bedroom door. He unfastened the panel, drew it aside for them to step through, and closed it behind them. Septian did not accompany them, thank the gods. However, the leather panel, thick at it was, would not muffle sound very well. She hoped it would not be an issue. If she did this right, there would be no struggle. And if there was a struggle, the bodyguard might still mistake the sounds of violence for lovemaking.
Lucien pulled her across the floor to the bed. She had a brief glimpse of blue and gold—the color of his bedsheets—and then his crutch was on the floor and he was on all fours atop her, kissing her and tugging at the belt of her syrtos. Upright, he’d been clumsy, but on the bed he was agile as a brindlecat. In an excess of enthusiasm, he nipped her lower lip, and she gave a surprised yelp of pain.
“Sorry,” he breathed. “Am I going too fast? It’s just . . . gods, Vitala. I want you so much.”
“Not too fast,” she assured him. Really, the faster, the better. She started to help him with her syrtos, then realized she would be disappointed if he made love to her with most of his clothes on. She wanted to see him,
all
of him, before she committed the atrocity of killing him. She yanked him down onto the bed and climbed over him, reversing their positions. He was stronger than she, but he yielded, looking up at her in curiosity. “I want to see you,” she explained, and wondered how best to remove his clothes.
He was still wearing the glittering imperial loros. It was a precious thing, a Kjallan relic, and she hesitated to touch it. Her hands moved toward it, then retreated.
“I’ll do that,” he said. He lifted the loros over his head, folded it carefully, and set it on the bedside table. He also removed his wooden leg, unbuckling a couple of leather straps that secured it in place, and set the device on the floor. Then he lay back, submitting to her once again.
She sat atop him, mesmerized. She could stare at his face all day. It was a study in contrasts—pale skin, black hair, and reddened, kiss-bitten lips. Those cheekbones—what god had gifted him with those? She touched a single finger to his cheek and traced a line down to his chin and the soft flesh of his neck. The lump in his throat bobbed, and his pulse fluttered. His dark eyes followed her, intent.
She began disrobing him, slowly and methodically, first untangling the knots of his two belts. She pushed the syrtos back, exposing his neck and chest. There was his riftstone on its chain—the yellow topaz of a war mage. That stone was the reason she had to seduce him. Any other mage, or a nonmage, she could have killed more simply.
She wanted to touch it, but she knew better. Mages guarded their riftstones more jealously than they guarded their privates.
She continued undressing him. He lay tame under her ministrations, but a muscle jumped in his arms; he was struggling to remain still. She exposed his nether regions and found him erect and ready. But the sight of a hard cock was nothing new to her; she was more curious about his leg, the missing one.
He swallowed. “Go on and look. It’s all right.”
She peeled back the last bit of his syrtos. The stump of his left leg extended just a few inches below the knee. It was misshapen and ugly, mottled with red marks where the artificial leg and its straps had irritated it. She ran her hand over the area, and he winced.
She pulled her hand away. “Does it hurt?”
“No,” he said. “It’s just sensitive. Touch it if you like.”
Her curiosity satisfied, she sat back up, looking over the whole of him. Except for the leg, he was a fine-looking man. Though he was not large in build, his body was hard and wiry and surprisingly well muscled. She wondered how that could be, given that the missing leg limited his exercise. Perhaps it was a gift of his war magic.
“Enough of you staring at me,” he growled. His hands moved, almost faster than the eye could see, and her
Lucien pulled her across the floor to the bed. She had a brief glimpse of blue and gold—the color of his bedsheets—and then his crutch was on the floor and he was on all fours atop her, kissing her and tugging at the belt of her syrtos. Upright, he’d been clumsy, but on the bed he was agile as a brindlecat. In an excess of enthusiasm, he nipped her lower lip, and she gave a surprised yelp of pain.
“Sorry,” he breathed. “Am I going too fast? It’s just . . . gods, Vitala. I want you so much.”
“Not too fast,” she assured him. Really, the faster, the better. She started to help him with her syrtos, then realized she would be disappointed if he made love to her with most of his clothes on. She wanted to see him,
all
of him, before she committed the atrocity of killing him. She yanked him down onto the bed and climbed over him, reversing their positions. He was stronger than she, but he yielded, looking up at her in curiosity. “I want to see you,” she explained, and wondered how best to remove his clothes.
He was still wearing the glittering imperial loros. It was a precious thing, a Kjallan relic, and she hesitated to touch it. Her hands moved toward it, then retreated.
“I’ll do that,” he said. He lifted the loros over his head, folded it carefully, and set it on the bedside table. He also removed his wooden leg, unbuckling a couple of leather straps that secured it in place, and set the device on the floor. Then he lay back, submitting to her once again.
She sat atop him, mesmerized. She could stare at his face all day. It was a study in contrasts—pale skin, black hair, and reddened, kiss-bitten lips. Those cheekbones—what god had gifted him with those? She touched a single finger to his cheek and traced a line down to his chin and the soft flesh of his neck. The lump in his throat bobbed, and his pulse fluttered. His dark eyes followed her, intent.
She began disrobing him, slowly and methodically, first untangling the knots of his two belts. She pushed the syrtos back, exposing his neck and chest. There was his riftstone on its chain—the yellow topaz of a war mage. That stone was the reason she had to seduce him. Any other mage, or a nonmage, she could have killed more simply.
She wanted to touch it, but she knew better. Mages guarded their riftstones more jealously than they guarded their privates.
She continued undressing him. He lay tame under her ministrations, but a muscle jumped in his arms; he was struggling to remain still. She exposed his nether regions and found him erect and ready. But the sight of a hard cock was nothing new to her; she was more curious about his leg, the missing one.
He swallowed. “Go on and look. It’s all right.”
She peeled back the last bit of his syrtos. The stump of his left leg extended just a few inches below the knee. It was misshapen and ugly, mottled with red marks where the artificial leg and its straps had irritated it. She ran her hand over the area, and he winced.
She pulled her hand away. “Does it hurt?”
“No,” he said. “It’s just sensitive. Touch it if you like.”
Her curiosity satisfied, she sat back up, looking over the whole of him. Except for the leg, he was a fine-looking man. Though he was not large in build, his body was hard and wiry and surprisingly well muscled. She wondered how that could be, given that the missing leg limited his exercise. Perhaps it was a gift of his war magic.
“Enough of you staring at me,” he growled. His hands moved, almost faster than the eye could see, and her
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