"You've a bloody odd way of showing it," he mumbled to the floor, "what with the threatening to kill me and all."
He could not see her smile but he imagined it, small and slightly sad. He felt her lips against his temple, cool as the night.
"And my God," he went on, aggrieved, not moving or relenting, "have you any idea howhungry I am here? How hungry I've been every sodding day?"
"Me too." Her lips found the top of his forehead; her hands slipped down to his shoulders. "I've been hungry too."
If he opened his eyes again she'd be back to herself. That's what he would believe. Back to her human self, with brown eyes, not gold, and he would lift his face and kiss her back, and then he would end up making love to his wife right here in the Salon of Diana, on the king of France's plush teal-and-orchid rug, and to hell with the entire rest of the world. He would.
Zane looked up. Lia knelt before him, her small smile still in place, her gaze that rich and familiar deep brown. Her palms cupped his cheeks.
He reached for her. He sank down the rest of the way to the floor and pulled her between his legs at the same time, all notion of restraint abandoned with the feel of her waist beneath his fingers, the teasing brush of her hair against his neck.
She tasted of summer, too; a soft evening in the countryside, a slow flowing river, nightflowers with exotic perfumes and petals that unfurled beneath the silvered light of the moon. He drew up his knees to better capture her, his fingers curving into her, urging her closer. Lia complied, her head above his, her lips stroking, retreating, her tongue gliding against his.
He cupped her breasts in his hands, his thumbs working at her nipples, teasing them into peaks. They were full and heavy and by heavens he'd grieved for this so much—grieved for her while they were apart, all of her, and now he was tearing some. Just some, faint moisture around his eyes that she found and kissed away with a breathless small moan of commiseration.
I love you, he wanted to say again, but he didn't need to, because every atom in his body sang it for him.
I love you, and her hands were at the buttons of his breeches, nimble fingers freeing him, and oh, she knew exactly what to do. Her stroking, her succulent lips, and he was arching into her, helpless once more, as she caressed him and kissed him at the same time.
Love you, as his magical wife crouched over him and lowered herself onto him, and Zane used the wall to brace them both as he held her at the hips and pushed up higher into her, his heels digging into the rug, straining for more.
More of her, more of this, this nearly unbearable sensation of Amalia wrapped around him, her legs spread wide over his, her face tipped back now, that breathless sound returning.
He knew her, knew her in every way. He knew exactly what she needed, and gave it to her, freeing one hand to find her place, his fingertips stroking, then gently pinching her, and when her movements grew more frantic and she clenched above him he covered her mouth with his other hand, muffling her cry.
But it did him in, too. As she shuddered and came down on him hard and deep one final time he lost control, and let the pleasure sling through him so violently it was closer to pain.
It was always like this, so very good. She was always so good, and he adored it, every shameless, unkempt, ravishing-her-in-the-king's-salon second of it. He adored her.
He turned his face to the side and brushed his lips across her nipple, a flick of his tongue that had it hardened again instantly, delightful against his face.
"We'll go to the beach house together" he meant to say, only it came out as more of a guttural gasp against her breast. "You and me. Right now. Forget everything else, everyone. We'll leave Europe and never return."
She bent her head to rest on top of his, and strands of her hair caught in his eyelashes.
"My lady." He brushed away the strands. "What say you? We'll start over. No one'll ever find us again."
She stroked a finger down his cheek.
"Peru," he offered, into her silence. "The Japanese Islands. Ceylon, Cape Horn. Wherever you like." "Go to the beach house" was what she finally said, very soft. "Await me there." "Whatever this plan is you have, I'm coming with you. You know that." "No. I'm faster without you."
He pushed her back with his hands hard on her upper arms, scowling up into her face. Frescoes on the ceiling behind her depicted lazing men and voluptuous women, floating scarves entwining around them all like silken chains.
"Let us be serious a moment."
"I'm dead serious."
"As am I. You're not the villain here, admit it. If you've a plan, tell me about it. I'll make it better, you know I will."
"There's no time."
"Lia, you haven't seen her. Not like this. I swear to you right now, she's no one you can manage." "She's my daughter."
He struggled to sit up higher. "Not any longer!"
"That never changes. Hearts don't change." She gave him that melancholy smile, lifting free of him. "Now, wait—"
"Do you remember the turtles?" she whispered. "The baby turtles on the beach?"
"What?" he said, still holding her arms, absurdly close to tears again.
"I will meet you there." She leaned down for another kiss. "I love you so. Go west."
Before he could breathe another breath, before his heart could pass through another beat, she'd Turned to smoke. He was left cold and alone on the floor, watching the tendrils of the only being in his godforsaken life who gave a damn about him slither back through the windowpane and siphon up into the starred navy sky.
Chapter Twenty-Two
As it so happened, Sandu and I fit together very well indeed.
I smiled to myself as I recalled what he'd told me about the courting Zaharen couples, how they might take flight together to see how they'd fit.
I wasn't sure if he'd meant it literally, or if that was his charming, European way of not mentioning the word sex , but whenever I was atop his glimmering back, it felt like I'd been made to be there. We fit.
In a French port town named Cette we ate steamed mussels at a tavern perched at the edge of an empty beach, the Gulf of Lion spread out before us in a sparkling ultramarine blanket.
In Genova we found the astonishing Piazza di Ferrari, and admired the soft greenish brown hills backing away from the sea.
And in Bologna we spent the night, and that was the very first night that Alexandru asked me to marry him.
We were walking to the Neptune Fountain, which he had visited twice before and I, of course, never had. The streets were heaving with Others, almost as if there was a festival, although Sandu told me it was nearly always like this in the heart of the larger cities.
There were a few low-slung clouds above us, but mostly just the deep blue of a hazy night. Bologna offered imposing streetlamps of molded iron and glass on nearly every block, as far as I could tell; their light condensed into one long, mellow pool along the boulevards. The prince and I strolled slowly through it. I was a little sore from the long day's flight, but mostly I was enjoying the sensation of simply being beside him, human Sandu and human Rez, arm in arm, just like all the other human lovers chattering and jostling around us.
The Neptune Fountain was a popular meeting place. People encircled it fully and still it loomed high above them all, the bronze god with his trident staring firmly away from the unruly masses gathered upon the steps below his feet, fish and mermaids squirting water from interesting orifices in high, glistening arcs.
We angled closer, Sandu easily parting the crowds with just a turn of his body, lean and graceful, guiding me forward. Men and women both stepped aside for him, and in the process he garnered more than his share of admiring glances.