“Alonnen . . .” His name was a whisper, an exhaled breath that ended in a groan. It spurred him into licking more, suckling stronger. She shuddered again under his hungry feasting, his passionate nuzzling. But when he lightly bit at one tip, she cried out, body quaking in response to the mild sting of pain and its strong thrill of pleasure. “Ahh!”
Her shout and jerk broke Alonnen out of his lustful trance. Releasing her breast from teeth and lips, he struggled to remember who he was, who she was, and how far they were not supposed to go. Not this soon. Not this fast. The next sound out of her, however, beyond her heavy breathing, was a needy little whimper half muffled by the way her teeth had sunk into her own bottom lip. Her next move was not to sit up and berate him, but rather to tighten the way her fingers had entwined through his hair, tugging him by his locks back to her breasts.
Willing to comply but much more mindful now of what he was doing, Alonnen heeded her silent demand for more. This time, he was aware of each quiver, each unsteady hitch in her breath. Of the straining tension in her muscles, trembling, even spasming, but not quite releasing when he lapped or suckled just right.
Bracing his left arm along her spine, he brought his right hand around to her stomach. Cupping the flat muscles for a moment, he slid his palm down, until his thumb slotted between her spread thighs. There, he pressed and rubbed lightly, inward and farther down. He had to ignore the rubbing of his hand against his own barely constrained flesh, but that was alright; Alonnen sensed immediately when the fire sparked by his goal, the little hardened nub of flesh between her cloth-covered netherfolds, jolted through her body. Fire, not just lightning, for it dragged a wave of rose-blushed heat through her flesh in its wake.
Her back arched, almost pulling his mouth off her right breast, then she straightened up a little, returning it to within reach. Thumb rubbing, tongue fluttering and circling, he listened to her whimpers and gauged his efforts by the strain and spasm of her muscles. She was so beautiful in her mounting passion; he moaned and sucked harder, rubbed faster.
Rexei could feel it coming. She didn’t know what it was, but she yearned for it, ached for it, needed it. Her head thrashed, trying to deny it, to clear her senses, yet at the same time she wanted to shove away all distractions so that she could focus, focus . . . She heard Alonnen moan, felt the tugging of his lips, the flicking of his thumb.
It all crashed together in a bolt of electrical energy that snapped through her body and rocked all her senses. It didn’t end quickly, either, unlike a real discharge from some dynamo engine. It rolled and ricocheted through her, until she finally sagged in his grip, slick with sweat and breathing hard.
Somewhere beyond her blissful lassitude, she felt him shifting her weight in his arms. Even as he gathered her up, he twisted on the couch, turning to lay her down. She wiggled a little when he tugged at the bedding, pulling blankets and sheet out from under her lethargic, sated limbs. At the last moment, Rexei caught his hand, tugging it back to her long enough for a kiss. She smelled something rather musky yet sweet near his thumb, and blushed at the realization the smell came from her.
Touched by her kiss, Alonnen crouched carefully and pressed his lips to her forehead. “Sweet dreams, Rexei,” he told her. “If you want to do this again, just let me know tomorrow night.”
“Mmm . . . thank you. I, uh, I think I might,” she mumbled, blushing. She heard him chuckle, then shuffle off toward his bedchamber. As he left the sitting room, he swept his hand over the lights, dimming them down to near darkness. She realized her shirt was still unbuttoned and worked on fastening it with tired hands, then pulled the covers a little higher. Now that he wasn’t making her hot with his touches, she could feel the nip of winter in the air. A satisfied sigh escaped her as she snuggled into the couch to sleep.
Alone in his bedroom, Alonnen leaned his shoulders against the quietly shut door and bit back a frustrated moan. Lifting his hands to his face, he started to scrub at his cheeks, trying to get over the throbbing, unsated ache in his groin. It was a mistake; his thumb still smelled like her passion, her satisfaction.
Giving up, he pushed his trousers down past his hips, baring himself. His fingers stroked and cupped his ready flesh for a few moments, then he brought his hand back up to his nose for another sniff. With the scent of her climax filling his nostrils, he stroked himself, hips flexing. Overheated by watching her achieve bliss in his arms, under his touch, Alonnen found it didn’t take long to achieve his own climax. Warmth coated his hands and his shaft.
Slowly sagging into the door, he rested with his legs bracing his weight against the stout panel, then sighed. Straightening, he tugged up his sleeping trousers and headed for the attached refreshing room. His own bliss would lead to a sleepy lethargy in a few more moments, and he wanted to clean up before crawling back between his empty sheets.
Another time, he promised himself. If she can still look me in the eye tomorrow morning, then there will probably be another time. And another and another . . . and maybe there’ll be a wedding and a wedding night between us . . . because I’m falling in love with her, and I know she won’t settle for anything less. And . . . and I’m very okay with that.
The lack of contraceptive spells—he didn’t trust the iffy potion the Alchemists Guild made—meant it was hard for couples to consummate their passions without running the risk of a pregnancy. Both of them had too much to do in the coming months to risk that. But there is still a lot we can do without intercourse, he thought, dampening a rag under the faucet of his sink. A thought made him lift his brows, then smirk to himself.
I did enjoy an occasional use of the crankman Bethana owned . . . and no one reclaimed it from me after she died. For a moment, he lost his smile, remembering her death, his grief . . . but he had mourned her and moved on a few years ago. He also knew that she would not be pleased if he refused to fall in love ever again. Bethana had helped show him that he was fully over the duplicitous Daralei and free to love again.
I think she’d like Rexei. They’re different physically—Bethana was curvy and muscular, Rexei is lean and, well, not very curvy. Long blonde hair versus short brunette . . . But they’re both strong, talented, smart women. And we’re both mages, and both Guild Masters, even if Rexei’s just starting her guild.
And I can’t help it. I admire her. I’m falling in love with her. And . . . I need to stop this line of thought so I can get some sleep, he ordered himself, knowing that if he kept thinking along such lines, his loins would re-harden with interest. So, let’s think about the vote in two days to make us the nation of Guildara . . . No, work will only stress me further, since that’ll lead right back to the demon problem, and I’ll never get any sleep this way . . .
I know—I’ll think about holy days. That’s a neutral yet interesting subject. Mekha only had one per season, but I think we should have one per month. Perhaps on the full of Brother Moon? That gives us twelve holy days in a year, and we do have a lot to celebrate . . . so . . . what aspects should be celebrated each month?
Perhaps I should figure out how to divide the guilds into twelve categories? It was an interesting line of thought, intriguing enough to keep his mind off sex yet calm enough to allow him to drop off to sleep.
TWELVE
The first thought on her mind when she awoke was pure happiness. Rexei could not remember the last time she had felt such an unsullied contentment; usually, worry and stress plagued her days. The suncrystals overhead were still somewhat dim, suggesting it was barely morning, so she knew she had the time to spare for contemplating her happy state.