Unbound (7 page)

“I don’t collect for myself. These will go up on auction. People pay good creds for Majian artifacts.” Smiling, she held up the box for his admiration. “Pretty, isn’t it? I wonder what it was for.”

“Likely just trinkets. It
is
a trifle box.”

Stylus upraised, Asrial glanced at him finally, blinking in obvious surprise. Amber chips glinted in her brown eyes, a detail he had overlooked before. “You’ve studied Majian artifacts?”

“Not at all. I just know what I know.” The implications of a collector’s market for such common, everyday objects and the fact that they were considered worthy of study troubled Romir. Those went against everything he knew of the Mughelis. Was this universe so different from the last time he had been summoned to serve? Did the Mughelis, too, voyage through the abyss between worlds? Was the hard-won haven of his people no longer secure? Surprised by the prospect of travel in a starship, he had not contemplated the possibility that his enemies might be closer than he had thought.

She made a face at him, clearly unconvinced by his protest. “You sounded so certain.”

“It was just trivia I . . . picked up.” Telling her he had seen it used in daily life might prompt the sort of questions he did not want to answer. If she sought knowledge of Mughelis, might she not seek them out?

He had been foolish. If he was not more careful, he could find himself back in the hands of the enemy. Perhaps for the moment, silence was the better strategy, no matter how oppressive he found it.

When he did not expound on his statement, Asrial did not pursue the matter, returning instead to the artifacts before her. “This is sure to be the centerpiece of the auction.” She picked up his prison with careful hands, holding it as if it were precious. Raising it to the light, she traced a finger over the etching.

He
felt
it!

Sweet delight eddied within him, seeping through the mark on his shoulder as she explored his prison, slowly rotating it while her finger glided over its base. Romir stiffened, horror and unwelcome pleasure coursing through him in equal measures. It was the same—as if he had been summoned. A touch to his prison was like a touch to his essence. Only she did it gently, a caress instead of a strangling grip. But still the weave was sinking its hooks deeper into him. Perhaps that gentleness was worse—more seductive, inviting him to embrace his enslavement.

The sensation confirmed his deepest fear: if his prison succeeded in drawing him back, he could once again be summoned out and commanded.

He wanted to shout, to demand Asrial stop what she was doing. He choked down the protest for fear the knowledge would be used against him. Though he was certain she was not Mugheli, his hatred of their mastery was too ingrained; revealing the weakness could lose him what little independence he had gained.

“Why the centerpiece?” He forced the question past the evanescent fluttering against his insides, the breathtaking sensations made more arousing by their ephemeral nature.

Cradling his prison against her breasts, she turned to him. “Most examples of Majian pottery are broken shards. A rarity like this flask?” Her smile was bright with expectation, the glint in her eyes adding a sharp edge to her beauty. “Even the museums would sit up and pay attention, if only for this. Collectors will cross the galaxy just to see it.”

His prison was destined to be auctioned off?

To Romir’s relief, she set it back on the ledge. Those unnerving sensations stopped, confirming his suspicions. This was proof he was not as free as he had hoped. Only chance had given him a measure of independence. The Mugheli weave still held him bound, still a djinn trapped in this deathless servitude.

Shaken, he stood silent as Asrial continued her work, handing down the pieces she requested and replacing them when she was done. If he was not careful, he would lose his fight and return to the madness of the gray mists.

Performing inventory
of her finds with Romir beside her had been an exercise in self-control. Asrial rubbed a hand on her thigh, drying its damp palm on her pants, as she laid the data logger on the comp. She’d been so conscious of his quiet presence she’d taken twice as long to inventory the items in the work cabin. Moreover, her heart insisted on making itself felt, its beat fluttering at her throat, on her wrists, and even between her legs, especially when he came within arm’s reach.

The bio unit was the one place on the
Castel
where she could have privacy. Of course, she had only herself to blame for that, since she was the one who hadn’t wanted him out of her sight. She undressed and dumped her sweaty clothes in the presser for washing. Stepping under the shower, she wrestled against temptation.

The warm stream of water reawakened her skin’s distracting sensitivity. She could feel his hands on her again, the rasp of his stubble, his mouth between her thighs.

Asrial groaned as a frisson of delight streaked up her spine. She touched herself, trying to ease the ache, but her swollen flesh only throbbed all the more. She’d thought that need satisfied for the time being after the session with the pleasure wand, then the dream that hadn’t been a dream. She usually went decs between sessions. Even when she found someone on station to warm her sheets, one time generally sufficed to satisfy her. So why was it that the simple presence of a man roused this acute carnal hunger?

Romir with his lean body. The carved planes of flowing muscle. The caffe brown skin that tempted her to lick and drink him up. The long hair that more than anything else marked him as a grounder. Even that dark blue tat of a stylized flaring star on his shoulder only added to his attractiveness, making him more exotic. Quite unlike the spacers she was accustomed to seeing on the stations.

Was that novelty why she responded so strongly to him? He did nothing to invite her attention—save to stand there.

The shower was replaced by hard jets of air that pushed the lingering beads of water off her skin and threw her hair into messy curls. The change made no difference to her carnal hunger.

Another throb of need had her pressing her thighs together. Her body didn’t care about reasons. It ached, and she couldn’t think of a good reason to deny herself.

Romir was here for the duration. He’d already seen her naked. He’d already pleasured her once. Why not take him to her bed? He hadn’t acted in any way suspicious; he didn’t behave as if that one night of pleasure earned him the right to her. And he seemed genuinely grounder-muddled about space travel—the astonishment on his face when they exited from Jump was too extreme an expression for such a guarded man—so she was safe, since he needed her to pilot the
Castel
.

Besides, there was still the inventory of the other cabins and the hold to do and two decs—twenty Standard days—to the Eskarion Ring. She really couldn’t imagine keeping him at a distance for no good reason for all that time. She’d never been one for senseless self-denial. The Spirit of space only knew what the future would bring, and she of all people knew how life could be cut tragically short. Why not make the most of what time she had with Romir?

Anticipation washed through her, sweet seduction all by itself. Her fingers tingled with the need to touch, to stroke, to tease. To feel that hard body under her hands and explore it to her heart’s content. To share his heat and take him into herself. Her skin prickled with the knowledge that satisfaction lay only a few short steps away, on the other side of the door. She reached for her robe, her body melting with need, more than ready to close the distance between her and Romir.

Asrial emerged
from the small chamber she called a bio unit. From her improved cleanliness, he understood it to be a bathing place, something else he did not have need for—another mark of his servitude. All she wore was a thin robe that fell to the tops of her thighs. It was obvious she was naked under it.

Romir straightened off the wall, suddenly acutely aware he was still alive—by certain definitions of living. He certainly remained in possession of his male instincts and one in particular, the one that knew when a woman wanted him.

Asrial was looking at him the way no woman had in a long time—with carnal hunger and open desire. As though he were a man in truth. An ordinary man, free to choose his fate.

How he wished that were the truth.

The pretense was folly. Djinn were barred from choice, existing only to serve their master’s will. When the pretense ended, as it inevitably would, the reality would only bring more pain. But the urge to forget, if only for a moment, remained unchanged, undiminished.

Angel though she may be, the look of desire in Asrial’s eyes seduced. He could not look away.

She smiled, free and unshadowed. So certain of her reception. So beautiful in her confidence. “Want to warm the sheets? There’s no need to deprive ourselves.” Her robe fell open, one side sliding off her shoulder and down her arm, baring pale skin he knew to be smooth, skin he wanted to feel and taste once more with every drop of his being. Lithe temptation, sleek and slender and strong, dared him to reach out and touch her.

Though there was no question of what she wanted, Romir hesitated, taken aback by the turn of events. Unlike before, Asrial knew full well he was no dream. And yet she still wanted him? He kept silent, torn between self-preservation and the hunger of his starved senses.

Asrial placed strong hands on his shoulders, pulling him down and herself to her toes. Her lips grazed the base of his throat, then traced the line of his collarbone. Such soft contact—gentle, irresistible, and utterly devastating. Overcoming his better judgment without compulsion.

Then those hands moved higher, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and drawing her body along . . . closer. The hard tips of her breasts scorched his awareness.

Though he was djinn, he still had a man’s sensibilities. Her sure caresses woke dim memories of making love and of need. They woke his body, and it responded—erupting in flames like silk floss touched with fire.

Romir raised his arms slowly, for fear a more aggressive motion would set her to flight. He did not want that. He would give anything to avoid that. This second chance was more precious for not being stolen nor given unwittingly. Freely and knowingly offered, it was a gift from the gods that had forsaken him so long ago.

A murmur of approval greeted his embrace, a feminine welcome and music to a soul starved of kindness. It encouraged him to risk more—a tighter hug, a kiss, surely nothing she would find objectionable.

She slid her fingers under his waistband, her short nails scraping the line of his hip. The delicate contact shivered through him, a whisper of reckless delight tantalizingly sweet. She pushed his pants down his legs and off, baring all of him to her golden gaze.

The secretive smile that curved the corners of her mouth hinted at approval withheld and dared him to win it. Her hands touched him with hunger, caressed his length slowly. Boldly. Deliberately. Her fingers traced little circles of sensual torment on the base of his shaft, lingering on his turgid flesh with maddening thoroughness. With her other hand, she teased the head, tracing the slit and the sensitive ridge around the crown with nimble strokes.

He groaned, a vulnerable sound he did not recognize as coming from his throat. An unfamiliar sound, rusty with disuse. It had been a long time since he had felt this much. The sensations verged on overwhelming.

Bending down, he planted hungry kisses across her small breasts, taking her hard nipples in turn into his mouth. Sweet. So sweet. She gasped again and again as he drew on her, and he relished the sound.

Here he was not djinn, merely a man pleasuring a woman. Surely that was little enough to hope for?

 

 

The heat
of him surrounded her, his weight pinning her down on the bed, a living blanket of resilient muscle—sensations no pleasure wand could provide. Asrial groaned, reveling in Romir’s hard body spreading her thighs wide. The contact, the closeness with a man—no device could duplicate those.

This was a rare indulgence, one she intended to savor to the fullest of her ability. But that was only because the schedule she’d adopted after Amin’s accident made it difficult to meet suitable men to warm her sheets.

And if she craved the reassurance of skin on skin, if only on occasion, surely that didn’t make her weak? Surely it was only natural? It wasn’t as if she wanted something permanent.

This was simply pleasure given and received, a commonplace exchange, nothing more. Nothing to worry about.

In the next moment, Asrial’s worries fled, driven away by sensation. Romir cupped her breasts, pushing them together and burying his face in the shallow valley he created. His lips fluttered over her, soft and gentle, so careful, sipping on her as if she were candy foam to disappear at the slightest breath.