Dark Enchantment Read Free Page A

as he took those few steps. He laid her down upon the padded brocade, readjusted her skirts and the hem of his tunic, then bent over her, guiding his cock with his hand. Surya got her first proper look at that swarthy, turgid length, angled towards her from his open breeches, the skin so tight it was glossy.
    ‘You know what to do.’ It was barely a question.
    ‘Yes,’ she whispered, parting her thighs. Blood from her: blood from him. It was the way of their people.
    He butted up against her sex, slipping a little in her juices till he found the angle. Then Mershen moved his hand from his cock to her mouth, covering her firmly as he pushed home. She arched her back involuntarily, trying to withdraw, but he pinned her tight and surged in, and she couldn’t cry out or even breathe so she bit him, hard. Then he was still again, and there was air and his blood in her mouth, and they were both panting and sweat was running down his temples.
    ‘That’s it,’ he grunted through bared teeth. ‘I’m in. I’m in. It’s done. You took it.’ She saw the bloody crescents left by her teeth on his palm as he withdrew his hand. He licked his thumb then delved down between them to touch her at the point of their juncture. And then all the pain went away – though he was still hard as teak within her, though he was rocking in deeper now, push by push, stretching her wider – because he was sliding his slick thumb over her clit, teasing the pain from her flesh and transmuting it to pleasure.
    She forgot the pain and the fear. She forgot everything but what it was to feel him moving on her, to feel his mouth on her skin as he bent to her breasts or nuzzled her throat, to feel the unyielding hardness of his thighs pressing hers apart. She tasted the salt of his sweat and slid her hands up under his tunic to grasp him about the ribs and back. Her fingernails dug into the declivity of his spine. His muscles worked under her hands like those of a galloping horse. His gaze brushed hers, boring into her yet unseeing. His hair swept her face and clung to her lips and tongue, sharp with the taste of smoke. Only dimly at first did she recognise his desperation: that he had fought in battle, butchering men of his own blood, then ridden two days from the field to do something his soul recoiled from. He was exhausted and frantic and needy, heartsick and burning with lust. His thrusts grew fiercer. He groaned curses under his breath. He was taking her and taking from her. Ravishing her. Burying himself in her. Drowning in her.
    She opened within, layer after layer, to receive him. She’d never felt so huge, as in the end she encompassed the man, the mountain they lay upon, the world and the burning sun itself.
    He called upon the gods as he came, despairing.
    Afterwards he lay quietly upon her, their hearts racing together. Then he eased himself up on his elbow and stroked the hair back from her wet brow. ‘I didn’t hurt you …’
    ‘No,’ she lied.
    His lips tightened. ‘Surya …’
    He didn’t look like a man who’d just taken his pleasure; he looked stricken. She wondered to see it. At this moment – just for this moment, while the sunlight still streamed through her veins – she was free of fear. She touched his face with her fingertips, memorising those dark eyes and that warm mouth for her journey. She could not bring herself to smile, but there was no tension in her as she closed her own eyes and turned her head away, baring her throat. ‘Be quick.’
    He heaved himself from her, his hands reluctant to let her go. She felt the wetness between her thighs, the pulse in her belly. She heard his feet on the floor, the clink of his swordbelt, the long intake of his breath. He would be skilful, she knew, with the blade. It would be swift. She touched her breast with her fingertips, where his hand had last lingered. He was not unkind. He was simply a man of honour, doing his duty as best he could when it left him no choice.
    But