“This,” he ground out. “Better?”
So much. She arched beneath him. “Hard, now. Hard.”
He drew back, and his cock was drenched in her need, the heavy shaft glistening. Slowly he thrust into her again, with no resistance, no invasion, just a long sweet stroke that stoked fire through her veins. Helplessly she moaned and tilted her hips to take him deeper.
Withdrawing his fingers from between them, Kavik braced his elbow beside her shoulder. Letting go of her wrists, he fisted his fingers in her hair. Laughing, Mala took hold of his.
“Now,” he said hoarsely.
His cock drove deep. Her scream was cut short by another savage thrust, and she cried out again before setting her teeth against steely muscle. Kavik groaned, grinding hard between her thighs. The brutal pressure against her clitoris burst into stars behind her eyes.
Ruthlessly, he pushed her left knee up to her shoulder and fucked deeper.
Mala couldn’t get enough, couldn’t get close enough. With open-mouthed kisses, she tasted the saltiness of his chest and the bleeding mark on his throat. Her hands dragged down his flexing back. His cock surged into her, each heavy thrust striking harder, winding her body tighter.
“I love you,” she whispered against his skin.
Abruptly he pulled away from her, leaving her empty. His cock stood reddened and thick. His gaze was feral.
Mala licked her lips and reached for him. Kavik trapped her wrists and flipped her onto her stomach. His big hand pinned the back of her neck. He dragged her up to her knees and mounted her like a beast, his rigid length spearing deep.
The bedding muffled her scream. He slammed into her again and orgasm crashed through her, writhing along her spine and jerking her hips even as he pounded harder into her convulsing sheath. She sobbed his name, fingers clenching.
Then he slowed, slowed. Reverent kisses trailed across her shoulders.
With a blissful sigh, Mala stretched beneath him, widening her knees. So sweet, this fucking. Sweet and tender and slow, and when the shattering pleasure splintered through her again, she needed to know this pleasure was his, too.
“Come into me, warrior,” she urged. “Fill me with a river of your seed.”
A primitive groan sounded behind her. Hard fingers bit into her hips and his cock stroked deeper, faster, before his body abruptly stilled. His shaft throbbed the release of his seed and her sheath clenched around him, stealing her breath with the unexpected ecstasy of it. Moaning, she turned her face against the bed.
His breath a hot shudder against her ear, he withdrew and rolled her over atop him. She went bonelessly, muscles still quivering. The full moon gazed down on them, and she thanked the goddesses for giving her a strong heart and a resilient sheath.
“Ale?” Mala asked when she could catch her breath. When Kavik grunted, she reached for the wineskin she’d put beside the bed. He sat up and drank with her, then pulled her over his lap, her thighs straddling his.
He kissed her, and it warmed her better than any drink. She slipped her arms around his neck. Already his cock stood hard again.
She grinned and tasted his mouth. “Was I worth the wait?”
“Worth waiting forever,” he said gruffly.
“Instead you’ll have me that long,” she said and rose over his straining shaft. “Now we’ll ride together.”
His hands caught her waist, holding her in place. Concern deepened his voice. “Are you raw?”
A little. She didn’t care. Biting her lip, she sank onto him, her head falling back as he filled her.
Groaning, Kavik licked the crescent moon at the base of her throat, then rasped against her stinging skin, “Was I worth the pain?”
“And so much more,” she breathed, taking him deeper. Her beast. Her warrior. Her heart.
Having him was worth everything.
Turn the page for a special look at the next Gathering of Dragons book by Milla Vane
A TOUCH OF STONE AND SNOW
Coming Summer 2020
LIZZAN
Many an innkeeper had woken Lizzan by tossing a bucket of water in her face. This morning marked the first time she was doused awake by a tree.
Or perhaps it was midday. When she sat up, sputtering, the source of the light filtering through the jungle canopy seemed too high for morning—and seemed too bright for eyes unshaded by sobriety. Though judging by the pounding in her head, she was nearly sober.
A sad state that Lizzan would soon remedy.
She uncorked the flask that was always as near to her hand as her sword—and was doused again when another broadleaf overfilled with rain and tipped out its burden.
The deluge poured over the top of her head. Sputtering again, her black hair hanging wetly around her face, Lizzan contemplated the effort of leaving the base of the tree where she’d made her bed. But all around her, the canopy dumped water as if making wet war on the world below, and many leaves were much larger than those above her. She would be no drier if she abandoned this spot.
And she would be no drunker unless she did. Only a few drops remained in her flask—and those tasted only of rainwater.
Groaning, she shoved the cork into the neck. A fine day this was. Such a very fine day.
Whatever day it might be. The last she remembered, her flask had been full. Usually at least two or three evenings passed before she had to fill it again.
Idly, she unsheathed her sword. No blood stained the shining blade. So she had likely not killed anyone in the time unremembered, or the blood would still remain. Lizzan was not the tidiest of warriors when drunk.
And now she was here. In the jungle. She had the vaguest recollection of a man with a gray curling beard saying that a group of bandits were plaguing travelers along the road between the villages of Dornan and Vares. Perhaps she had set out to hunt them.
If so, then a fool she was. Gladly would Lizzan collect bandits’ heads. But she had no money and no horse—and now, no drink. Better to have waited until someone offered to pay for those heads.
A look through the rest of her belongings told Lizzan that at least her only foolishness had been chasing after brigands. Still in her possession was her purse—empty though it was—and her sword, which would fill the purse with coins again. She had not sold any more of her armor. Even with the sigil of the Kothan army scratched away, each piece was fine enough to fetch a fair price—her chain mail tunic alone could buy a horse and a year’s worth of drink. But she was not yet so desperate. Or so thirsty.
A sniff told her that she also had a rather unpleasant odor. But the rain would take care of that.
Mostly.
Her leathers and boots were soaked through when the storm finally passed. Made from a northern falt’s water-shedding fur, her bedroll had been spared the soaking, but it was so muddied that nothing of the white pelt could be seen under the brown. The cursed heat in this realm would dry them all soon enough, but still she stripped down to her linens and boots before starting out in search of the road, so that her squelching would not draw predators, whether human or animal—and to spare herself the chafing.