“Scream for me, Cosmina.” Watching her from between the spread of her thighs, he nipped her gently. “Now, love. Scream for me.”
His deep voice washed over her. Bliss detonated, and she exploded into delight. Ecstasy tore his name from her throat. His grip on her tightened. Muscles flexed as he pushed her knees up and out. With a rough sound, he surged between her thighs, settled deep, set himself to her entrance, and—
Thrust hard to her center.
She screamed again, the pleasure so intense she lost herself all over again. He started to move, his hips driving against her own. Stretched to the limit, overwhelmed, deep in a maelstrom of sensation, rapture spun her around the lip of wonder. Tears rolled from the corners of her eyes. She wrapped her arms around him and held on hard, amazed by the man, ambushed by emotion, matching him stroke for incredible stroke. On the verge. Teetering on the edge of another orgasm, she moaned as passion cracked the hard shell protecting her heart. Awe and need combined, shattering her control, rising hard inside her, allowing reverence and more to bubble between the cracks of her crumbling guard.
Dangerous emotion. Inescapable weakness. Beautiful, catastrophic disaster.
Cosmina didn’t care. In that moment, she loved him true. Needed him deep. Wanted him hot and hard against her—inside her—always. A foolish hope. A dreamer’s dream, more ridiculous than real. But as he pushed her to new heights, and she listened to him shout her name, felt him tense and throb deep inside her, Cosmina held him close and made a promise to herself, vowing to fight. For him. For her. For a chance at a real future together. Henrik belonged in her arms. She knew it, felt it . . . believed it. So aye, she would fight, defy destiny, and hang on to Henrik for as long as the fates allowed.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Nestled against Henrik’s side with her head on his shoulder, Cosmina slid her hand across his chest. Muscle rippled beneath her palm, and she sighed, letting her pleasure show. Being held was pure heaven. Absolute bliss brought on by the fact Henrik hadn’t pushed her away. He wanted her right where she lay—snug in his arms, surrounded by his strength and her rabbit fur throw, skin pressed to warm skin. Oh she’d tried to save face after the first loving. Had made for the edge of the bed, a little unsure, a lot embarrassed by her reaction to him, by how she’d moaned and pleaded for his possession . . .
For the pleasure he’d given her.
But Henrik hadn’t let her escape in the aftermath. He’d drawn her close instead, wrapped her in his embrace and held on, coaxing her into relaxation, tempting her to trust him, stealing another piece of her heart. How many that made, Cosmina didn’t know. Too many to count or was wise, but—gods—she couldn’t help herself. Hadn’t said no when he’d made love to her a second time. Nor would she object to a third. Strange. More than a touch disconcerting. Neediness didn’t suit her. She didn’t moon over men or yearn for connection. Ever.
Independent. Capable. Able to look after herself without needing anyone.
Well, at least, under normal circumstances.
Making love with Henrik, though, didn’t qualify as ordinary. Hot. Erotic. Fierce. Pleasure-bound exotic. Henrik epitomized each one. Which catapulted him into a category all his own—one named things she couldn’t resist. She wanted to deny it. Longed to bypass the realization without examining it, but couldn’t. So only one thing left to do: admit it. She was in trouble, way past the point of no return, standing in uncharted territory . . . in danger of losing her heart to the hazel-eyed, hard-bodied warrior cradling her as though she were precious to him.
Precious. She huffed. Such a frivolous thought, yet one she wished would come true. The hope made her a first-class fool. Hanging on to him—fighting to spend every moment with him, waking or otherwise, before he left—was one thing. Yearning for something more, however, was quite another. Cosmina knew it like she now knew his body.
Which was to say . . . very, very well.
He’d allowed her exploration during their second loving. Sated by the first round, he’d slowed them down, encouraging her to touch and taste, whispering naughty instructions, giving her free reign before rolling her beneath him again. She’d taken complete advantage, reveled in the power, in her ability to tease and please him as he did her. Now, though, in the body-drain of bone-melting afterglow, with the fire crackling and his chest rising and falling beneath her cheek, all kinds of questions cropped up.
Each one centered on him. His scars, and how he’d come by them, occupied her mind. But more than anything, she wanted to ask about the birthmark on his chest. Stamped over his heart, she understood what the mark represented. Unlike hers, the moon-star hadn’t been burned into his skin. He’d been born with it. Solid proof of his relationship to White Temple, and more precisely, to the royal family that ruled the Order of Orm.
Henrik was the son of the former High Priestess. A prince with magic in his blood, one anointed by the Goddess of All Things while in his mother’s womb.
An occurrence that had never happened before.
She knew the history. Had studied the tomes inside White Temple’s library as part of her training as a member of the Blessed. And yet, as she shifted against him, slipping her thigh over one of his and staring at the flames flickering in the hearth, she struggled to understand . . . to put two and two together and come up with four. Naught added up. No neat columns filled with numbers recorded by the precise strokes of a quill. Everything felt skewed, out of order, as though history had shifted sometime during the last few hours, calling into question all she knew to be true.
A mystery. One at least twenty years old.
Not that the time frame mattered. ’Twas the circumstances—the trail of misinformation—that tweaked her curiosity. Eyes narrowed, she shuffled through all she knew of White Temple, the former High Priestess, and the resulting history. Huh. Interesting. She didn’t possess all the facts. Henrik was living proof of that. Particularly since a crypt with his name on it sat inside the holy city’s cemetery.
Raising her head, she pressed a kiss to his shoulder. He murmured her name. Her mouth curved as she glanced at his face. Replete, body relaxed and eyes closed, his thick lashes formed half-moons on his skin, making him seem almost boyish. She knew better. Henrik was all man. He’d spent the better part of the afternoon proving it to her, so . . .
She scanned his face again. Her heart kicked behind her breastbone. Heat pooled in her belly. Muscles deep inside her coiled in abject appreciation. By the gods, he was beautiful, every muscled, masculine inch of him.
“Hey, Henrik?”
Turning his head on the pillow, he cracked his eyes open. Hazel-gold glinting from behind dark lashes, the corners of his mouth tilted up. Holding her gaze, he trailed his fingertips up her arm. As she shivered in pleasure, he brushed over the bandage circling her bicep. “How is your arm, Cosmina? Not too tender?”
“A little sore, but all right,” she said, wondering how to ask about his past.
She wanted to know everything about him. Longed to be the one he talked to like she needed her next breath. And yet, fear stilled her tongue even as curiosity urged her to ask. Nerves getting the better of her, she chewed on the inside of her lip, searching for the best way to start the conversation. Should she just plunge in and let the first question fly? Or would he be more receptive to a gentler approach? Cosmina frowned. She didn’t know. Couldn’t begin to guess, but one thing for certain? His history with the Order hinted at a rough beginning and a painful past.