ralit demanded, his armored boots scraping on the deck as he trailed her.
“Not so far.”
He grunted. His body thin and hard as a sword blade, his features narrow and pinched, Ralit reminded Chara far too much of her father. Something in his fanati
c’s eyes made the flesh of her shoulders jerk with the memory of childhood scourgings. She fought to ignore the sensation. She could not afford the distraction.
She had to make the most of this opportunity.
Chara had already scored quite a coup in being the one to discover that the Sela ship had Jumped into Earth’s distant past. Which should have been impossible. No one had ever managed to Jump an entire ship.
How had the Sela done it? The Empire would give much for such technology.
If Chara capped that discovery by being the first to learn where the aliens had hidden the T’lir, her future as a temporal anthropologist would be assured.
Unfortunately, there were ten other teams searching the alien ship. Beating them to the prize would not be easy, but achieving victory would be more than worth the effort.
Encouraged by that enticing vision, Chara went back to dictating notes into her headset log. “This ship is ancient. At least a thousand years old, according to my scans. If the Sela were capable of such advanced tech a thousand years ago, why were they living like agrarian primitives when we discovered them last year?”
“Because they are Abominations,” Ralit growled in the priest tongue. “And mad. Mind their heresy does not infect thee as it did the expeditionary force.” His hand fell to the shard pistol at his hip, fondling its silver butt.
Her shoulders twitched again, but she made no answer. Ralit would not have welcomed comment, for he was of the same sect as her father. He, too, believed that women were by nature weak and lacking in warrior virtues.
Though Javor va Hol had done his best to score those virtues into Chara’s flesh with the whip and the wire. . . .
Chara came to an abrupt halt, her attention captured by a discrepancy in the data. “Huh.”
“What goes?” the monk demanded.
She lifted a gloved hand to run it across the wall to her left. The sensor globes orbited faster, as if excited. “According to my sensors, this section of bulkhead is five hundred meters thick.”
“Shielding for the T’lir?” Ralit asked eagerly before frowning in sudden unease. “Or some weapon?”
Warrior Page 13
