Atlantis Betrayed

shuddering spasm of aftershocks. He stood and lifted her into his arms again. He caught her bum in those big hands and she answered his unspoken request by wrapping her legs around him.

“Yes,” he said fiercely. “Now.” And he lifted her up, and his enormous erection jutted up between them as if it, too, sought to conquer.

She shook her head, tried to find her powers of speech. “No, you—condom,” she managed, but he shook his head.

“I cannot catch or carry any human illness, nor give a child until I petition Poseidon,” he said, positioning his penis at her entrance. Everything in her wanted to wrap herself around him and slide down his erection, but sanity surfaced.

“What? Stop, condom. Now,” she gasped, struggling. She pointed to the drawer of the table next to the window seat and he groaned, but yanked it open, still holding her with one strong arm, and snatched a foil-wrapped square out of it and handed it to her.

“Do it for me. Please.”

The second she had him covered, he drove inside her and she cried out at the sheer size of him. “Oh, oh, oh. So big, too big, you can’t fit—”

Christophe groaned at how tightly her hot, wet sheath wrapped around his cock. “Yes, I can. I will. Take me. Take all of me,” he murmured in her ear as he worked his way deep inside her. His cock, even inside the damnable covering, was about to explode from the unbelievable pleasure of her wet heat and her tightness.

He pulled back a fraction of an inch, and then pushed his way in again, the silken wetness of her arousal easing the journey. He bent forward, leaning her against the glass of the window again, so the mist from the rain and wind swirled in against her lovely round arse and his balls. The effect of the heat and the cold combined to make every muscle in his body strain and harden. He had never wanted anyone like this; oh, by the gods, he wanted to spend a year or two just fucking her.

She gasped again and he took her mouth, swallowed her gasp, sucked on her tongue and fed from the honey of her mouth as he had from her sweet cunt. She cried out, the sound trapped between their mouths, and then her body tightened impossibly around him and she came again, shattering into pieces against him.

He tried to hold on—to make it last—but his body rode the waves of her orgasm and he fucked her harder and deeper; one, then two more strokes and he came, shuddering against her. He carried her to the bed and gently lay her against her pillows, then yanked off the condom, desperate to remove it as his seed continued to spurt out of him in the fiercest orgasm he’d ever known. She gazed up at him, still trembling and gasping, then lifted a hand and closed it around his cock, which made him cry out as he bucked against her hand and came even harder, spilling his hot come in her hand.

“Oh, my,” she whispered. “I—oh. My.”

He sucked in a breath and blew it back out, his body still shuddering from his release. “Yeah. I kinda feel the same way.”

She let go of him and her arm fell back to the bed, as if she lacked the strength to hold it up any longer. He just stood there and stared at her, almost unable to believe how beautiful she was. Like a nymph in the moonlight —or one of her forest fairies—her perfect skin glowed. The triangle of silky hair between her thighs was a paler shade of moonlight, echoing the silvery blond of her hair. And those breasts. Surely poets would write odes to those round, perfect breasts.

“You’re staring at me,” she whispered, and he could tell that she was blushing as the moonlight picked up the slightest touch of pink.

“You’re beautiful,” he said. “I almost can’t believe you’re even real.”

“I’m feeling rather that way myself,” she said, still whispering.

He kissed her again. He couldn’t help it, even though this was the time when he usually was looking for the nearest exit, after sex. But there was no usually about this.

He had never felt anything like this. He thought his mind might actually have exploded by the end of that orgasm. Surely something was broken, or he would be able to do something other than stand and stare at her like a lovesick buffoon.

“I’ll just go and freshen up, then,” she murmured, and he followed her, crowding her, pressing kisses to the back of her neck and the curve of her shoulders as if he’d been bespelled by a particularly powerful love potion.

Terror ripped through him at the thought. No. Not love potion. Sex potion.

Besottedness potion, the honest part of his mind corrected. That was more than just sex, and you know it.

He should run while he still could. Yet instead, after they made use of warm water and towels, he swept her into his arms and carried her to her bed, then tucked them both into it, his arms around her.

“I’m not going to let you go for quite a while, so it’s a good thing we’re partners,” he said, reveling in the feel of her breasts pressed against his chest and one of her legs tucked between his.

“I may agree to that,” she said, ever so primly, her cheeks hot again. His seductress had reverted back to Her Ladyship now that she was satisfied, and it delighted him. He’d be perfectly happy for no one but him to ever see the wild side of her.

Ever?

“You just tensed up,” she whispered. “What is going on behind those lovely green eyes?”

“Nothing at all. Just sleep. Tomorrow you have books to sign, and we have a national treasure to steal.”

He held her and stroked her hair until she slept, and then he lay there, wide awake and simply holding her, until the sun’s first rays sent their golden light through the window.

Ever. He’d thought the word “ever” in relationship to a woman. He didn’t know whether to laugh—or run. She murmured in her sleep and snuggled closer to him, and he knew he wasn’t running anywhere just yet.

Not yet.

He could always run later.

Chapter 11

Atlantis, the warrior training grounds, later that morning

Alaric, sworn in magical service to Poseidon and widely regarded as the most powerful high priest the Seven Isles had ever known, was getting his ass handed to him by his high prince.

He ducked as Conlan swung a particularly vicious overhand strike toward his head, then whirled and parried. The thud as the two wooden training swords collided in midair smashed its recoil through his arm and shoulder.

“Remind me again why I’m doing this,” he called out, feinting left. “When I can destroy any attacker with my magic before his sword leaves its sheath?”

“In case your magic goes on the fritz,” Princess Riley said, from her seat on a blanket in the grass bordering the hard-packed dirt training ring. She held her son with Conlan, Prince Aidan, the heir to the throne of Atlantis. His Royal Drooliness, she called him. Alaric felt it lacked a certain dignity, but he refrained from pointing it out.

Humans could be so sensitive.

“My magic does not fritz,” he replied, vanishing from under the force of Conlan’s advance and reappearing behind the prince. He swatted Conlan in the ass with the flat of his sword to emphasize the point.

Conlan whirled around, bending down with that innate grace that had fooled so many opponents into underestimating his ferocity, and swept Alaric’s legs out from under him. Alaric’s own ass hit the dirt, hard, before he could teleport. His control over the skill was only slowly improving in spite of practice, and trying to use it while under attack was tricky, at best.

Riley burst out laughing. “That looked like a fritz to me. Did that look like a fritz to you, wittle snookums?”

The chubby baby chortled out a gurgling laugh. Probably at Alaric, if Aidan was anything like his parents.

Alaric jumped to his feet and brushed the dirt off his pants. “One hopes you are addressing your son and not