Lindsay Buroker: Forged in Blood II

“You… do not mind?”

His uncertainty touched her, though she hadn’t expected it. That kiss they’d shared in the factory-there’d been no uncertainty in it. His time with the wizard had changed something, she sensed, reminded him that he did indeed possess human fallibility and… frailty. Amaranthe stroked his cheek with the back of her hand. She understood. Oh, yes, she understood.

“I don’t mind,” she whispered. “I’ve been waiting for you, for this a long time.”

Relief warmed his eyes, and more… A smile touched his lips.

When she returned it-oh, how long she’d been waiting for that little gesture from him-Sicarius stepped closer again, their bodies not quite touching this time. Mirroring her, he lifted his hand to hold the side of her face and gazed into her eyes for a long moment, then let his fingers trail lower. Light as the snowflakes falling outside, they ran down the side of her neck to her collarbone, stopping at her top shirt button. Senses alight, she scarcely dared to breathe as his deft fingers made quick work of the buttons. He slipped her shirt from her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.

A distant part of her mind protested this careless cluttering of the floor, but the warmth of his body invited her to step in instead of away to pick it up. She slid her arms around his waist and delighted in pressing her bare chest against his. Something between a growl and a rumble of pleasure reverberated in his throat, and he, too, embraced her.

His lips captured hers once more, the uncertainty replaced with surety and desire. And a willingness to please that might have brought her to tears if her body wasn’t so busy responding… His lips strayed from her mouth to tease their way down the side of her neck, then to flesh far more sensitive and alive than that.

How long had she dreamed of this? She buried her face in his hair, this time not hesitating to inhale, to breathe in his scent. It had taken so much to get here; she wouldn’t deny herself these simple things now.

He turned, his arms around her to keep her from falling-as if she would have let go so that could happen. Two steps and she was on the bed, the soft fur blanket against her bare back contrasting with his hard body against her chest and between her legs. Her hands roamed, delighting in what she’d never dared do before, to taste what she’d never dared taste.

Sicarius rose to his elbows, meeting her eyes again. “Do you trust me?”

The question surprised her. She’d been so pleased that he trusted her… It hadn’t occurred to her that he would wonder if she felt the same way. A monster, he’d called himself more than once. A dangerous monster. Did he wonder if she’d be afraid of being so vulnerable before him?

“Yes. With my life.” She hesitated-he knew that -and added, “With everything.”

His pushed a stray lock of hair away from her face. Their eyes held for a long time, and she decided it didn’t matter if he never grew into someone who would share his every thought; if he simply looked at her like that… it was already more than she’d ever expected from him.

“Don’t you think we’re a little overdressed?” She glanced down. “Though I see you did find a moment to take your boots off. Was that before or after you unbuttoned my shirt?”

“After.”

His hand drifted downward from her face, as did his gaze, and she stifled an embarrassed urge to drag a fur over herself. He’d seen her naked before, but she’d never been one to flaunt her body even before she’d earned the makarovi scars on her abdomen. She couldn’t help but think, too, of the various beautiful women she’d seen express their attraction for him over the last year. But there was nothing disappointed in his eyes or in his hands, as their caresses drew shivers and promised there’d be more to come.

“I have,” he murmured, as he helped her remove her trousers, “longed for the moment when I could openly look at you… and touch.”

Yes, looking and touching were definitely more thrilling than that pretending not to look when he strolled past with his shirt off after an exercise session, with his chest gleaming in the morning sun. “Oh?” she asked. “Was there un-open looking before?”

“Yes.”

She was more than a little titillated at the idea of him lusting after her from afar-all this time, she hadn’t known if he had any urges whatsoever, or if he sublimated them along with the rest of his feelings. She ran her hand up his arm, along his shoulder, and to the back of his neck. “What did you think of doing while you were looking?”

“Much. Often.”

Amaranthe snorted softly. Terse and cryptic, as always, but it was enough to excite her imagination. She no longer felt embarrassed by his appraisal, but intrigued by it. She dug her fingers into his hair, and whispered, “Show me.”

As if he’d been awaiting the command, he lowered his head for another kiss, this one less playful and more intense, his desire blatant and hungry. She opened up to him, wanting him to enjoy this as much as she was, hoping her enthusiasm would please him, as his surely did her.

She slid her fingers down his back, relishing the restrained power quivering beneath the surface, and helped him out of his trousers. He would have managed it himself eventually, she was sure, but his hands-and his lips and teeth too-were busy attending to her, sparking her own desire.

When they came together at last, it was as much a binding as a release. Oh, he’d call it something prosaic like a biological necessity being fulfilled, but his caresses, his soft kisses, the way he watched her eyes for signs of discomfort or distress, the way he smiled ever so slightly when she cried out his name… it all meant more to him than biology. She could tell, even if he didn’t say a word.

Once she’d likened Sicarius to a caged tiger, too dangerous to keep around if one didn’t want people hurt. Others had called him a trained dog, ready to kill at the drop of a flag. He was neither of course. He was a human being. One scarred by life, by fate. Just like her.

Once, she’d chastised herself for being attracted to the “amoral assassin,” but she’d been as much of a different person then as he had. This journey they’d survived together… it wouldn’t make sense to be at the end of it with anyone else. Not the end, she decided, but the beginning.

“Tears?” he asked, lying atop her, his weight propped on his elbows, though she’d claimed him with her legs and her arms, not ready to let him withdraw.

She hadn’t realized the tears were running down the sides of her flushed face until he caught them with the backs of his fingers. He kissed her eyes, a hint of a crinkle to his brow, worry that he’d done something to hurt her. She shook her head and smiled-funny that he’d worry about that now after all the times he’d ordered another torturous lap around the obstacle course or an impossible number of chin-ups.

“What?” Amaranthe asked. “You’ve never had women so overcome by your tender ardor that they wept?”

His eyebrows didn’t twitch, but he scrutinized her, and she imagined him calculating the appropriateness of various witty responses and rejecting all of them. “No.”

“Huh. Maybe I’m odd.”

His features softened. “Yes.”

“Though the tales of eld often speak of women being enraptured by doting paramours eager to go along with their every word, there are times when I wouldn’t mind you disagreeing with me.” Doting paramours? Tales of eld? Erg. During all those times she’d dreamed of being snuggled up with Sicarius in post-coital rapture, she’d imagined much more intelligent pillow talk.

“Your chattiness implies that your breathing has returned to normal,” he observed.