Lord's Fall by Thea Harrison
That was the absolute worst thing, when she needed to go to sleep, she really needed it so badly that it interfered with her actually going to sleep. Then thoughts rabbited around in her mind like rabid bunnies on crack, and oh my gods, this trip was going to be one long-drawn-out hell if she didn’t sleep, except she had to sleep some time, didn’t she?
Even if it took days. . . .
A warm breeze caressed her skin as she relaxed on her lounge chair on the terrace. She wore one of Dragos’s T-shirts and was wrapped in her favorite silk throw as she looked out at the magnificent spray of lights that was the New York City skyline at night. The French doors to their room were propped open and gauze curtains rippled. Despite all the issues and her continued discomfort at living in Cuelebre Tower, the good things were crazy, out-of-this-world fantastic.
Wait, was she supposed to be in New York? She strained to remember the last events of her day. Man, it had been a long one. A car ride.
“You’re thinking too hard,” Dragos said from within their room.
It never changed and never lessened, that fierce leap of joy she felt whenever she heard his voice in greeting or whenever she saw him again. She sprang to her feet and ran into their room.
Their bedside lamps were turned on low, and a fire had been lit in the freestanding fireplace, making soft light and shadows dance along the walls. Pia had made a few changes to warm up the austere room. The white carpet was gone, replaced with honey-colored oak floors and woven rugs, and she had added deep gold and jewel-toned pillows to their bed and to the couches. She could tell whenever Dragos’s gaze lingered on the rich textiles that he enjoyed the changes.
Magic and Power filled the room, rich like champagne and so imbued with his presence she basked in the feeling.
Dragos stretched out on the top of their bed, hands laced behind his head. He was dressed in one of his casual outfits, simple jeans, boots and a T-shirt. One long leg draped over the side of the bed, his foot planted on the floor as if he had just lain down. His bronze skin looked dark against the white bedspread, and his gold eyes glowed, brilliant and witchy.
She smiled at him, and he smiled back, his hard-edged face softening. He said, “It took you long enough.”
“I’m in Charleston,” she said. “I couldn’t get to sleep.”
“You managed it in the end.” He held a massive, long-fingered hand out to her.
She went to the bed, and he pulled her down to him. As he wrapped his arms around her, she settled into place. Her body knew him so intimately. It recognized the longer, much stronger shape of his body, every muscle and bone, bulge and hollow. Her cheek knew to rest just there, in the dip on his shoulder, and her arm understood the most comfortable way to lie crooked across his wide chest. She nestled the curve of her pelvis against the jut of his hip with his heavy, muscled thigh slightly between her legs, and they both sighed and relaxed.
It was one of her best-loved places, a necessary place, like when she curled on her side and he spooned her from behind, wrapping her tightly in his arms. He kissed her forehead, and she was home.
“I missed you,” she said.
He whispered against her forehead, “I missed you.”
Unlike the beguilement he had sent after her when she had run from him last May, this was a simple dream sending. Then, he had set a trap for a thief only to trap himself as well, and the desire they had discovered together had ratcheted into a desperately miserable fever pitch. This time the magic was gentler, as Dragos had explained it would be, and their dream would be whatever they chose to make of it.
“What I want to know,” Pia said, “is why you didn’t put us in some silk-draped tent in a desert, so we could act out a sheikh fantasy.”
His wide chest moved in a low chuckle. He told her, “I’ll keep that under advisement. You maintained control of your dampening spell this time.”
She stirred, murmuring, “I’ll take—”
He clenched her tight and said sharply, “No, don’t!”
She froze, looking at him with eyebrows raised.
“Two reasons,” he said to her unspoken question. “The shift of your magic might break the dream. And even if it didn’t, if you take the dampening spell off here, you might actually remove it from your physical body too. You never know if one of the guards might have to wake you up for any reason. Remember—you told me when you woke up in the motel room the first time, the spell had slipped and you had to recast it.”
She scowled, intensely disliking the idea of anyone walking into her bedroom when she was asleep, or possibly breaking the dream without warning. “Okay. Makes sense.”
Now that he mentioned it, the whole thing did feel a little dreamy. His arms were around her, and yes, they felt strong and sure, but somehow they did not seem quite as solid as they should. Deep down her bones knew the difference because she had experienced the real thing. She buried her face in him and held on tightly.
He tapped her forehead with a finger. “You’re thinking too hard again.”
“What, are you afraid I might wake myself up?” she said, muffled against his T-shirt.
“You might. Mostly I don’t want you to get so tangled up in details that you mull and stew the night away. The time we have is limited. We need to make the most of it.”
“Whose genius idea was this again?” Her mutter was truculent. “Oh yeah, it was mine.”
He laughed quietly, took hold of her hand and played with her fingers. “Tell me, how was your day?”
Freaking miserable. “We drove a lot. Then we got here.”
She debated whether she would tell him about her sort-of confrontation with Eva then decided against it for now. She had no idea if he would be calmly pragmatic, or if he would go all evil alpha and threaten to ruin Eva’s army career, or something else equally over the top and disastrous.
And there would be no point to any of that, especially when she suspected the issue had been resolved enough as it was. Eva was no Aryal—thank God. Pia and Aryal might have reached a balance so that they could spar together, but Pia knew Aryal had never forgiven her for the mistakes she had made last spring, and it was likely Aryal never would.
Argh, harpies. Look them up under the definition of trouble.
She glanced at Dragos. He had tilted his head and was watching her closely. “What are you glossing over?”
She sighed. “Anything else I might have to say would be a complaint.”
“Tell me,” he said.
She could tell by his expression that he meant it. “I got carsick and couldn’t eat all day. It was awful. The house is magnificent, but you’re not here. That’s awful too. I’m trying to spare you a long, boring litany of whine.”
He frowned. “Were you able to eat supper?”
“Yes, I stuffed myself.” She paused. “Actually there’s nothing to whine about that supper. It was just damn good.” She peeked at him. “Except you weren’t here to eat with me.”
“And there it is,” he said. “I knew you could get there if you really wanted to.”
She pulled her hand from his and touched his lips. He had such a severe mouth. Like the rest of his hard, rough-edged features, it was stamped with temper and the force of his personality.
Only she knew how tender and gentle that hard-looking mouth could be. It wasn’t fair, to love someone this much and to have it returned in such a fierce, undying tidal wave of passion and devotion. It was completely unfair, that fortune should lavish upon her such an extravagant, rare gift.
“How was your day?” she whispered.
“It went as expected,” he said. “Mostly. No one died. All of the sentinels went through to the next round, but then nobody believed anything different would occur. Graydon—” His gold eyes danced suddenly. “You know what a big motherfucker Graydon is. He turned into a g
She giggled. Mostly she was relieved to be away from the Games, and they had deliberately arranged for her trip to occur on the same week. She knew it would tie her into wretched knots to watch people she cared about going through the bouts of combat, even though they chose to go through it, and the fighting was in a good cause.
But she didn’t think she could resist watching and fretting if she was in town. At least this way she occupied herself with something that really mattered, and Dragos would stay busy while she was gone.
She said, “I would have liked to have seen that.”
“I’m sure many, many people in the Tower are DVRing the Games. I’ll get somebody to edit that segment out for you.”
“Thank you.” She tilted her head. “And how did Quentin do?”
Dragos said simply, “He’s an elegant fighter. He put his opponent down quickly, and neither one got hurt. But it may not always go so neatly for him. The bouts will get messier and harder as the week progresses.”
She asked, “Was that the unexpected bit of the day?”
The laughter in his eyes died, and his face grew edged and dangerous. For a moment he looked like what he was, a natural-born killer, and she could see the dragon moving at the back of his gaze. Before she could say something the dragon eased back, and then there were other things in his expression, a frown of pain or regret, his mouth tightening in frustration or anger.
He said, “Rune and Carling were in the stands.”
She had wondered how Rune would feel about the week, and if he would watch the Games. She had never really bonded with Rune, other than to reach a place where they exchanged friendly banter and agreeable pleasantries. There hadn’t been time before he and Aryal left for Chicago to help investigate the assassination attempts against Niniane. Then they had traveled to Adriyel to witness Niniane’s coronation. After returning and only spending a week at home, Rune had left again to pay his debt to the Vampyre sorceress.
He had never come back to New York until now.
She asked gently, “Did you talk with him?”
Dragos shook his head, his face hard.
Such a stubborn, proud male. She stroked his inky, silken hair, the short strands flowing through her fingers like water. Even more gently, she asked, “Did you want to?”
His jaw set. “No.”
That was too complex an answer to be either a truth or a lie. It felt like neither, and both. She didn’t know how to help Dragos with this, other than to listen. She was just glad they were finally talking about it, at least a little. She had tried to broach the subject before a couple of times, only to run into a rare stone wall. “Were you angry when you saw them?”
His eyes flashed again. “Yes.”
She rubbed his chest soothingly. “Maybe somewhat hurt too, or regretful?”
“Those are useless emotions,” he growled between his teeth.
She nodded. Definitely hurt and regretful. “And I’m guessing jealous too.” She met those angry, dangerous gold eyes. “Carling took something of yours that you valued highly, and you’re never going to get it back, at least not in the same way.”
His expression went blank. For a long moment she waited as he stared into space, and she did not know where he went in the complex, serpentine pathways in his head. Then his gaze snapped to hers, and he was back with her again. He lifted a shoulder. “And I also understand,” he said, his voice deepening. “Because if I had to, I would leave everything for you too.”
They looked into each other’s eyes. Then they moved at the same time to hug each other tightly.
Dragos rolled her across him gently so that she lay on her back. He spread his hand over the slight rounded swell of her stomach, brought his head down and kissed her. She murmured, fingering his hair as a heavy, languid pleasure drenched her body.
Their mating frenzy had eased after a month or so, which had almost been a relief. The frenzy was still there if they reached for it, but now desire had grown deeper, richer. Dragos slid his hand under the hem of the bulky T-shirt, and she lifted her torso so that he could pull the shirt over her head.
He palmed her breast and kissed her again, his hand and mouth gentle, lingering. Without clothing the changes from her pregnancy were visible. Her abdomen swelled where before it had been flat, and her breasts were growing fuller, the full pink, jutting nipples more sensitive.
“I love watching your body change,” he murmured as he kissed down her throat.
“What, you didn’t like how I looked before?” she said.
His head reared back. He glared at her in sharp incredulity.
She lowered one eyelid in a slow wink at him.
Laughter creased his features. She smiled as she stroked his face, glad she could lighten his mood for a little while. He was such a hard male, and sometimes that hardness bruised others, but sometimes it bruised him most of all.
He cupped her breast and took her nipple in his mouth, running his tongue around the soft, swollen peak and then flicking it with the tip of his tongue, so gentle and sensuous she melted for him, molding her body to his and crooking one leg to rub along the side of his with her naked thigh.
He knew how much she loved it when one of them was nude but the other remained fully clothed.
Once he caught her by surprise. He had dressed for a business function in a black suit that had been hand stitched by some foreign designer. She had chosen to have a lazy day and spent the afternoon reading, stretched out on one of the couches in the penthouse’s great room.
When he returned to the Tower, he was still wearing his sunglasses. The dark lens turned his brutal face into that of an impenetrable stranger’s. She smiled at him as he strode out of the elevator, her heart kicking at the sheer fluidity of power in his massive body as he moved across the floor.
As he neared she lifted her face, expecting him to kiss her before he went to their bedroom to change.
Instead he knelt on one knee, put his hand over her mouth and pushed her down on the pillows.
She froze and stared at him, her heart rate jettisoning into the stratosphere. Her book fell from nerveless fingers. The thud as it landed on the floor sounded a sharp report in the silent penthouse. He took his time looking at her sprawled body, her crumpled T-shirt and cotton shorts, and the light summer blanket tangled around her slender legs. He yanked the blanket off of her.
An insane arousal stabbed her. She fisted one hand in the lapel of his suit and grabbed hold of his thick wrist with the other. The tiniest of veins at his temple beat a hectic tempo, and oh my God, she had to be one twisted pervert, because when he took hold of her T-shirt by the neck and ripped it down the front, she groaned against his palm and almost came.
He tore her shorts away too with an almost leisurely ease, while his half-hidden expression grew darkly flushed with sexual intent. She lay sprawled on the couch, naked except for the simple white wisp of panties. His head turned. She knew he was looking down the length of her. He hooked his fingers into her panties.
Maybe he meant to slow down and tease her. But she let go of his lapel and gripped his penis as it strained against the expensive trousers. Then the muscles in his arm flexed, and her panties were nothing more than ruined shreds of silk.
He yanked open his trousers as she scooted around to face him, and he gripped her by the hips to lift her up to him. It arched her spine, a strange position, so that her shoulder blades pressed against the back of the couch. She hooked her heels on the edge of the cushions, but she was completely off balance, half suspended in air as he held her entire body weight in his grip. With an exhalation that was more like a whimper, she guided the thick head of his cock into place. She was so wet, so wet.
He thrust in and in, an i
Then he fucked her. Hard, slow, rhythmically, steady as a piston. No foreplay, no kissing. She watched his dangerous, half-hidden face, moving her hips to match his rhythm until she sobbed and climaxed, and then he fucked her some more, until he bowed over her and shook all over with his own spurting release. He never once said a word to her.
And she loved all of it.
It was good to love and trust someone so much you could just have sex sometimes, just mate for the sheer rutting pleasure of your bodies moving together in primitive sync.
Now in the dream, she thought back to that earlier time with a small, bittersweet smile. Now wasn’t one of those times.
She knew he was right there with her. They could talk on the phone afterward and both would remember the same things—how he suckled at her so gently, how she wound her arms around his neck and cradled his head—but there was still that dreamy, unreal edge to their lovemaking. It made her even hungrier for him in a way that had nothing to do with enchantments or beguilement, and it also made her a little sad.
She tugged at his shirt, and he obeyed her unspoken request, lifting away from her breast so that he could shrug out of it. She ran her hands over his wide, heavily muscled bronze chest as he unfastened his jeans. He rolled to his back to kick off his boots, then he shoved off the jeans, and my gods, there was so damn much of him, and he was all nude, all hers.
As he turned back to her, she put her arms around his neck to hug him tightly. She whispered, “If we climax, will it wake us up?”
“I don’t know,” he said. He flattened his big hands on her back and pressed her to him. “It could. Do you want to try?”
She twitched a shoulder. “We might as well find out. Otherwise we’ll just wonder until we try it.”