Skykeepers

world.”

She nodded, and her smile lost its reserve as her eyes gained a wicked gleam. Then she leaned into him, wrapped her legs around him, and sank into a kiss that promised so much more than just a kiss. It sparkled with the promise of tomorrow.

Heat shimmered through Sasha, taking her emotions from a poignant ache to soft acceptance, and from there to desire. She yielded to all of those things and more as she wrapped herself around Michael, anchoring herself to his solid strength. She kissed his neck, glorying in his hiss of pleasure as she found the soft spot behind his ear, and the way he shuddered at the drag of her teeth across the sensitive skin. But it wasn’t just the heat that had convinced her to set aside what usually passed as her better judgment—it was the hum of rightness that had brought her to this point, and the sense that it was time for them, maybe even past time. She respected him for holding her away when he’d been certain that being with her could endanger her, could put her in the way of the darkness. There was still a kernel of fear within her, but although it disturbed her to know she was kissing a killer, one who was god-bound to kill again, at the same time, she was kissing Michael. He wasn’t the Other; he was himself. He challenged her, yes. He excited her. He pissed her off. But she wasn’t afraid of him.

Maybe she should be, but she wasn’t.

So she softened against him, trailing her hands down his body and up again to toy with the hair at his nape. They were aligned hard to soft; she cradled his erection between her legs, held him there by wrapping her legs around his waist as they kissed, again and again. She tugged his shirt free and ran her hands beneath, her blood firing at finally—finally—being able to touch him like this, and trust that he wasn’t going to pull back this time.

Then he did pull back, but only far enough to break the kiss and say against her lips, “I applaud the idea of the kitchen, but would the chef mind transferring this to her bed?” He was smiling, but his forest green eyes were intent on hers, making the question far more serious than it seemed.

She got it, then. Twice before when they’d been together, and he’d been fighting the Other and the silver magic, they’d grappled with lust, with him standing, her pinned up against a wall. Warmth shimmered through her at the knowledge that he wanted this to be different, that he wanted to be different.

Smiling, she slipped off the counter, pressing full-bodied against him as she did so. Then she took his hand, feeling the ridges of their palm scars rubbing with sensual friction, and she led him to her bedroom.

There, gauzy curtains darkened the room, which was dominated by a big bed covered with a verdant green bedspread and a small army of pillows.

When they reached the bed, she turned to face him, and they stood there, staring at each other for a moment that spun out into temptation. Then, as though finally catching up with himself, he exhaled a long, slow breath that did little to release the tension gripping his powerful body. His hands came up to bracket her face; his lips softened beneath hers in a gentle, achingly tender kiss. Within moments, though, their kiss hardened to a demand and his arms came around her as his mouth fused with hers.

And all she could think was, Thank the gods.

Heat leaped within her as he gathered her against him, then bore her down to the bed, so they were wrapped together, straining together, trying to get closer and closer still, despite the tactile barrier of their clothes. His taste exploded across her senses; his scent filled her. She caressed him, dragging her fingers through his hair, clutching at his wide shoulders.

His sleeveless shirt was slick to the touch, molding to his muscles, making her very aware of his leashed power. She sensed his desire and felt the sharp excitement of his sex magic as they boosted each other. There was no hint of the foreign silver magic, adding to her bone-deep certainty that this was right. Call it hormones or magic, or maybe something more—she needed to feel alive, to take something for herself after so long. More, she needed to take him, and knew he needed her. She’d seen the emptiness inside him as he’d looked into a future and seen only impossible choices.

She might not be able to make those choices for him, but she could ease him in the interim. They could ease each other, having each spent far too long alone.

He pinned her, pressed into her. She felt the hardness of his chest, his arms, his thighs, and the long length of him. Hooking a leg around his hips, she opened to him with no thought of subtlety or mystery. She wanted him; he wanted her. They didn’t need to make it any more complicated than that.

It was a freeing thought.

The mattress yielded at her back. He covered her with his body, pressing her into the bedding, kissing her the whole time, moving from her lips to her cheek to the line of her jaw, then the soft, sensitive spot behind her ear. She arched against him as heat roared, and behind it, the saber rattle of a military march that she now knew wasn’t his theme song; it was hers. The warrior’s march with the softness of strings. Awash in sensation, in the flow of ch’ul and life, she slid her hands down and tugged his shirt free of his waistband, and ran her hands beneath, this time without the constraints of body armor. His skin was soft and slick in places, roughened by masculine hair in others, and everywhere it covered the bunch and flow of muscles, the hardness of bone.

They twined together—touching, seeking, tasting—with a rawness she hadn’t expected, a primal possessiveness. When he kissed her, she felt consumed. When he ran his hands beneath her shirt, and up to touch the sides of her breasts, then inward to cup them, tease them, she felt branded, owned. And when he shifted to come down atop her, then held her face in his hands and looked deep into her eyes, she felt his hands tremble, and saw a question in his eyes.

She caught his wrists, felt his pulse thrum beneath her thumbs, and was conscious that she was touching his marks, the stone and the warrior. “What is it?” she asked.

“Nothing.” He leaned in and touched his lips to hers, softly. “This is where I want to be right now.”

It wasn’t a vow of forever, not even a hint of something beyond tonight. But somehow it was as romantic as the most fervent promise.

Keep it simple, she told herself, and forced her lips to curve in a smile. “This is where I want to be too.”

And then it was simple. Her body knew what it wanted, what felt good. Their magic knew pleasure, and how to seek it. The music added rather than distracting, an inner sound track that she suspected was hers alone. She eased his shirt up and off, and gloried in the feel of his masculine skin beneath her fingers, beneath her lips. They shifted together, then eased apart so she could slip out of her T-shirt and pants. Sasha moaned at the arousing contrast of the cool material of his pants against the sensitized skin of her inner thighs. They rolled across the wide expanse of mattress, feasting on each other, drawing ruthless pleasure.

Gentle turned inciting; tender turned demanding, and it became all about the heat and the flash, and the flare of magic. He moved down her body, nipping and touching, caressing and teasing. She moaned and arched against him, tried to touch him, but he shifted away. “Let me,” he said, his voice a rasp of passion as he moved between her legs. “Just let me.”

She would’ve argued, but then his tongue found her, and speech was lost to a low moan of surrender.

He gripped her thighs and spread them wide, then ran his hands up to cup her buttocks, lifting her, opening her to his mouth. He feasted, stroked, tasted, touched, all with a raw, carnal skill that brought incredible pleasure. She clutched his hair; she wasn’t sure whether she meant to hold him still or draw him up her body. Then there was no more plan, no more thought, nothing but the coil of pleasure that drew tighter and tighter still within her.

He worked her ruthlessly, artfully with his hands and mouth, his clever fingers and precise knowledge of the female form, stringing the wire tighter and tighter still within her. The humming within her became a melody. Then she was crying out and shattering, pulsing against him, around his thrusting fingers and low, exultant cry.

The orgasm went on and on, gripping her, keeping her splayed out in pleasure. He moved away from her, out of her, shimmying up her body and letting her feel his hardness, his desire. He drew his lips along her breasts, the underside of her jaw, the sensitive spot behind her ear, and then her mouth.

She poured herself into the kiss, putting into it her pleasure and desire, the need to have him within her. His breath rasping in his wide chest, his flesh tight and hard all over, he rose above her and paused there, the blunt head of his shaft nudging at her opening. “Open your eyes,” he ordered harshly.