Page 48 of Prize of the Warlord
But the rest doesn’t last nearly long enough. I wake in the night, paralyzed by the certainty that I just heard someone scream.
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The scream—if it was a scream and not my imagination—did not wake Zeha. She’s snoring quietly in her bedroll.
I’m still fully clothed, boots and all, but I’m cold and scared. The glow of the firelight through the tent beckons me, so I slip out of the blankets, drawing one around my shoulders, over my cloak.
The icy night air bites my cheeks and nose as I emerge from the tent and walk toward the fire. All is still, except for the hiss and crackle of the logs as they cave to the gnawing flames.
The Warlord sits on a fallen tree, holding a chunk of firewood in his massive hand. He’s staring deep into the writhing fire, his handsome face gilded with its light. Cautiously I pad to his side and sit with my arm brushing his.
“Can’t you sleep?” I whisper.
“No.”
“I heard a scream.”
“Jäkel.”
“But why? We’re all wearing our bones.”
“They can’t smell your spirit when you wear the relics of the dead,” he says. “But sometimes their lust for flesh is so strong that even the relics are of little use. There is only one, though, I think. And it won’t venture too close to a camp with so many humans. You can sleep, mouse. I will watch.”
I press my shoulder more firmly against his arm. “I would rather stay up with you.”
“You need rest. We’ll be riding all day tomorrow.”
I reach up, stroking his golden beard. “I’d rather be kissed than rested.”
For a moment he keeps staring into the fire. Then, with a swift lunge, he drops the hunk of firewood and drags me onto his knee. He’s wearing leather gloves, but I tug them off him so I can feel his fingers and interlace them with my own.
He bends his head, the tiny braids at the front of his hair sliding along his cheekbones. Gently he bumps his profile against mine, nuzzling me. A warm breath slides from his mouth between my parted lips.
For a moment we stay like that, suspended in magical anticipation—the scintillating tension before the kiss, the tingling of lips, hovering close without quite touching.
Then he captures my mouth with desperate urgency, whipping his hand up to grip the back of my head. His lips are hot smooth spice, salty-sweet, with just enough coarseness to send tiny spears of delight lancing through my core.
My whole being hangs on the magic of his mouth, the heat of his tongue. He angles his head, licking deeper, then withdraws to pepper my lips with short, intense kisses. I shift astride his lap, pressing my body to his chest and stomach, bruising my mouth on his because I want him so much. There are far too many layers between us, and I ache to slough them off until we’re both bare and warm, sliding against each other, into each other.
“I’m going to kiss you forever,” I whisper.
He rumbles his approval, circling my waist with one arm, while my tongue tangles with his. Our kisses sink into a slow, languid rhythm, then grow fervent again, until I’m desperate for more pressure, even through the layers of my clothing.
“You promised you’d finish it,” I pant against his lips. “That you’d make me come. Liar.”
The Warlord catches my bottom lip in his teeth and tugs it savagely. I gasp, almost a breathy shriek, and he leans back, clapping one hand over my mouth. “You have to be quiet, mouse. Do you understand? If I do this, you have to be quiet.”
Frantically I nod.
He sets me aside, off his lap, then rises to scan the surrounding landscape. Next he surveys the tents—all dark, their flaps painted amber by the fire’s glow.
“We must be quick,” he whispers.
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The Warlord leads me into his empty tent. It’s smaller than the one he used on our last trip, probably because his company is traveling lighter this time. We leave the flap of the tent slightly open, allowing a bit of the fire’s glow to seep in.
In the cramped space, he sits on his bedroll with his legs spread in wide V and makes me stand between them, facing him. Then he tucks up my tunic and pulls down my leggings, revealing the downy cleft between my thighs. With a satisfied murmur, he strokes me with his fingers, sighing with pleasure when they slide through easily, no resistance. He pulls them out and looks at the wetness coating them.
