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He didn’t take the bait, instead seating himself beside her, the firm pallet bending under his greater weight. Lifting a hand, he hovered it near her hair. “May I?”
She rolled her eyes, seeing through his ploy. By getting her to agree to one thing after another, he’d soon have her agreeing to everything.Oh, Master, yes, please, Master!She set her teeth against the image of that particular future. “You don’t have to keep asking,” she bit out. “You bought the right to do whatever you want to me, so long as you don’t damage the goods.”
Studying her, he didn’t move his hand. “Even more reason to ask, then.” When she snorted, he shook his head minutely. “You and I didn’t make these rules—and we have to play by them, for now—but there’s room here to be human to each other. I’d like to touch your hair, if that’s all right.”
“If you’re going to solicit permission for each bit of me you touch tonight, you’ll never get to one attempt, much less six,” she replied. When he still didn’t move, she blew out an exasperated breath. He’d just wait her out, as he had with the wine and the food and… everything. Eventually she’d wise up. “Fine. Yes. Touch my hair.”
He smiled, a hint of smug triumph in it that grated. “Would you turn to face me?”
Huffing, she did, turning so she sat on one folded knee. He did the same, lifting his other hand, too, and threading them both into the wildly curling mass. “Your hair is extraordinary,” he breathed. “I’ve never seen the like.”
“Really? It’s bog-standard Hanneil hair. My mother’s house. We practically have an entire family almanac dedicated to techniques and recipes for managing the stuff.”
Smiling still, absently, he tugged his fingers gently through her hair. “It’s phenomenal. I fancy it’s curling itself around my fingers.”
Traitorous stuff probably was, as drawn to him as the rest of her. His magic pulled at her, the opposite charge of wizardry a magnet to her familiar nature. Or that water magic calling to the fire in her. That had to be what was making her want to nestle into his thirst-slaking silvery calm. “I’d cut it all off if I could,” she informed him, just to be spiteful. If he’d stop being so gentle, pretending to be so admiring and kind, maybe she could resist this pull.
He paused, searching her face. “Why can’t you?”
She swallowed back her surprise. He really didn’t know? Then she wouldn’t be the one to tell him. If—perish the thought—she ended up bonded to him, he’d find out soon enough. She doubted she could deploy the knowledge to her advantage, but it didn’t hurt to try. “My parents would have a fit,” she cheerfully replied. Not really a lie at all. The best kind of deception, especially with a wizard who could likely detect untruths.
Hmming deep in his throat, he wound the curls around his hands. “When we’re married, you can do as you like, of course—but I hope you won’t cut it.”
She barely restrained a snort. How could he know so little about Convocation marriages, and about the wizard–familiar relationship? Came of being an outcast from a fallen house, she supposed. She’d grown up so steeped in Convocation customs that she couldn’t really separate what she’d learned at home from what she’d learned at school. But then, Lord Phel was self-taught as well as burdened with an ignorant upbringing.
She could almost feel sorry for him. No matter what Lord Phel said, she doubted he’d abandon his aspirations if he failed with her. He’d find someone to be his familiar and lady wife. A long, difficult road lay ahead of him, and he was just the type to dash himself brainless against the closed fortress of Convocation society. She had no doubt he’d destroy himself rather than give up. Regardless of how this night turned out, Nic would probably have to watch his annihilation someday.
The thought gave her a curious pang of dismay.
Lord Phel tugged her closer and, in her misplaced compassion, she yielded. And when he lowered his mouth to hers, waiting for her to close the breathless margin, she kissed him, hard and full of determined passion. His lips, deliciously soft with a tingling border of prickles from where his morning shave had begun to grow in, the inside of his mouth unbearably intimate. He tasted of cool water on a hot day and silver bright wizardry, a delicious and heady flavor. Taking over the kiss, he gently but inexorably tugged her hair to tilt her head back, devouring her mouth—as he’d no doubt devour her, in every way.
Well, she wouldn’t allow it. Lord Phel would have her that night, but she had to cling to the hope that he wouldn’t have her permanently. She couldn’t control the outcome of the trials, but she could control her own mind and heart. She’d cursed well better.
Lord Phel was easing her onto her back, and she went pliantly enough. Finally he’d discharge his duty, and she could put this night behind her. Despite his boasting, he’d be unlikely to rouse himself five or six times. Knowing her other suitors, and given the gossip from other female familiars—along with the lamentations of male familiars facing unreasonable performance demands—men just couldn’t do that. Also, considering the fact that Lord Phel had ridden a long journey, he’d certainly fall asleep after.
At that point, without his disturbing presence focused on her, she could regain some peace of mind. Sure, he might wake before dawn and have at her once more—Sammael and Tadkiel had—but that would be it. He’d be gone, and she’d be able to think clearly again. She just had to get through this.
“Are you all right?” Lord Phel murmured, brushing her hair back from her face and easing onto one elbow.
“Yes, I’m fine,” she replied, biting back the urge to tell him to stop asking her that.
“You’re more than fine,” he purred, nuzzling her throat and sliding a rough hand over the curve of her waist and hip. “You’re spectacular. A feast for the senses. Perfectly formed, fire made flesh, delightful in every way.” He murmured the praise like a litany of prayer, feathering kisses over her skin with each phrase.
She squirmed, the fire that always breathed through her blood billowing into brighter flame. When his hand lifted to cup her breast, she found herself pressing into his touch, craving more. “You’re still wearing too many clothes,” she managed to say, though not as caustically as she’d planned.
“I know, but I don’t want to pause to deal with them just now.” When his lips closed over her nipple, she cried out in surprise at the shock of pleasure. He lifted his head, smiled in satisfaction, then delicately licked—watching her reaction. Though she tried to hold still, to give him nothing, she shuddered. The unguent between her legs seemed to spread to her thighs, slicking so much more, and the scent of heated roses filled the intimate bed space.
“You smell like a garden in summer,” he said, moving to her other breast, kissing and licking that nipple while gently fondling the first one, now taut and tingling.
“It’s the creme,” she said, trying to bring them back to the reality of this trial, though she sounded far more breathless than she’d wanted. “To ease your entry,” she added.
He raised his head and glanced at the bedside table. “You applied it before I arrived, then.”
Not a question. “Naturally. A woman learns not to expect a man to think of such things.”
He winced, stroking a soothing hand down her hip and thigh. “I apologize on behalf of my ilk.”
Momentarily taken aback by the unexpected apology, Nic only nodded. “It doesn’t matter.”
