Sinner's Heart

Chapter 9

Livia seethed with frustration as she could only watch Bram throw himself into the fight. Her magic was barely a flicker within, and her body was aught but vapor. No threat to these minions of the Dark One. All she could do was dart in between the creatures, distracting them, as Bram launched his attack.

She struggled to do her part, but her attention continually turned to Bram. She had witnessed him practice and spar, had seen his memories of combat, but not until now did she truly behold him in the midst of battle.

He moved like lightning, like death and beauty. Swift and lethal. He spun and wove around the demons, his blade forming arcs of silver, whistling through the air and cleaving into the creatures’ flesh. His long coat flew out behind him like dark wings. No hesitation in his movement, no fear or moments of indecision. He was war itself.

The demons massed around him and fell back as he struck. They hissed in fury, eyes and claws gleaming in the moonlight.

Livia swirled herself around them, deflecting their attention. “Come and kill me, you toads,” she taunted in her own language.

She did not flinch as their talons raked through her, nor when they shrilled with frustration that she could not be wounded. These demons were not especially intelligent, but she knew them to be relentless. She continued her distraction, hoping to keep their awareness divided between her and Bram. Able soldier he might be, but he was one man, far outnumbered.

Yet, as Bram fought, she felt a strange energy gathering within her. An expanding brightness, as though her magic grew, coalescing into the form of the key. What was its origin? Its strength filled her in glimmering waves. She became stronger, potent, her translucent figure gaining in brilliance.

A demon rushed at her. She spun, throwing out one of her hands in the instinctive gesture of attack. White energy shot from her palm. The demon was thrown backward. It landed on its back, sprawled, a smoking crater in the center of its chest. Huge glassy eyes stared up at the night sky, unblinking. The beast was dead.

Livia stared at her hand. She had used the Lightning Strike of Jove—an attack she had employed countless times in the past. Her magic had been cleaved apart since she and Bram were bound together. Yet now she felt the full strength of it. How?

More gleaming light drew her attention. The demons? No—Bram. As he battled the creatures, energy gathered around him in a bright mantle. Each strike of his sword, each parry and counter-offensive, the energy glowed brighter. She stared in amazement.

His expertise as a warrior roused the magic within him, building it to greater strength. Its power surged in their shared connection. Like a tide of fire, it rose within her.

It had been centuries since she felt such power. A grin stretched her mouth. Oh, she would enjoy this.

Seeing one of their number fallen, two more demons broke away from Bram and charged her. She fired twin bolts of energy, one from each hand. One of the creatures took the hit right to the head, leaving its neck nothing but a smoldering stump. The other dodged the blow, but caught the edge of the energy across its thigh. It stumbled, but kept coming.

She held her position as the demon neared. It could do naught to harm her. Yet when its claw swiped along her shoulder, she hissed in pain and her energy flickered. She was stunned to feel pain for the first time in so long. It traveled in throbbing red waves through her.

How could it be? The demon had some magic of its own that allowed it to hurt a ghost. Or the charge of her power made her vulnerable to attack.

The reason for it did not matter. A change of strategy was needed. She could not fight as though invulnerable. Keeping herself as fleet as possible, she evaded more strikes from the demon, and threw hot flares of energy at the attacking beast.

One bolt of energy hit the demon in the stomach. It collapsed, shuddered, and went still.

“The hell?” Bram’s surprised voice sounded above the demons’ shrieks and the rush of his blade. Though his gaze was on her, he continued his attacks against the creatures.

“Don’t question it,” she threw back. “It strengthens both of us.”

Only then did he notice the incandescent energy surrounding him. He started, then gave a feral smile. “Damned useful.”

They plunged back into the fray, Bram felling demons with his sword, Livia cutting them down with her magic. The creatures seemed unprepared for such a show of aggression and resistance. They fought back, yet their numbers continued to thin. At last, only two of the demons remained. One of the pair shrieked at the other. They turned and fled into the darkness.

Both Livia and Bram attempted to pursue, but the demons abruptly disappeared. One moment, they scuttled across the field, and the next, they vanished, leaving behind the smell of sulfur.

“A portal,” Livia said. “How they arrived here.”

Sword in hand, panting, Bram said, “We give chase.”

She shook her head. “Vitalized as I am, I’ve not the power to open a portal once it has been shut. Even if I did, we’d face legions of demons on the other side.”

“I’m ready.” He bared his teeth, savage.

She stared at him. He’d taken a few cuts during the fight, a thin line of blood crossing his cheek, and there were tears in his coat. Yet he stood like a warrior born, fierce and literally shining with martial power, gripping his blood-streaked sword.

The thrumming that resounded within her came only partially from the battle she and Bram had just fought.

The swell of her strength began to fade, its brightness receding like a tide. She swayed.

He was beside her instantly. “Hurt?”

“The demon somehow managed to wound me.” She shook her head. “A minor injury.”

He cursed, his expression lethal. The brightness around him also began to dim, leaving behind afterimages. “Don’t know how to tend to a ghost’s wounds.”

“Truly, it will pass.”

His gaze gentled. “I’d no idea Roman priestesses could fight like Spartans.”

“I did not precisely follow the prescribed course of prayer and study.”

“Praying against an enemy is never an effective strategy.” He gave a crooked smile. “And I’m glad you weren’t an ideal priestess.”

During her lifetime, courting someone’s good opinion had not been her ambition. Her ruthlessness earned her more than a few enemies. It did not trouble her. Only one opinion mattered: her own.

Yet Bram’s words warmed her, far more than she thought a dead woman could feel.

She turned back toward the manor house. “You need to warn the men. There will be more attacks.”

After wiping his blade on the grass, he sheathed his sword. “That is going to be an interesting conversation. ‘Your political opponent is literally in league with the Devil. Time to invest in a few hundred bodyguards. Preferably ones with magic.’”

“They need to go into hiding—say whatever you must.” She glanced at the demon bodies strewn across the grass. Already, their corpses were liquefying, the process of decomposition working faster on creatures of the underworld. “There is one certainty, however.”

She gazed at Bram, the moonlight upon the breadth of his shoulders and ebony of his hair. Resonant energy turned his eyes to pale crystal, ringed with sapphire.

“John and the Dark One know, now. They know that you have chosen a side—and it isn’t theirs.”

Returning home was no longer an option. Livia was well aware of the consequences once a Hellraiser turned his back on the Dark One.

He’s threatened by you, she said as Bram rode toward the city. Which means he will try to destroy you.

He can try, Bram answered.

I haven’t the strength now to battle hordes of demons.

I’ll take them on myself.

She snorted. Arrogance gets men killed. Whilst your soul is in the Dark One’s grasp, we cannot take that chance. Have you someplace safe, someplace John doesn’t know about?

A small house in Spitalfields. My father bought it for his mistress. She died a few years after my brother inherited, and Arthur kept the place. Rented it out, but when I acceded to the title, I stopped taking tenants. It’s been empty ever since.

Go there. You can rest in safety, then we can plan how we can draw John out.

Yes, ma’am, he answered, his voice sardonic. Yet he did as she directed, and she thought of the tumultuous minutes after the battle.

Bram had gone to Camden House first. The men within had all exclaimed in shock when they had beheld him, bloody and disheveled. In terse words, Bram had told them they were the intended targets of assassins and needed to go into hiding immediately. Some of the men had protested—half had wanted proof of his allegations, the others had wanted to summon the law and bring official charges against John.

“The law cannot help you,” Bram had answered. “And I didn’t fabricate these wounds. All of you need to go. To your country estates. Abroad. It doesn’t sodding matter. If you value your lives and the lives of your families, you’ll do as I say. Now.”

The men had seen the hard blue fire of Bram’s gaze, and heard the steel of his voice, and had meekly obeyed.

Now she and Bram rode through the night-shrouded city, through quarters she little recognized. They passed mobs of men, some of whom lunged for Bram or the reins of his horse. Bram’s sword made fast appearances, and the assailants retreated. Thereafter, he kept one hand on the reins, the other around the hilt of his unsheathed sword.

At last, he slowed outside a narrow house, with a lower story and two floors. The surrounding homes were genteel, if a little shabby, their façades cracked like porcelain, an occasional weed sprouting up from crevices in the plaster. The streets here were dark and empty, not a single light in the windows. A thin dog trotted down the middle of the cobbles. It did not stop or look at them, its nails clicking on the stones as it passed, in search of food.

Bram dismounted and led his horse around to the mews. The stable behind the house held only rotten straw and a rusted trough. After securing his horse and cleaning out the stall, Bram slipped into a neighbor’s stable and gathered supplies—a bucket of water, some feed.

Don’t your commandments forbid you from stealing?

Requisitioning, I prefer to call it. That’s not a sin.

A large orange tabby cat ambled through the stable. Judging by the size of its belly, it had more than an ample supply of mice.

Bram tended to his horse. He murmured to the animal, patting its flank and nose. Briefly, he rubbed his cheek against the horse’s face as he stroked its sleek neck. The mare snorted with pleasure.

Livia discovered she was jealous of a horse.

Once the animal had been taken care of, Bram approached his house’s back door. Unsurprisingly, it was locked. He moved to a window and slipped off his coat. With one hand, he held the coat up to the glass, as the other drew back and curled into a fist.

Wait, she said. No need to break into your own house. Lend me some of your magic.

My way’s more satisfying.

And noisier. Even if you muffle the sound.

Grumbling, he donned his coat, then closed his eyes. She did the same, and felt the gleam of her power rising. His own magic reached toward hers, its heat filling her, sifting through her body. She ought to be used to the sensation by now, this intimate merging. Ought to be, but was not.

Once she had gathered enough power, she directed the energy toward the keyhole. She shaped it, guiding it to match the tumblers, seeking the perfect fit.

This reminds me of something, he said, wry.

She didn’t bother with a reply, though a different kind of heat suffused her. Instead, she made sure the key fit precisely, then turned it.

The door opened. Its hinges complained, but it was still quieter than smashing a window.

Bram stepped inside. As he did, Livia allowed herself to materialize just behind him. They moved through what appeared to be the kitchen. A cold, ash-strewn hearth was set into one wall, and a few earthenware bowls squatted on shelves. A desiccated lump of meat lay in the middle of the single table—once it must have been a roast. Now it was grayish brown stone.

“Don’t need to light a lamp.” Bram glanced at her. “You illuminate.”

“I always have important knowledge to convey.” She smiled, however, seeing how her ghostly radiance bathed the room. “Think of all the lamp oil that can be saved.”

“Very economical.”

They drifted from the kitchen, down a cramped corridor. An empty storeroom and an even more cramped closet lay off the passage. Judging by the cot and battered chest in the closet, it once served as a servant’s chamber. They ascended a staircase to the main floor. One room was empty of everything but a broken mirror leaning against the wall and a dented metal serving platter. At some point, the room might have served as a place for dining. Now, one would receive a mouthful of grime for a meal. The other, larger room still had furniture, but dust filmed everything. Bram discovered a nest of mice within a chair’s stuffing, a mother and her wriggling pink young. Pellets were scattered across the floor, evidence that other creatures called this place home, and spiders presided in the corners.

“The world goes wild so easily,” Bram murmured. To her surprise, he did not disturb the spiderwebs, nor toss out the mice. He left them as they were. At Livia’s questioning glance, he said, “I’d be a terrible landlord if I threw out the only occupants with nary a warning of eviction.”

She shook her head, and glided up the narrow stairs. He followed, the steps groaning beneath his weight. Shadows were thick here, scarcely pushed back by her glow. More cracks threaded up the plastered walls. Something scuttled across the floorboards as Bram reached the top of the stairs. Two doors led off the hallway.

Before he could open the first door, Livia glided straight through it. Bram made a soft snort of amusement. He entered the chamber in a more customary fashion. They didn’t linger in the chamber—moth-eaten curtains covered the windows, and more broken bits of furniture were scattered around like the bones of slow-moving herd animals.

The front-facing room revealed its purpose by the presence of a canopied bed. The canopy itself had been removed, leaving behind the bare wooden posts like trees in winter. No blankets covered the mattress. Bits of horsehair poked through the ticking. Bram gave the mattress a shove. Apart from a cloud of dust that made him cough, nothing else came out.

“Don’t want to share my bed with rats,” he said.

Aside from the bare bed, the chamber’s only other furnishing was a small table that listed on a splintered leg and a few piles of debris huddled in the corners. Bram toed through the debris, shoving aside rags and broken ceramics, but seemed to find nothing of value.

“A poor protector, your father,” Livia murmured, peering through the grime-streaked window. It looked out onto the street. After the chaos and noise of the earlier fight with the demons, the utter absence of sound and movement here felt yet more ominous, as though in suspension, awaiting a greater threat.

“This place has fallen into disrepair since Mrs. Dance’s time. He kept her in fine style. A live-in servant, and a maid. A line of credit at the mantua maker’s. She never complained.” He stared at the sagging bed. “She may have even cared for him. Arthur said she went into mourning after Father died, and didn’t live much longer beyond that.”

“You might’ve installed your own woman here, when the house became available.”

“I never had a mistress. As well you know.”

That, she did. She did not know what humor provoked her to make such a comment. Untrue. She knew precisely why she had mentioned his nonexistent concubine. They were in a small bedchamber, utterly alone in this narrow house, and had fought side-by-side this night. Were she flesh, she would have pushed him back to the bed—though she suspected he would allow her to push him to the bed—and put her hips to his hips, her mouth to his mouth. Felt him. Tasted him.

Impossibilities.

Her desire understood nothing of what was impossible. It—she—wanted, without thought, without considering realities.

He must have seen the hunger in her gaze, for his own blazed hotter, and he took a step toward her.

She could not feel the warmth of his body, nor could he span the distance between them and take hold of her. Yet she moved away. An instinctively protective act.

“I’ve never known such frustration.” She could not look away from him, though she kept herself as far from him as she could. They faced one another across the bare expanse of floor. “I thought that over a thousand years trapped with the Dark One was the greatest torment I’d ever known. To watch the world slip past, all the experiences of life that I could never have. Condemned to be a pair of eyes only.” She now shut her eyes. “It was agony. Cost me my reason. But, in time, I regained my sense. I believed myself entirely sane.”

“And now?” His voice was a rumble.

She forced her eyes to open. “Now I verge on madness again. So many things I want and cannot have. Because of this.” She glided toward the bed and passed her hand through the post. “Without my flesh, my magic is only a shadow of what it needs to be. But I want more than my magic.” She turned her gaze to his.

Hunger shaped the contours of his face, honing him to impossible sharpness. “You can have whatever you desire.”

He strode to her. There was no thief’s silence or cunning. His step was bold, direct. Only a few inches separated them, and she imagined what his heat must be like, the scent of his skin. Yet those few inches may as well have been miles, for it was a distance that couldn’t be breached.

“You can have me,” he said, husky and low. “Because, of a certain, I want you.”

“More of your cruelty.” She pressed her lips tightly together to keep from kissing him—ludicrous.

“The truth. I’ve never wanted a woman more.”

His words were an agonizing caress. “Because you have not—what is the word you used—swived anyone in days.”

“It’s not desperation that makes me want you. It’s you.” He smiled, faintly mocking himself. “The first woman I cannot touch is the one that I need to have. It’s not your body I desire, though,” he added, with an appreciative glance, “that has its temptations.”

He shook his head. “I thought I was finished with firsts, that I’d done everything and all things. Yet it turns out that there are still unknowns for me. A woman I want for herself.”

Aside from the wound she’d sustained in the battle, she thought herself incapable of physical pain. As he spoke, however, she felt a bodily ache of loss. “Look at me, Bram.” Staring down at herself, she noted that the floorboards were plainly visible through her translucent body. “I’ve no way to touch you, no means of feeling.”

“If that is your challenge,” he said, “I accept.”

She deliberately moved through him. “Enough. We’ll speak of other things. We should—”

“Get on the bed.”

Turning to face him, she raised her brows. “What?”

“I said”—he drew off his coat and tossed it to the floor—“get on the bed.”

For a moment, she did not move. Instinct and self-preservation made her want to disobey his direct command. She bent her will to no one.

They stared at one another. She felt the tug and pull between them, the continuous will and desire. Neither of them obeyed readily or ceded control.

Yet she would do this for him now. He would be hers to command another time.

With deliberate concentration, she made herself sit on the bed.

“Lie down.” His throat was revealed as his neckcloth joined the coat upon the floor. The angry line of his scar ran beside the fast beat of his pulse.

Using more concentration, she stretched out on the bed. It felt odd, mimicking of a quotidian action. How long had it been since she had lain upon a bed—both for sleep and for sex? Her memories were both too vivid and shrouded in lost time.

His gaze still holding hers, Bram pulled off his boots. The movement tugged his fine shirt tight along his shoulders, his arms, the supple doeskin of his breeches snug along his thighs and the thick outline of his arousal.

He prowled to the bed, then stretched out long beside her. The ropes beneath the mattress creaked with his weight. But they held.

Propping himself up on his elbow, he stared down at her. “Take off your tunic.”

She did not move, another instinctive fighting of command. Yet deliberate acquiescence took nothing from her. She was unbroken, even in obedience.

She worked the clasps at her shoulders. Yet they grasped at nothing. The tunic was just as formless as she, and part of her, as well. “I can’t.”

“Doesn’t matter. That’s not where I would start. No,” he murmured, half to himself, “the first thing I would do is take those ornaments from your hair. I’d unpin them, and then I’d coil a lock of your hair around my finger. It must feel like coarse silk, your hair. Heavy, soft. And it has a fragrance. Spice and temple smoke. I’d breathe that in, touching only your hair, watching it move as it falls over your shoulders.”

“I used to scent my bathwater with cassia,” she whispered.

A corner of his mouth tilted. “Ah, I was right. Spice. But I’d touch your hair for only so long before I’d need to feel your skin. Here, and here.” He moved his finger to right beneath her ear, at the juncture of her neck, then down her throat to tarry at the hollow between her collarbones. “Like velvet, your skin, and warm.”

She could not feel his touch, yet his words stroked her, drawing forth silken ribbons of sensation. It stunned her. She could not feel, and yet she did.

“I’d feel the beat of your heart,” he said, relentless. “You’d respond to me. That wouldn’t be enough, though. I’d want your mouth. To feel it against mine. To taste you. I’d start slowly, just little sips, the brush of my mouth against yours. How silky your lips are, so full and ripe. Your lips are made for kissing—did you know? You might think they were for shaping the words for spells, or issuing commands to your trembling underlings, and they do those things very well, but their true purpose is in kissing me. I’d show you that. I’d kiss you deeper. You’d taste of spice, too.” He licked his lips and gave a small hum of pleasure.

By the gods, she could almost feel his kiss.

“There was a time when I loved nothing more than kissing,” he continued, almost conversational but for the depth of his voice and the blue fire in his eyes. “Could do it for hours, and be satisfied. Perhaps I’ll do that with you. Kiss you until you melt in my mouth and I drink you in.” His nostrils flared. “Another time. This kiss is a prelude. I’d take my lips from yours and then I’d run them down your neck. I’d bite you there, too. My teeth just here.” He circled the convergence of her neck and shoulder. “Hard enough to leave a mark, so anyone who saw you would know exactly what happened. They’d know that I bit you like a wolf claiming his mate. The mighty priestess marked. By me.”

An involuntary moan crept up her throat. She could well imagine it—the gleaming flare of pleasure and pain, his hot breath upon her, the red indentations left by his teeth. His audacious, animalistic marking.

“What if I threatened to turn you into an actual wolf?” she breathed. “Transform you into a beast? Would you be so impudent?”

He grinned savagely. “I’d bite you harder. Until you give in.”

“I never submit.”

“Then this will be a delightful challenge. For, you see, as I’m biting you, I’d unfasten your tunic and slide it down to your waist. Cup your bared breasts in my hands. You’ve full breasts, but my hands are large. Nothing would go unattended. I’d stroke and caress them. They’d feel like . . . like paradise. So soft. Lush.” His hands hovered over her breasts, and he stared with open need.

She arched up, even though she could not feel his palms against her.

“Your nipples would harden. I’d run the tip of my fingers back and forth over them, and you’d feel it all through your body. Then I’d take your nipples between my fingers and pinch.”

She couldn’t stop the gasp that formed on her lips. His words burned her, banishing the chill of her cold nullity.

“I’d take my fingers away and put my mouth in their place. Lick you. Have your nipple between my lips and tug. I’d make your breasts glisten from my tongue. Until you’d writhe beneath me, begging me not to stop.”

She did want him to stop. This was a torment, a tease, and could end only in frustration. Yet if he stopped, she would tear the walls down with her scream.

“The tunic would come off, all of it. I’d push it past your hips, until you’d stand completely naked, wearing only the ripe curves of your hips and the dark gloss of your maidenhair.” He moved a hand down to hover above the junction of her thighs. She instinctively widened her legs.

“We’d have a bed nearby. Not this one. A better bed, with a good, firm mattress, and silk sheets. I’d urge you back to the bed and lay you down, your hips right at the edge, your feet on the floor.”

“And where would you be?” she asked, breathless.

“Kneeling between your legs, of course. My hands would grip your thighs. They’re sleek, your thighs, and I’d feel the tension in them, the muscles beneath your skin as you’d hold yourself in readiness. Waiting. Waiting. You’d jump a little at the first touch of my breath on you. A sigh, that breath, and a breathing in. This close, I’d smell how much you want me there. I’d see it, too. That gleam of wetness. Can you picture that? Can you see how your body would demand me?”

“Yes.”

“But I’d be a hungry man, standing at the banquet. I’d not be able to wait for long before feasting. A few gentle licks at first, learning how you taste, feeling your impossible softness. You’d be so wet my face would be glistening. And you’d get even wetter. I’d suck on you, consume you. I’d thrust my tongue inside of you. God, you’d be delicious.”

He groaned. “I’d take your bud between my lips, swirl my tongue around it. Back and forth. Inside you, over you. I’d fill you with pleasure. And you’d scream when you came, your fingers in my hair, pulling me tight against you.”

She wanted to close her eyes, stop her ears, but he had her in his thrall, and she truly did writhe, gasping even though she’d no need for air.

“You’d think we were done,” he went on, inexorable, “but I’d continue. I wouldn’t stop. Not until you came so many times you’d go limp and had screamed yourself voiceless.”

The dark tapestry he wove with words ensnared her. She fell, farther, farther, tangled in fantasy, craving what he offered, needing to give him what he gave her.

“That wouldn’t be all,” she breathed. “You’d be hard, and aching. Wanting inside me.”

His lids lowered, and he dragged in a breath. “Yes.”

“I’d undress you. This time fast, but there will come a time when I’d go slowly, peeling away layer after layer to bare your skin and your body. But for this moment, I’d be swift, because I would not be able to wait. I’d have you naked before ten grains of sand hit the bottom of the hourglass.”

She had already seen him unclothed, but picturing it now within the illusion they shaped made her tight and ravenous. The moonlight would be silver upon the wide expanse of his shoulders, tracing the solid arcs of his muscles, disappearing into dips and hollows.

“And I would see how hard you’d be,” she continued. “Curving up, as if made to fit precisely within me. The head pulling upward. There’d be a small drop weeping from the slit, because you’d want inside me so badly.”

His breath came raggedly, and he pressed his hand against the hard ridge of his cock. “Yes—just there.”

“But not yet. I wouldn’t let you between my legs right away. I’d stay on the bed, just where I lay, and make you kneel on the mattress beside my head. Your cock would be so close to my lips. I’d lift up, like this.” She raised herself onto her elbows. “My mouth would open. You’d put one hand behind my head. And then . . . I’d take you into my mouth.”

Bram gave another groan. His groin pressed into his hand. Yet he held himself back.

“Go on,” she urged. “Let me see you.”

His fingers flew over the fastenings of his breeches. With a hiss of relief, he freed his erection, his hand wrapping around its thickness.

Never had a crude piece of flesh been so tempting. His cock was dark, flushed with blood, and just as she had predicted, fluid glistened at the top of the round head. She wanted him within her so badly. But she was only spirit, so she gave him what she could with words.

“I’d lick you to start. Run my tongue around the top, and just beneath the ridge. There’d be a bit of salt on my tongue from your own need, and I’d lap that up. Then I’d draw you deeper into my mouth. Slowly. Inch by inch, stopping along the way to taste you. But I would take more and more of you within me, until I could go no further. And that’s when I’d begin to suck.”

His hand slid up and down his shaft as she spoke, yet she saw how he kept his strokes slow, light, as if trying to prolong the pleasure. No hurried release for him. He was a voluptuary, taking delight from sensation even more than the release.

“You’d feel my tongue on the underside of your cock. I’d run it all over you as I moved up and down. Every so often, I’d lightly scrape my teeth along the shaft, just enough to remind you that I’m a woman who is always in command, even with your cock in my mouth.”

“And when you’d do that,” he breathed, “I’d push a little harder on your head. Making you swallow more of me.”

“Both of us could not be in charge. Someone has to follow.”

“Neither of us are followers. We’ll make it succeed. That I don’t doubt. See, as you’d be sucking me, I’d reach over to stroke your sweet quim. You’d already be hot and wet from your climaxes, and I’d slip easily between your lips and inside you. Two fingers, I think.” His fingers tightened around his shaft. “See? The two of us in command.”

It would be a wondrous thing—the pull and push of each other, yielding and obdurate at the same time.

“But this wouldn’t last,” he went on. “Only so much I’d be able to endure before I had to have my cock truly inside you. I’d pull from your mouth—”

“And I would stay on the bed, my hips at the edge of the bed—”

“I’d stand between your legs and hold tight to your hips—”

“My breath would hold, and I’d watch you—”

“As I slid my cock into you.”

She felt a bright radiance gathering within, coalescing. Trying to look away from Bram stroking himself was impossible. His hand moved faster, his grip tense, and his shirt clung as sweat filmed his body.

“You wouldn’t move,” she whispered. “We’d allow ourselves a moment to just feel one another, you thick and hard in me—”

“Your tight softness all around me. God.” A rough animal sound reverberated from his chest. “Then I’d move. I’d pull back, only a little, then thrust forward. A few slow strokes as we’d learn each other.”

“Then you’d move faster, and I’d push to meet you.”

“I’d watch your breasts shake with each thrust. I’d watch my cock as it slid in and out of you, wet with you. I’d watch your face as I filled you, watch the pleasure build, watch your eyes close, your mouth open.”

“My hands would grip the blankets. I’d see you, the tension in your neck as you’d clench your teeth, the flex of your muscles as you’d move.”

“I’d not be able to be gentle. I’d take you, hard, so hard, you’d be pushed further back onto the bed, and the bed itself would shudder and groan.”

The brightness continued to build as she envisioned and felt him. She had always liked her lovemaking to be tempestuous, and Bram promised precisely that.

His touch upon himself was brutal, fascinating. “Release would call to you. It would demand your surrender.”

“I don’t surrender.”

“To this, you would. I’d fuck you so powerfully, you’d have no choice. You’d come. So hard you’d lose your breath, lose your name, lose everything but the pleasure I’d give you. Come, Livia. Come now.”

Sensation tore through her. It was a magnificent devastation, molten and unstoppable. Impossible. She had no body, no way to feel or experience release. And yet she did. Through his words alone, he tore down the barriers between the spirit and the flesh.

Oh, gods, it had been an eternity.

Her climax rolled on in endless waves. As she bowed up with release, she heard his guttural moan. She managed to pry her eyes open enough to watch him spend, his head thrown back, face carved sharp. Beautiful agony.

Had she been flesh, his semen would have coated her belly and run down her thighs. But she had no body, and the droplets passed through her and onto the mattress.

He sprawled onto his back, chest heaving. After a few moments, he tucked himself back into his breeches and fastened them. He lay back, a man wrung dry.

“I never thought . . .” She struggled to find words, to gather her shattered mind. “To comprehend such marvels . . . How was that possible?”

“Because we are meant to be lovers,” he said.

Such a simple explanation, yet it felt exactly right.

He gazed at her, and she could not stop her hand from stroking along his bristled cheek, as if she could truly feel him. His eyes slowly closed. Being mortal, and a man, Bram’s breathing soon deepened and slowed. Livia lay beside him, listening to the sounds of his sleep. The blood on his face had dried. There would be more blood—his, countless others’. That was certain.

Tonight had been revelatory. Her magic drew strength when Bram fought; she was not as powerless as she had believed. And the pleasure he had given her afterward, here, in this derelict home that once housed his father’s mistress, on a bed that was shabby and worn . . . that pleasure had been a wonder. It still was, echoing through her in golden reverberations.

More than physical release. An unexpected connection as intimate as two spirits might know. What was this man? Sinner, soldier. Lover.

Her lover—for now. Each hour that passed meant another hour lost, never to be regained. She could not rely on the future. It was a fragile web, and the impending storm would tear everything to tatters.