Page 31 of Prize of the Warlord
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When I wake, my head is tucked under the Warlord’s chin, and I’m bunched against him. His arm lies heavy across my body, a soothing weight. From what I can see in the bit of low firelight, he seems to be asleep.
I must have rested a long time, because I don’t feel nearly so exhausted anymore. Beyond the taut skins of our tent, the blizzard howls, pressing as if it wants to break through and bury us in snow. But the tents of the Warlord’s people are sturdy. This burly son of the North drove the stakes deep despite the frozen earth, and I can rest with him, knowing I have a reliable shelter.
In the dim glow of the flickering fire I can make out his features, half bathed in amber, half shadowed in deep gray. He’s beautiful, from the sweep of his brow, lightly seamed with lines of worry and war, to his thick lips, rough from the blast of snow and salt. His nose is perfectly straight, not crooked from battle like those of some in his company. It’s a flawless nose, a kingly nose. And his cheekbones are bold and beautiful, jutting against skin flushed rosy with our shared heat.
His jaw is coated in a light blond beard now, but I can still make out the lines of it, the crisp corners and strong chin. His hair has mostly fallen out of the braids, and it sweeps in loose golden waves across the furs.
Godlike he is, yet almost boyish too, with those long, darkly-golden lashes. He has tiny fine wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, from squinting against the winter sun, and maybe from smiling, too.
My gaze travels to the brutal thickness of his throat and collarbones, the bulging curve of his shoulder. The rest of him is under the blanket, with me. My hands are tucked between my chest and his. Carefully I flatten them against his giant pectorals, feeling the soft scattering of hair over his skin. My hand slides lower, moving in tiny increments so I don’t wake him. Once again, I want to touch the swells and ridges of the abdominal muscles I admired when I saw him naked, and when I bathed his wounds.
My fingers ripple over the bulging muscles, and I inhale softly. They still feel as amazing as they look.
Lower, and lower, until my fingers encounter more hair, a thickening swirl of it, disappearing under the wrap he wears around his privates. Kind of him not to jump into bed with all his goods hanging free. Although at this moment, I’m not sure I would mind.
My consciousness reverts to my own body, to the warm liquid heat pooling low in my belly, seeping between my thighs. I withdraw my fingers from the Warlord’s body and tuck them into that crevice of my legs, trying to quiet the craving—but I only succeed in stoking it higher.
I can’t do this now. I can’t achieve the angle and pressure I need for release, not in this position. Sighing quietly, I curl my hands against my chest again.
The Warlord shifts, and I freeze—but he’s still asleep, his brow dented with troubling dreams.
If we’re really bonded, could he hear my thought-voice in his sleep?
Swallowing, I focus my thoughts on him.I wish I could ease your sleep like you eased my breath. And I wish that the craving I have for you would vanish. I know you feel it too, and you hate it as much as I do. It’s only the lust of two bodies put in close proximity. Nothing more, nothing meaningful. Unless you can hear me through the ether, and then maybe it’s more. Wouldn’t that be a cruel trick of the gods?Faen, I am burning up with all this desire. I want you to touch me so badly I can hardly bear it.
The last thought is more to myself than him, because I don’t truly believe in soul-bonds or thought-voices. Do I?
The Warlord’s earlier movement dislodged the blanket, and my back is growing chilled, exposed to the cold air by the wall of the tent. Gingerly, by degrees, I twist beneath his arm, rolling over until my bare back is pressed to his front. I tug the blankets to my chest and sigh as the heat of him spreads through my chilled spine.
He stirs, his arm moving down at an angle. The motion brings his hand much too close to the space between my legs that desperately wants tending.
I lie perfectly still, breathing rhythmically like a woman who is deeply asleep. But I burn, inside and out.
And then the Warlord’s hand moves again—with purpose this time.
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His palm shifts into a gliding caress up my thigh, over my hip, along the dip of my waist. He stops at my ribs, where my arms are tucked against my chest. Then down again, smoothing my warm skin in a long stroke, framing my curves with his hand. His fingers slide across my lower belly, down to the triangle between my thighs. And he nudges there with his fingertips, as if requesting entrance.
Did he hear me when I spoke to him in his sleep?
He cups my left thigh, urging it upright so my legs are no longer pressed together. Now the left leg is arched, and my secret places lie open to him.
He knows I’m awake—my breath is quick and shallow, a telltale sign of my eagerness. But I don’t speak, and neither does he. Perhaps if we do not speak, if we stay in the dreamlike cocoon of this tent, whatever we do together won’t be real—won’t affect our future or complicate our plans.
I know he’s thinking it, just as I am. And the certainty of his thoughts frightens and thrills me almost as much as the broad, thick fingers creeping along my thigh toward my trembling center.
He touches me, a delicate caress upward through my folds, and he hums low in his chest, a rumble of satisfaction because I’m so very wet for him. I try to summon Prince Havil from the recesses of my thoughts, but I can’t. It’s as if the Prince doesn’t exist, as if his lips and hands never touched mine. This is the hand that was always meant to caress me. These are the fingers designed to trace the seam of me, to manipulate the delicate nerves and quivering petals of my body.
I reach up and grip the bicep of the arm the Warlord is using to tease me. I wrap my fingers around that giant swelling muscle, and the feel of it, the strength of him—it propels me closer to the glimmering edge of the pleasure I crave.
He’s a little clumsy, my Warlord—a questing glide of fingertips, with none of the rhythm I want. Has he been with other women? Perhaps with others he simply plunged his length inside, instead of playing with them first.
My fingers travel down, along the ropy sinews of his forearm, to that fumbling male hand, and I guide him. Tiny massaging circles near the top. A quick venture lower, a shallow dip into deeper parts of me. More circles, a rhythm both soothing and stimulating. He learns quickly, and I let go, cupping my hand over my mouth while he tries new things, flicking and rubbing and palpating. Every soft whimper of mine is echoed by a rumble from him and a twitch of the rigid member pressed to my backside. Eliciting moans from me makes him harder, and that knowledge sends a thrill into my stomach.
He begins rubbing me lightly, faster, and I let out a series of hitching whines, nearly sobs, because I’m nearly there, nearly there—I squirm, clutching his arm, and I buck against his hand. His fingers circle, slick and quick, and I nearly shriek as a bolt of ecstasy rips through my belly, shearing along my spine. My legs jerk and quiver, and he gathers me to him, growling his triumph, cupping my sex possessively with his great hand. His teeth bite lightly into my earlobe, and I shudder against him.
