As if he’d read her mind, he slipped his finger down and dipped it into her sex, sliding it in and out, mimicking the thrust of his cock, while all the time his thumb maintained exquisite pressure on her clit.
“So wet,” he whispered. “Hot and slick. I’m going to take you, Mae.” He pressed his big cock against her ass, and she had a moment of panic. She didn’t think she was ready for anal. She opened her mouth to say so, but the only thing that came out was a long, low groan of pleasure as he plunged a second finger into her pussy, while his thumb continued its hard pressure on her clit.
“Dragan,” she moaned, and the sound was so needy, she could hardly believe it came from her lips. Reaching up, she circled her fingers around the back of his neck, then turned her head, searching for his lips.
When he lowered his mouth to hers, his touch was slow and languorous, while he took tiny nibbling bites of her lips. She cried out when the rhythm of his fingers increased, going faster and faster to match the growing passion of their kiss. Maeve tightened her grip on his neck and held on against a tidal wave of sensation, until he crushed her clit beneath his thumb, and she orgasmed so hard that she felt it deep inside, as if her womb itself was flexing in rhythm with the waves of pleasure rolling up and over her body. His mouth caught her shocked cry, drinking it in as his hand shifted to stroke over her thigh and push it forward, while he tightened his grip around her.
She felt the hard press of his cock as he urged her to bend forward, as his fingers, still slick and wet with her juices, slipped over the curve of her ass and between her legs, to penetrate her from behind. Maeve gasped, barely catching her breath before his cock took the place of his fingers and plunged deep into her pussy, stretching tender tissues, and filling her so full that she didn’t know how he could go any deeper. But he did, with one hand around her shoulders, and the other flat on her belly to hold her in place as he fucked her with long unhurried strokes, moving in and out in a luscious glide of unyielding demand into her soft and welcoming sex, his breath hot against her neck as he held her firmly against him.
Her own breathing grew more frantic, blowing in and out in time with his, the demand and passion of his thrusts growing harder, faster . . . until he gave a harsh groan and came in a frenzy of wet heat that sent her over the edge to join him as he fell.
He held her while the rhythm of their hearts slowed to normal and their breaths evened out, their naked bodies slick and hot where they met. He moved, putting a fraction of an inch between them, just enough to let their damp skin cool, while his arms remained around her.
“I think I like it that way,” she said when she could speak again.
“Think?” he grumbled. “Maybe we should practice more.”
She smiled and murmured an agreeable, “Okay,” which made him laugh and hold her closer as they both drifted off into a morning nap.
Nearly two hours later, Maeve stretched awake as she sat up behind Dragan and rested her head on his broad back. She would have liked to pull him down and spend the day as they had the morning—sex and a nap—but reality was becoming a loud gong in her head. Their little interlude of normalcy in Orlando had been wonderful. She’d been almost able to convince herself it was real, for short periods of time. But she knew Sotiris well enough to fear he wouldn’t give up. Not for her, but for Dragan. He’d seemed obsessed with the statue, though hardly rational, she considered. Maybe he wouldn’t care, after all. Not enough to track them down, anyway. She didn’t know if he still possessed the kind of power he’d used to trap the warriors in the first place. She was only just beginning to understand the very basics of magic. She had no idea what the various levels of power were, or if that kind of magic still existed. Dragan had said something about magic being thin in this world, so there’d be no reason for Sotiris to waste time and energy searching for them. She frowned, sensing she was trying to convince herself more than seek the truth. Fighting that urge, she replayed what she knew about Sotiris, which wasn’t all that much. He was covetous of the things he collected, always looking for more. He had some extraordinary pieces, and yet no one ever saw them but him—and the monthly cleaning staff, she supposed. But she was sure he didn’t count them as worthy of his notice.
If she thought about Dragan as part of Sotiris’s collection, as something that had been stolen from him . . . yeah, she could see how he might stop at nothing to get it back. Not because he valued Dragan as an individual, but because he was his, and he didn’t share. But Dragan wasn’t a statue anymore. He couldn’t be collected. He’d fight back, and she’d help him.
Dragan’s hold shifted as he moved against her back, his hands sliding along her arms to rest their linked hands over her belly. She glanced down with a smile, noting the contrast between them—his arms and hands were golden brown, with white scars down his forearms, and crisscrossing his knuckles like pale lines of marble. While she. . . . Wait! Her breath caught in her throat. The rock. What if Sotiris wasn’t chasing Dragan, or not only Dragan? What if he wanted his damn rock back?
“Dragan, did Sotiris ever steal something . . . big from Nico? I don’t mean size-wise, but magic. Something magically powerful.”
His powerful shoulders shrugged, moving her up and down in his embrace. “Not that I know of, but they knew each other long before I came to serve Nico.” He paused. “Why do you ask, Mae?”
She patted his arm and rose from the bed, going over to her pack to retrieve the rock. “I’d forgotten about this,” she said, opening the box to show it to him. “I took this rock from the room with all the knives and stuff, the one where you found Nico’s . . . short sword. Do you recognize it?”
“No,” he murmured, but he stared intently at the thing. “It has power, but . . . nothing I recognize. Why do you believe it’s powerful enough to be important?”
“Because Sotiris had double security on it, and by now, he knows I took it.”
“My own magic is still recovering, but . . . how do I describe what I feel? It’s almost as if this rock, as you call it, is taking in magic, rather than putting it out.”
“You think it might have something to do with his magic?”
“Sotiris’s?”
“Or Nico’s.”
She could almost hear him thinking, before he said, “It’s possible. I know little of Sotiris’s early history, but very little of Nico’s life didn’t involve magic. He was born with it, and as I said, he came into his full power very young.” He was silent for another few minutes, then said, “Nico’s magic is very different from mine, however. He and Sotiris are sorcerers, which means their magic runs in their blood, warms their flesh. Mine, on the other hand, is goddess-gifted for only one purpose, and that is to fight. My magic is not attracted to that thing, nor is it repelled.”