The soft curves of her woman’s body were masterfully formed—breasts high, taut and round.
Revealed to him fully, her mons was as dark a copper as the hair on her head.
She stood with palms turned up inside the downpour, eyes closed, while a soft cascade of rain fell over her and only her, showering her where she stood inside the tub.
It straightened the curls of her glorious tresses, so it fell like copper satin against her face and proud shoulders, diverting water so it cascaded like a fountain over her breasts, teasing her nipples till they pebbled with pleasure.
Cael’s response was visceral; his body reacted at once, hardening to its full length, unyielding as stone and throbbing for a release long denied.
He wanted nothing more in that instant than to go to her and open his mouth to receive the blessing of water from her bountiful breasts.
“Rhiannon,” he said hoarsely.
Very slowly, she opened her eyes, though if he feared she would conceal herself from his greedy eyes, he feared for naught. Immodesty was her cloak this eve and her ice-blue eyes were feral, her lips curved ever so gently at the corners, into that wicked little smile that set fire to his blood—entirely reminiscent of the smiles she used to give him when she defeated him at Queen’s Chess. And now, even as then, he would gladly lose, with grace, and cede all he owned but for the promise of a kiss from her lush, beautiful lips.
He was a man lost, besotted by his wife. No other woman in his long, strange life had ever put such a flame in his heart.
Only belatedly, he closed the door, hoping to God that no one had been hiding in the shadows of the hall, because, in a fit of jealousy, he thought he might pluck out a man’s eyes only for having taken the liberty of ogling his wife.
His wife.
His.
Wife.
A primitive and fiercely proprietorial instinct swept over him in that instant and he knew that he would kill any man—or woman—if they so much as dared to harm a hair on her head…
His wife.
All memory of the women who came before her vanished from his heart and mind as his feet moved of their own accord. He swallowed with difficulty, but never dared avert his gaze.
As he had for so long, Cael yearned to possess this woman, body and soul, and, at the moment, he was entirely too aware of how long it had been since he’d lain with a woman—years and years and years. Even now, his cock was hard as stone, hot and throbbing.
“Husband,” she said softly, warmly, and the single, softly spoken word struck him no less violently than a hammer.
It shook him to his bones.
She crooked a finger at him, and Cael crossed the room like a man enslaved, wanting nothing more than to take this nymph into his arms and whisk her to the bed—at least he hoped there was a bed, because his eyes were blind to all but Rhiannon…
Marveling over the look of appreciation on her husband’s face, Rhiannon beckoned him forward, feeling more emboldened than she had in all her given years.
She did not feel afflicted, nor plain, nor ugly when he looked at her just so. In fact, he appeared to her as though he might sink to his knees at any instant to worship her where she stood. A sense of empowerment came over her at the realization—a feeling quite unlike anything even her magik had ever provided. It was as though her husband’s admiration lifted her up and proclaimed her a goddess, and she had never, ever felt so beautiful as she did in that moment.
Sweet fates.
This was not what she had intended.
She had meant to dress and present herself to her husband clean, with freshly plaited hair, wearing that beautiful diaphanous chainse. But she had been carried away by the moment, and now, seeing him standing before her, sweat beaded upon his achingly beautiful brow, and his tunic sodden with perspiration, she wanted nothing more than to gift him with the same joyous experience she’d given herself—a shower courtesy of the aether.
She reached out for him, luring him inside the tub. And then, once he was there, she tugged at his clothes, helping him disrobe. One by one, his garments found the floor.
Only once his chest was bare, she eagerly reached for the twin reliquaries; he reacted swiftly, pinning her hand to his chest, cutting her with a warning glare.
But then, just as swiftly, he seemed to reconsider, grasping both reliquaries in one hand, and removing them himself, discarding them into the folds of his tunic, before giving Rhiannon a long, hard glance…
Curious though she was, Rhiannon hadn’t any true interest in his baubles at the moment. She was far more concerned about what else remained to be unveiled…
Once his hands moved to his trews, she stood back, watching breathlessly, eyes wide as he loosened his ties.
She swallowed convulsively as his breeches fell away and he shrugged them off, revealing himself fully to her wide, greedy eyes.
Sweet fates… he was truly magnificent—like a god—perfectly formed. His shoulders were broad, his chest lightly flecked, and his manhood fully and frighteningly erect.
She did, indeed, want to lower her gaze—and did only for an instant—but then she lost her nerve and, instead, met his deep, dark eyes.
Now it was his turn to smile—a small, knowing, satisfied male smile that sent a frisson down Rhiannon’s spine. And yet it wasn’t fear. Because she wasn’t afraid. It was anticipation. She wanted this more than anything in life. Tomorrow would be soon enough to remember all that was at stake.
Tonight, he was her husband.
Tonight, she was his wife.
This moment a gift from the Goddess…
33
The casting of magik required intense concentration.
It was a long, muddled moment before Rhiannon could remember herself well enough to resume the shower, and then, once she did, still another before she could remember what else she was supposed to do—lave him, she supposed.
In that instant, all pretense of self-assurance fled, and she was left only with a virgin’s uncertainty.
Mercifully, Cael didn’t wait to see what she would do. His arms slid about her waist, embracing her and pulling her close. His lips claimed hers, hot and insistent, and Rhiannon could only whimper with pleasure as his lips melded with her own, hard and unyielding, coaxing her to open for him.
And then, before she could respond, his tongue swept between her trembling lips, taking and plundering the depths of her mouth, his tongue lapping her teeth, exploring, sparring with her own, only this time with a hunger she hadn’t known before.
Sweet fates.
She could taste his ardor, smell his arousal—the faintest trace of pollen, that made her ache deep down.
Freely choose, or choose to be free…
Unbidden, she heard the words like a whisper in her head, and despite that she’d already spoken her vows before a priest, she knew it was a plea from the Goddess for Rhiannon to speak now or forever hold her peace.
“I choose you,” she said breathlessly, and heard an answering whisper…
Bound by destiny, to destiny bound,
Another to one, and one to another.
“Rhiannon,” he cried softly, perhaps oblivious to the words of the Goddess, and Rhiannon melted against him, her breasts hardening against the tiny hairs of his chest.
Instinctively, she arched backward, supported by the strength of his arms, as he trailed soft, little kisses from her lips to her chin, down her neck, and down through the valley of her breasts. When his mouth closed, hot and insistent, over one nipple, she moaned softly with terrible longing.