Warrior (31 page)

Rolling her eyes up to his face, Jess watched him shiver as she gave him another swirling lick. There was pure intoxication in the idea that she could affect this strong man with such power. She felt hot inside, all cream and honey. She was tempted to go down on him again.

But no. He really did owe her for letting Dyami lock her in that cell. And as she eyed his hungry expression, she decided she knew exactly the way she was going to collect.

Slowly, teasingly, Jess lifted her head, letting his cock slowly slide from her mouth with a wet pop. He blinked up at her, panting. “Now,” she announced, crawling up his torso, “it's your turn.”

His blond brows lifted as she knelt straddling his head, carefully supporting her weight on her knees.

“In college,” she told him, “we called this the mustache rodeo. Except I intend to last a hell of a lot longer than eight seconds.”

“But I don't have a mustache.” Galar gave her an innocent blink. “And—rodeo? Eight seconds? I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Guess,” she growled.

“Hmmm.” He pretended to think, then extended a curving tongue. “Perhaps . . . this?”

Jess gasped as he swirled that tongue around her clit with wicked, seductive skill. “Yeah. You've got it.”

His eyes glinted in a wicked smile. “Good,” he purred, and began to lick in earnest.

Damn, he was good with his mouth. He used his teeth and lips as well as that amazing tongue, nibbling her clit with careful delicacy, tugging tender flesh here, lapping there. In seconds he had her nerves sparking, her thigh muscles twitching.

Panting, she gazed down into the upper half of his face—all she could see with his mouth between her thighs. Golden eyes glinted, watching her face with absorbed attention. Two hot points of
riaat
red burned in his pupils.

She shivered at the slow, seductive slide of his tongue along the seam of her sex. He paused to swirl his tongue over an especially sensitive bundle of nerves she hadn't even known she had.

Bound hands touched her backside, stroked gently. Moaning, suddenly starved for penetration, she lifted herself just enough and rolled her hips invitingly. One finger slid up her sex, stroked gently as he lapped her clit. Jess groaned at the extravagant pleasure.

Then the forefinger of his other hand found a second opening. Circled it lazily.

Jess had never sampled that particular variant, and her eyes widened in alarm. “Uh, Galar . . .”

The finger slid deep. Exotic pleasure danced along her nerves, shocking her right to her good little Southern girl soul. “Galar!” she squeaked.

He only rumbled like a big cat enjoying a particularly tasty meal.

Oohhhhh, it felt good. His tongue swirling, one finger in her sex, the other in her ass. . . .
Oh, damn!

Her orgasm detonated in a sweet, blinding flash, liquid pulses shooting through her body with every lick and thrust he made.

Until finally he lifted his head and met her eyes. “Fuck me!” His blazed like a torch.

Dazed, hot, she rose from him on aching legs and managed to edge her way back down his body to his jutting, impressive cock. With trembling hands, she angled the shaft toward her tight, swollen core. And sank, impaling herself deliciously.

Galar made a choked sound, a strangled half-shout of arousal. “Release my hands,” he gasped.

She grabbed for his wrists and unwrapped the cable. He promptly pulled her head down to meet a devouring kiss.

It went on and on, that kiss, his tongue delving almost as deeply as his cock. He tasted of keflir and alien spices, intoxicating and delicious and maddening.

Slowly, almost unconsciously, he began rolling his hips up at her, thrusting in and out. Jess moaned into his mouth, overcome by the sensation of his width, his length, the delicious push-pull of cock in cunt.

And Galar's hands, exploring and stroking, touching just the right places to heat her liquid desire even more. Galar's mouth, making love to hers with slow thrusts of his tongue, gentle nips of her lower lip, tasting, spinning a slow and delicious spell of need.

Desire flared through her, so hot and bright she could resist it no longer. With a gasp, she pulled away from him, leaned back and grabbed her ankles. Fierce in her need, she started driving up and down on his cock in hot pursuit of more stimulation. More pleasure. More Galar.

He slid a skillful hand under her sex between one stroke and the next, touched just the right spot, and lunged upward. Once, then again, then again, in precisely judged strokes that jolted her head on her neck.

And set off a wave of flame that tore through her hungry body. She came with a scream, lost and blinded, overwhelmed.

Even as he roared out his own climax.

17

The three remaining men of the cohort stared at
Tarik ge Lothar's swaying erection with a sort of fascinated horror as he paced his chamber.

Which was, of course, precisely the reaction Tarik had been looking for when he'd wrapped it in the Penitent's Braid as a sacrifice to the Victor for the failure of their mission. The three lengths of wire formed an intricate, bloody cage, spines digging savagely into his organ. Blood dripped with every pace, in time to the ferocious pain that jarred through him. The hebeer he'd drunk kept him fully erect despite the pain. He used the blend of agony and arousal to sharpen his rage, his determination that this failure would be the last.

The sight of his remaining cohort intensified that anger. Only Yunti, Ket, and Wevino were left now. Jebat and Marcin had both been lost to that hell-cursed Warlord. The thought that one of the despised Vardonese had killed his men angered him past all bearing.

To put the final, galling cap on Tarik's rage, that fool spy had even failed to kill the primitive. And still the heretic, the Abominations, and the T'lir eluded them. Such a black and utter failure would not please the Victor. Indeed, it was perilously near enough to wipe away the string of successes Tarik had laid at the god's feet.

He wanted to howl in frustrated fury.

“The people have turned from the Way of the Victor,” Tarik growled as blood from his abused penis dripped on his striding feet. “They forget that pleasure is meaningless without discipline. What worth is delight if one has never known pain?”

“It is as dust,” the cohort chorused.

“But
we
of the Cathedral Fortress still remember the way.” Tarik narrowed his eyes, letting the ancient words roll from his mouth. “We are faithful.”

“We are faithful,” his men responded, their voices blending in a masculine chant. “We are disciplined. We are strong. We shall lay our triumphs at the Victor's feet for his exaltation. ”

Tarik was pleased by the grim light of fanaticism that burned in their faces. He'd spent years building his cohort man by man, choosing each new warrior with care, nurturing and training until they become the perfect embodiment of his will, a well-honed weapon to please even the Victor's hand.

Or they had been. The loss of Jebat's steady strength was a terrible blow. And he'd had such hopes for Marcin.

The Warlord would pay for that.

Tarik stopped his restless pacing and turned to face them as they knelt. Curls of rich, fragrant smoke rose around them, designed to hone their concentration to a fine, cold edge. He breathed in deeply, drinking the drugged smoke like wine, though it heightened his awareness of his pain. “The Fatherworld began its long slide thirty years ago when we were driven from Vardon. The Victor was disgusted by our failure, our weakness. He has allowed us to flounder in darkness to force us back to the Way. But now, out of his kindness, he has provided us with a weapon—if we can but lay our hands upon it. The T'lir will provide us with the means to bring Vardon once more under the Fatherworld's control. And after it, the rest of the . . . ,” he curled his lip, “Galactic Union. Their worlds will yield their riches to us, their rightful conquerors, and they will come to know the discipline of the Victor.”

He watched his men raise their faces to his, eyes shining with the power of the vision he'd created in their minds. “And we will be avenged,” they chanted.

Despite the pain, Tarik smiled.

Nails scratched softly at the door to his quarters. “Warrior Priest Tarik? I have news,” the monk called through the door.

Tarik's muscles tightened in anticipation. “Enter.”

The monk slipped inside on silent feet and dipped a low bow. His black robes whispered on the marble floor. “The Temporal Scan Team has word of the heretic. Since she does not use standard Jump technology, we have been able to isolate the energy patterns of her leaps. We have determined she has gone three times to the same location.”

Tarik's lips peeled back from his teeth. “We have her.”

Charlotte approached the
coffee shop with light steps. The street around her was lit by headlights and scented with the reek of gasoline, yet she thought it had never looked more beautiful or welcoming. She had seen Marcin's death in a vision, and it had filled her with a terrible relief. It was a sin to find joy in the assassin's fate, yet knowing that she'd finally escaped him made her want to dance. Now, at last, it was safe to return and bask in the sweet peace of the Sela's presence.

Perhaps Vanja would finally tell her she'd passed the last of her tests. It would be so sweet to put her burdens down and simply rest.

Bells jingled cheerfully as Charlotte pushed open the coffee shop door, unlocked despite the “CLOSED” sign in the window. She'd known it would be. She could sense the two Sela waiting beyond it. Vanja and Ethini would know she was coming.

She heard the terrible chiming of the quantum blade first. For an instant she thought she was dead, but the chime stopped just short of her throat. “Move one step, heretic,” a deep male voice growled in the ancient language, “and lose thy head.”

Horrified, Charlotte stared past the warrior priest's shoulder. Two even bigger priests held Vanja and Ethini in cruel, choking holds. The two Sela, still in their guises as human women, wore expressions of terror on their lined faces. Charlotte glanced around wildly, only to see seven more heavily armored priests, all with swords, all watching her with malevolent intensity from around the room. Eleven to their three.

Bad odds. Very bad odds.

Brutally strong fingers closed over her arm and dragged her before the two women. “You will tell me where the T'lir is,” the priest demanded in heavily accented English. “Or I will cleave this one in two.”

Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut in icy anticipation. Vanja and Ethini would not surrender the T'lir to these monsters, and she would not want them to. She had always known she might have to give up her life for the Sela. Now it seemed the time had come.

But Gods and Goddesses, she didn't want to die knowing the two Sela would pay the price too.

“Charlotte!” Jessica jolted
upright in bed, her cry of horror echoing in the darkened room.

A powerful male form hit the floor beside her in a combat crouch. Terrified, she shot off the opposite side of the bed with a scream of shrill terror.

“Lights!” Galar snapped. Jess's fear faded as they flashed on. “It's all right,” he told her soothingly, moving around the bed to take her into his arms. She went with a muffled sob, taking comfort in his warm strength. “It was just a dream.”

“No.” She swallowed hard. “No, not this time. It was another vision. The cohort has captured Charlotte and two Sela.” Stepping back, Jess quickly recounted what she'd seen: the coffeehouse, Charlotte walking in to find the cohort holding the two women hostage. “They're going to torture them to force them to give up the T'lir.”

Jess waited tensely, searching his gaze to see how he'd react. Before, he'd denied the reality of her visions. What would he say this time?

Galar frowned in concern. “What do you want to do?”

She blinked. “You believe me?”

“I've sworn off disbelieving you. Regardless of whether I can explain what you do, I can't deny you do it.”

Jess drew a deep breath. “Thank you for that.”

“Do you know where this coffee shop is?”

She considered the question. There seemed to be a faint, cool tug deep inside her chest. “I'm not sure, but I think I can find it.”

“Good.” He frowned. “After what happened the last time we went up against those Xeran bastards, I'm not inclined to take them on alone. We're going to have to talk to Dyami.”

“It's the middle of the night,” Jess pointed out.

Galar shrugged. “He's a cop. It won't be the first time I've had to wake him up.”

“But given that we're talking time travel, does it matter when we go?”

“It's time travel as long as those bastards keep their captives in the past. The minute they take them back to our time, all bets are off. I don't want to leave those women languishing in the hands of torturers any longer than we have to.”

She frowned, confused. “But couldn't we arrive in your future at the same time they do, before they have a chance to hurt the Sela or Charlotte?”

“If we knew when that was, yes. But if we got there too late . . .” He shrugged. “You can't change history. If they kill your alien friends before we get to them, they're dead. If the Xerans do something horrific to them, it's done. Do you really want to take the chance?”

Jess shuddered. “Let's go wake up Dyami.”

Jess sat tensely
next to Galar in the office in Dyami's quarters, side by side in a pair of curving chairs upholstered in dark blue. She found herself wishing the chief would put on a shirt. Dressed only in a pair of black snugs, he paced the room, muscles flexing and working along the length of his big body.