And slowly, slowly the simmering begins to spark, driving us toward completion. Notus’ fingers bite into my waist, wander up to my breasts, where they squeeze possessively. Together we rise and together we fall. The slap of my rear against his thighs ekes out its rhythm, and the roughened “Yes,” Notus growls motivates me to quicken the pace.
Because the South Wind and I were never destined to smolder as coals do. We were destined for fire, for the white light of deliverance. I grow dizzy, intoxicated by the hot brand of his hands, the musk of his arousal, the sweat layering his skin, the heady perfume of our coupling.
His cockhead hits deep. I gasp, angling forward to prolong the contact. He dips his head, drawing my nipple into his mouth. And as he sucks, he snaps his hips upward, creating twin pulsations between my breast and drenched core.
A sound of unintelligible delirium chokes out of me. “Notus.”
“You feel so good, Sarai.” He stares at his shaft as it withdraws from my body, the glisten of wetness. “Impossibly good.” He sheathes himself inside me with one powerful thrust.
He hits a spot that makes my eyes roll into the back of my head. Squeezing my inner thighs, I shift my hips, angling them so the bud between my legs brushes against his hip bone, twining the tension higher and sweeter and brighter.
One of his large hands sinks onto my rear. He holds me to him, allowing no space for separation. This was another thing I had forgotten: the duality of the South Wind, gentle and dominant, passionate and knowing. He molds my flesh with ownership, his eyes akin to darkened stars.
Another hard thrust, and he groans into my mouth. We move as madness, a drive toward the finale. And as we move, I understand how rare a thing it is, to find a love not once, but twice in one’s lifetime. I have lost Notus before. I do not know if I could survive that again. And yet, that is the strength of our bond, forged and broken and reforged throughout the years. We are no green buds. We have weathered much. Our roots run deep.
When we at last come together, two bodies aligned, there is the most beautiful music.
28
ILIE IN THE CURVE OFNotus’ body, heat blanketing my spine, the hard thud of his heart reverberating against my back. Its sluggish tempo indicates deep slumber, yet in the passing moments, it accelerates, grave to andante to allegro.
“You’re awake,” I say.
He brushes a soft kiss onto my shoulder. “I am.”
I can’t help it: I smile. He is awake, as am I, our bodies intertwined, braced against the crumbling wall of the labyrinth. His hand catches mine, our braceleted wrists winking, lead and gold. He’s tossed his robe over our bodies for warmth. The air feels alive against my skin.
Notus releases what I believe to be a huff of laughter. My smile widens. “What?”
“You snore.”
My jaw drops, then clicks shut. “I highly doubt that. If anything, it’syouwho snores.”
“Are you sure about that?”
Rolling over to face him, I send him a withering glare. “Quite sure.”
Sleep creases the South Wind’s brow and cheeks and mouth. His heavily lidded eyes are warm, always warm. When I tilt my face upward, he slips his mouth against mine. Wandering hands and drowsy kisses. It would be a luxury to continue exploring each other’s bodies, but timecontinues to unfold, and darkness threatens all I hold dear. I cannot give in. I will endure. I must.
After disentangling myself, I sit up, facing him with crossed legs. “We don’t have much time until Ishmah falls.”
The South Wind’s expression grows somber. “Failure isn’t an option.”
The truth is this: the Lord of the Mountain may not have claimed my life, but there is a very real chance I will die in the labyrinth. I may not be able to control the how or where of it, but Amir will remain. Ammara will remain. My people and customs and history, all will remain. As will Notus. He is the only one who stands a chance of saving the realm. “I want you to promise me something.”
“No.”
I blink. “No?”
“Whatever promise you’re looking for, look elsewhere. I won’t grant it.” He holds himself in high tension, his right hand balled into a fist.
“Well,” I clip out, tossing him his robe. “Good to know where your loyalties truly lie.”
He shrugs it on. “Maybe you’re quick to accept defeat, but I’m not. If we focus our efforts on escaping the labyrinth, we can return to Ishmah—”
“And then what? Last I recall, Ishmah was overrun by darkwalkers.” And Prince Balior’s army. “How are we supposed to escape this place? And the beast… I’m not sure what it did, exactly, but it gifted Prince Balior some sort of dark power. It’s dangerous, Notus.”
He shakes his head. When he speaks, his voice lacks the assured quality I’ve come to expect from him. “There is the library—”
