'And the second?' she asked.
He sighed, and leaned back on his hands. 'That she leave enough left of him to be useful.' She chuckled, and he felt the corners of his mouth turning up in a Smile. 'Now,' he continued. 'About this'companion... Nyara could have shouted her joy aloud, as Darkwind gave them tacit permission to go off alone. Skif could have been ugly, foul-breathed, pot-bellied, bow-legged, bald and obnoxious, and she would not at this moment have cared. He was safe, that was what mattered. Mornelithe had not ordered her to seduce him; did not even know that he existed, so far as she knew. She could ease the urges that had been driving her to distraction since her body began to heal, and do so without the guilt of knowing she would be corrupting him-do so only to pleasure herself and him, and not with any other motive of any sort.
That he was cleanly handsome, well-spoken, well-mannered-that turned the expedition from a simple need to a real desire.
She wanted him, in the same way she wanted Darkwind, but without the guilt. Likewise, he wanted her. She guessed, however, that he was shy, else he would have proposed dalliance when they were first alone, in the gryphons' lair. So, it would be up to her.
She had a cat's hearing, to be able to discern a mouse squeak in the high grass a furlong away; and a cat's eyes, so that this light of a near-full moon was as useful to her as the sun at full day.
So when he had just begun to turn to her, to tentatively reach for her hand, she already knew that they were well out of earshot, and that there was a little corner amidst the pile of rocks to their left that would suit his sense of modesty very well. No ears but those equal to hers would hear them; and no eyes but an owl's would spy them out.
Thank the gods-not Mornelithe-that she had learned trade-tongue, and that these strangers spoke it well.
'Nyara,' Skif said shyly (oh, she had been right!), taking heart when she did not pull her hand away, 'I'm sure this sounds pretty stupid, but I've never met anyone like you.'
'You have no Changechildren in your lands?' she asked, stopping, turning to his voice, and standing calculatedly near him. Near enough that her breast brushed his arm.
He did not (oh, joy!) step away. 'No,' he replied, his voice rising just a little. 'No Ch-Changechildren, no magic.'
'Ah,' she purred. And swayed closer. 'You know what my father made me for? Darkwind has told you?' A slight increase in the heat of his body told her he blushed.
'Y-yes,' he stammered.
'Good,' she replied, and fastened her mouth on his.
He only struggled for a moment, mostly out of surprise, and the anticipation that this was part of a ruse, that she meant to escape. Since that was the last thing on her mind, she told him so, with every fiber of her body.
He stopped struggling, believing her unspoken message. She molded herself to him, each and every separate nerve alive and athrill. Then, as he finally began responding instead of reacting, she led him back into the little alcove, step by slow, careful step.
She was on fire with need, and so was he; she felt it, and, for the first time in her life, Felt it as well, a flood of emotion and urgency that washed over her and mingled with her own.
That was such a surprise that she came near to forgetting her own desire. She melted in his need, pulling him down into the shadows, marveling at this precious gift from out of nowhere. To Feel his pleasure, his desire-it heightened her own beyond any past experience.
I am an Empath? I had never dreamed-my own hatred and fear must have shielded me.
But that didn't matter at the moment. All that was truly important was getting him out of his clothing. Or part of it, anyway.
He pulled away, and she clutched him, ripping his shirt with her talons. Why was he trying to evade her? She could Feel his overwhelming need so clearly.
'-rocks!' he gasped, as she tried to fasten her mouth on his again.
'You'll hurt your-' She proceeded to prove to him that the setting didn't matter, and neither did the rocks. Soon they were writhing together, joined in body and mind, and she bit her hand to keep from screaming her pleasure'~, aloud. Mornelithe knew her body as no one else; he knew every way possible to elicit reactions of all sorts from her. But this was pleasure unmixed with anger, hate, self-hatred. She had never been so happy in all of her short life.
He reached the pinnacle; she followed, and they fell together.
