He proceeds down my sternum, even as my hips buck and my lips beg, “Please, Taar, please . . .”
When he reaches my abdomen, however, he stops there. Drawing back his head, he contemplates the ugly red scar. His fingers brush along its length, and I look down at him, over my own panting breasts. The look on his face twists my heart.
“Taar,” I say. “Taar, I am here.Weare here. Together.”
He looks up, meets my eye. Are those tears I see, glistening on his dark lashes? I want to comfort him, to find the right words that will ease the guilt and the pain in his soul. I want to find the means, the will, the magic spell to heal everything that was broken. “Taar—” I begin.
But he cuts me off. “You are so beautiful, my Ilsevel,” he says. “So beautiful and strong. I can never be worthy of such a woman.” He bows his head then and kisses my scar. Gently. Reverently. “But I will spend the rest of whatever life is granted me endeavoring to try.”
I open my lips to answer, only for my breath to be stolen when his mouth moves suddenly over my hot center. He envelops me with his lips, his tongue pulsing hard right where my heat throbs wildly. I moan and writhe, twisting the golden fabric of my wedding gown. He adjusts his angle, deepening the connection, and lifts my legs to wrap them around his shoulders and neck.Then he grips my hips, pulling me up into him, as though unable to resist an insatiable hunger.
My arms reach over my head, seeking something, anything to hold onto as I’m tossed into this wild storm of heat and sensation. There is nothing—nothing but my own tumbled hair. My fingers grip fabric, knuckles whitening as I twist in his grasp. He holds me firm, and that glorious friction intensifies.
The song begins low in my gut, but rises higher and stronger as it pours out from my straining throat. It reverberates against the walls of this small, lonely house, rings out to the dawn sky above. And in that music, so raw, so primal, I feel the very forces of destruction and creation colliding here in this private space of ours. Where two broken hearts, two damaged souls, become whole and one once more.
When the song ends—when the radiating energy of pure bliss abates, leaving me in a rosy glow—I look at Taar. He gently lowers my hips as my legs uncurl from around his neck. But he remains there, kneeling between my spread legs, so huge and powerful and beautiful. And I love him. I love him more than I ever believed possible.
“Come inside me,” I command, my voice little more than a whisper.
He draws a ragged breath, but doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t make me beg. This is not a matter of deserving—it’s a matter of obedience without question, without reserve. As he unfastenshis belt, I push up onto my elbows, watching with interest as he removes his trousers. The glory of his naked form is now displayed before me, and I feel almost hollowed out with hunger for him. My body still quivering with aftershocks of pleasure, I lay back, moaning, and open my legs wider in eager anticipation.
He bows over me, resting his great bulk on one elbow as he gazes deeply into my eyes. “It may be difficult for you the first time,” he cautions.
“I don’t care.”
With one hand, he gently swipes hair back from my face, then runs his thumb over the plumpness of my lip. I catch that thumb with my teeth, biting gently, flicking my tongue against the pad. His eyes dilate and his breath catches. But he frees himself, and his finger trails down my cheek, my neck, finding my breast once more.
“Taar,” I warn. “It ismyturn, remember?”
His grin is unrepentant. But he runs his fingers down my arm, takes hold of my hand and guides it to his length. “Like this,” he says, wrapping my fingers around him. “Now, if you’re sure—”
“I am.”
“Then you must guide me in. I will be as gentle as I can, but . . .” He rests his forehead against mine for a moment. “But,zylnala,it will be a challenge. You fill me with such fire, and I cannot promise—”
My fingers tighten briefly, and he responds with a gasp and an eager throb. I smile into his eyes. “I’m not afraid, Taar.”
With those bold words, I lead him to my opening, morenervous, perhaps, than I like to admit. He is so large, and I’ve never done anything quite like this. But I want him, want this moment of full, bodily joining. Who can say what our future holds? This could be the last chance we ever have or the first of a lifetime. Either way, I know what I crave.
He presses up against me. I feel the tension as he prods gently and wonder if he will fit. But he’s done good work preparing my body; I am wet and ready and so very eager. The fit is tight at first, but not unpleasant. After an initial moment of uncertainty, he slides in, a little at first. Then slowly, carefully, he sinks deeper.
“Ah!” I gasp, my eyelids fluttering.
He draws his head back from me, his face concerned. “Did I hurt you?”
“No!” I laugh, shaking my head. “No, that . . . that definitely did not hurt!”
It’s new. It’s strange. I’d thought I understood the extent of pleasure my body was capable of experiencing, but this? This connection, this oneness is something else. Something both physical and more than physical. Something for which my language has no words.
“Velarin,”he breathes against my ear, as though reading my mind.
Yes. Yes, that’s what this is.Velarin—the oneness bond. Beautiful and holy, a miracle of both the present and eternity. I feel ourvelracord surrounding us, shimmering so bright with the song I sang, with the song we are ongoingly creating together.He pulses inside me, moving unconsciously in rhythm with that song, and my heart and breath find a similar time. Pleasure mounts in my body once more, building in pressure until the moment he gasps, shudders, and falls heavily onto his elbows, his chest pressed hard against mine. Then my own pleasure breaks anew, a gleaming soprano note, two octaves higher than his deep base.
We remain still for some moments afterwards, reveling in what we have done to and with each other. Then, while he’s inside me, no longer tense but still connected, I wrap my fingers in a handful of his hair and pull his lips to mine. He lingers over my mouth, lazy and temporarily sated, but with a passion which promises an abiding hunger that will return soon enough.
When our lips part, I breathe out slowly, my eyes closed. “Do you know,” I muse thoughtfully, “while I do enjoy a solo performance, I think I might prefer singing duets with you, warlord.”
“Indeed?” he chuckles, and nuzzles into the crook of my neck and shoulder, nipping gently. “Well then, give me a moment to catch my breath, and I’m sure we can find another verse to sing.”
