She swung her legs down from the chair and settled them on either side of his shoulders, spread wide, so that she might more comfortably rub his arms. They were so strong—simply corded with muscle—and yet he was only a man. Didn’t all men need companionship? Friendship?
Love?
His head lolled against her right thigh, a heavy weight that made her aware that she wore only a chemise and wrap. For many moments they were quiet together as she stroked his arms and back and the fire crackled.
She was rubbing her thumbs in circles on the ball of his shoulder joints when she asked, “When did you become the Ghost?”
She thought he might refuse to talk more, but he answered readily enough, “When I was eighteen. Sir Stanley and I rather fought about it. I wanted to go into St. Giles by myself earlier, but he hadn’t wanted me to. By eighteen, though, I made my own decisions.”
She knit her brows. There was something she was missing. To go into St. Giles was one thing…
“Why did you wear a harlequin’s costume?”
He chuckled, tilting his head back so he could see her eyes. “That was Sir Stanley’s idea. He had rather an odd sense of humor, and he was quite excited by the theater. He had a costume made for me and said that a man in a mask can hide not only his identity, but the identity of his family. He can move about like a ghost.”
She brought her hands up on either side of his lean, upside-down face. “But what a strange idea.”
He shrugged. “I’ve sometimes wondered if Sir Stanley hadn’t been the Ghost of St. Giles in his youth. The legend is older than my tenure.”
“Your tenure?”
“The boys who sparred with me. They were Ghosts as well. All three of us, at different times, and sometimes at the same time.”
“Were?” She swallowed. “Are they dead?”
“No,” he said lazily. “Merely retired. I’m the only Ghost of St. Giles remaining.”
“Mmm.” He sounded so lonely. She bent over him, nearly near enough to kiss. “Maximus?”
His eyes were watching her lips. “Yes?”
“Why were you in St. Giles when your parents died?”
There was a second when she knew she’d pried too far. When his gaze froze and his sable eyes iced over.
Then he was pulling her head down. “I don’t remember,” he murmured against her lips just before he kissed her.
Chapter Fourteen
For a year Lin rode pillion behind King Herla in his awful wild hunt. The phantom horse between her legs labored and strained but did not make a sound. She saw King Herla bring down great stags and mighty boars, but he never once celebrated his success. Only sometimes, after she had bagged a hare or small hart, did he turn his head and she felt the weight of his gaze upon her. Then she would see that he watched her, his pale eyes cold and bleak and so very, very lonely.…
—from The Legend of the Herla King
It was odd kissing a man upside down—odd, but also oddly erotic. Artemis could feel Maximus’s lips slanted across hers, the shadow of his beard on his chin scratching faintly against her nose. In this position, their lips didn’t quite fit together properly, so to compensate she had to open her mouth wide, as did he. It wasn’t elegant, this strange twisting of tongues, this driven mingling of mouths. This was passion made elemental, even though there was no hurry at all.
She felt his hand reach up, grasping her head to hold her in place for the ravishment of her mouth. He broke away for a second and she saw a flash of determined sable eyes, then he twisted his torso to face her. He leaned into her widespread legs and wrapped one arm about her waist as the other brought her face back to his. She thought she heard him murmur, “Diana,” and then he was kissing her again.
Slowly, thoroughly.
She let her lips fall apart on a gasp and felt the sure thrust of his tongue into her mouth. He didn’t hurry, as if he had all the time in the world to hold her thus and explore her inner depths. She made a sound, a sort of low groan that in any other circumstances would’ve caused her embarrassment, but she was so drugged, so heady with the wine of his kiss, that she didn’t even think about it. Nothing existed but his mouth, his lips, the thick intrusion of his tongue. She couldn’t imagine wanting anything else ever.
But he broke from her, withdrawing his tongue, his lips, though she whimpered and made an aborted move to follow him.
She opened her eyes to find him watching her like a predator. Calculating, waiting.
He held her gaze, and she saw a faint smirk curl one corner of his mouth. The rug was suddenly gone from her lap, and then she felt the slide of her skirts up her legs.
“Do you remember that morning?” he asked, his voice impossibly deep. “You emerged from the pond like a goddess triumphant. You’d flaunted your ankles the day before”—he brushed warm fingers over her left ankle, making her shiver—“but that morning I saw the tender curve of your inner thigh, the sweet bend of your knee, the shy sweep of your calf. You revealed them as coyly as a siren singing a man to his ecstatic death—and you didn’t even know it, did you? By the time you reached the shore I was hard as iron.”
She blushed at his words, remembering that morning. She had no idea she’d affected him so. To think that they’d talked calmly and all the time his penis had been engorged with want for her.
The very thought made her wet.
Her gaze darted down to his hands on her thighs and then back up to meet those knowing, watchful eyes. He smiled as if he could hear her thoughts. He was bunching the skirts of her wrap and thin chemise in his big fists, slowly drawing the fabric up, revealing her legs—and if she didn’t protest, much more.
And this time she knew exactly what the sight of her legs did to him.
He silently cocked an eyebrow in challenge.
But if he was a predator, all masculine danger, then she was his rightful mate. She’d roamed the forest alone as a child. Had swum the pond, stalked squirrels, climbed trees like a wanton. Deep inside, hidden by the bland costume of a lady’s companion, she was just as dangerous as he.
Just as daring.
So she let her own mouth curl as she leaned back in the chair. If he expected maidenly fear or outrage from her, he’d be disappointed.
She wasn’t a maiden anymore.
His eyes lit with almost boyish mischief, his usually stern mouth curling further, and he inclined his head, just slightly, as if in approval.
And then he pushed her skirts up over her hips in one movement, baring everything below her waist to his gaze.
She swallowed a gasp. He wouldn’t frighten her into crying off.
He held her gaze, not even looking at what was spread just below his chin, as he turned his body completely, slowly thrusting his long legs under the chair so he sat on the floor facing her, her lap like a feast before him. His thumbs rubbed slow circles on her hipbones as if to gentle her or maybe to keep her relaxed. Although if that were his purpose, it wasn’t working. She still held his gaze in defiance, but her breath was quickening as if she were climbing a staircase.
Abruptly he looked down.
He stilled, simply staring at her. He made no movement, but there was a wild possessiveness in his eyes that made something inside her stretch and purr in response. He wanted her. Wanted this part of her. She was suddenly jealous of any other woman he’d ever looked at like this. He hadn’t the right—they hadn’t the right. This look, his expression, this moment was only between them and no one else.
They were a universe of two.
It was almost unbearably intimate, but she made herself watch as he spread wide his fingers and drew his hands down over her hipbones, over that tender spot where thigh met hip, until his forefingers brushed her curling hair. His thumbs continued down under her leg until he held each of her upper thighs in his hands. He pushed, slowly, inevitably, making her widen her legs further, helping her to hook one leg over the arm of the chair, until she lay open before him, a lewd offering.
He bowed before her then, like a priest worshipping at an altar, and she watched, her breath catching and breaking in her lungs, as he licked her.
The touch of his hot, moist tongue against her there was so exquisite that she trembled and shut her eyes. It was the most amazing feeling, both terrible and right, and she knew that she would never be the same after this moment. Here, now, he was tearing down the walls of her facade, crumbling the stone, dissolving the mortar. Laying bare the woman within, and the most frightening thing was she wasn’t completely sure who that woman was.
She’d never met her.
He spread her folds with his thumbs and licked into her crevasse, and she arched her neck and groaned. Loudly. Deeply. Without any way to stop the sound.
She felt him open his mouth against her flesh as if he would inhale her, and her heart beat so fast she thought she might die. He laid the flat of his tongue against her nub and pressed and kissed and sucked, and she swore her heart stopped beating completely. It was like a seizure, like a spasm of the soul. Her body quaked, and she caught his head between her palms to hold him there against her. Her hips moved gently, beneath his mouth, rising and falling to meet his relentless kiss. She threw her head back, her back arching, as he flicked his tongue against her, fast and hard and obscene, wet noises filling the room. She didn’t know if she would survive if he went on, but she knew she would die if he stopped.
And when the culmination hit her, she rose. Like an eagle spreading her wings, catching a hot, percussive wave from an explosion below.
She flew and was reborn.
When she at last opened her eyes, she saw him watching her, his mouth still between her thighs, the heat of his gaze enough to scald her newborn skin.
She swallowed, caressing his cheek, and tried to think of some way to express her gratitude, but she’d lost the art of language.
He lifted his head then, and she couldn’t even find the stamina to resent the self-satisfied curl of his lips. He put his hands on her waist and pulled her, gently helping her to fall into his lap, her legs straddling his. He placed one hand at the back of her head and kissed her and when she tasted a kind of tang on his lips, she knew where it had come from.
Without speaking he kicked the chair away so that they sat together in front of the fire all alone.
He leaned into her, softly kissing the tender skin under her ear, and whispered, “Wrap your legs about me.”
She shifted languidly, for there was no reason as far as she could see to hurry this. But when her softness was open and exposed by her position, she could feel how hard he was. How insistent. He might not have the same mind as she about the urgency of the matter.
When he slid a hand between them, she twined her arms around his neck for balance and leaned back to watch. He was working at the falls to his breeches. She cocked her head as he fumbled one handed, his other hand braced against the floor to keep them both upright.
She looked back up at him from beneath her lashes. “Would you like some help?”
He punished her for her amusement by nipping at her mouth. For a moment she became lost in their play, in the impatient kisses he gave her.
She leaned away and unbuttoned his falls with calm deliberation.
He, sadly, was not as calm as she.
“Diana,” he growled, cutting off his own words with an oath as she worked his penis free of his falls and breeches. It was the first time she’d held him—held any man—and she took the opportunity to examine the prize in her hands. His skin was soft, and it surprised her that this most masculine part of him was so velvety. She stroked him with her fingers, marveling at the hardness under the skin, the thick ropes of veins climbing the length. His foreskin had retreated back from the broad head, and a bead of liquid pearled at the tiny slit. She delicately touched her finger to the drop, stroking the liquid over his ruddy head. The column in her hand flexed at her touch and she wanted to laugh. To sing, though her voice wasn’t anything wonderful. This was so special, so curious, how he was built. That he would let her play with him.