The Charmer

39

Upset in more ways than one, she roughly scrubbed his neck, or tried to. It was difficult to do much damage with a slippery bar of soap. “You don’t want a wife,” she told him with bitter certainty. She twisted a little to wash his left arm, trying to block out its solid strength, and the hard muscles under his smooth, warm skin. She couldn’t hide her fine trembling. He was so beautiful!

Unfortunately, his beauty was not for her. “What you want would burn out in a couple of days, maybe a couple of weeks. Then what? Divorce?”

She had reached his chest. Against her will, her hands were getting slower. It was all she could do not to squirm in agony from the fierce, demanding ache he caused. The man was killing her!

“My marriage will be forever,” Keilor told her with quiet assurance, holding her eyes.

Distracted, Jasmine’s hand slid lower, brushing against something hard under the water. She jerked her hand away even as her body shuddered. She knew exactly what that was.

When he said nothing, just watched her, she reached to put the bar of soap on the rim with the intention of leaving his lap, but he straightened. “Wash my back.”

She could have told him no; didn’t want to. Since he didn’t move, only remained leaning forward, she had no choice but to embrace him. She hissed and as her n*****s brushed his chest, and it was all she could do not to moan. She refused to look at him. Bad enough that her breath quickened as her hands, slippery with soap, slid over his back. His rasping breaths in her ear were the only sign of his own arousal, as long as she didn’t look into his face.

She didn’t. She couldn’t, not then.

By the time she reached his lower back her breasts were flattened against him and she didn’t care. Head swimming, she reluctantly sat up and put the soap in its place. Steam rose around them. Slowly, eyes glazed, she looked at him. Twin, smoking furnaces gazed back at her. “I’m done,” she whispered.

“Only if you want to be.” Deceptively relaxed, he waited. When she said nothing, he gripped the tub a little more tightly. “Move forward.”

Taking a breath for courage, she placed her hands on his ribs and did. She gasped at the feel of him caught tight between them.

He hissed.

Greatly daring, she slid her hands around his neck and rested her chin in the crook. His skin was so hot, so silky and damp, and she could not resist placing a light kiss on the hollow of his throat. He hummed deep in his chest, exciting her, making her ache.

“Do you want me, Jasmine?” he whispered in her ear.

“Yes,” she moaned, rocking instinctively against him, abandoning all pretense of restraint. “Oh, yes!”

He nuzzled her ear. “Do you want my kisses?”

“Mm,” she agreed, but he moved away as she tried to claim his lips. Frustrated, she rubbed her head against his shoulder. He lightly stroked her spine in response, causing her to gasp and arch into him. They both groaned.

Breathless, he asked, “Do you want me inside?” he moved against her and she cried out with need, nodding frantically against his neck.

“Good. Remember that.” Before she could blink, he was out of the water. He didn’t bother with a towel, just scooped up his clothes.

And then, without a backward glance, he left.

***

Keilor wanted to kill someone.

He’d probably start with himself.

He wrapped his trembling hands around a stone column in the gardens and pressed his hot forehead to it. He locked his jaw. She smelled so good! With an oath he pushed from the pillar and forced himself to walk before he lost the battle with his knees and sank to the ground.

As he strode through the gardens, he stumbled on a rock and kicked it angrily out of his way. There was nothing he could do for himself, and there were not enough women or liquor to purge the need from his blood. He needed her. Yet he couldn’t have her, not until he won tomorrow.

He needed a battle. Something fast and painful and b****y to tire him enough for sleep. As his feet took him to the guest barracks where the alternative suitors were, he found it.

Or rather, him.

Mathin’s nostrils flared as the wind carried Keilor’s scent to him, mixed with the provocative smell of soap and charmer. He’d never scented anything like it. The stuff of silken sheets and moonlight, n***d skin and a lover’s cries. The scent of legend.

One look at Keilor’s savage face was enough to see that whatever he’d been doing with the charmer, he hadn’t bedded her. That was good, as Mathin intended to do that himself, and once he had her, he didn’t intend to share.

Just because he was Mathin, he called out in his gravelly voice, “Have you prepared yourself for your humiliation tomorrow, Keilor?”

Keilor checked in mid-stalk and pivoted to face his antagonist. Teeth bared in a savage smile, he answered, “Mathin. Defeating cadets has gone to your head. You’ll have to have a real warrior rid you of your delusions.” Once, years ago, he and the indomitable Mathin had been almost friends, even though they’d often been rivals.

He didn’t know if they were friends tonight.

Mathin laughed recklessly. “Know any?” he asked, disparaging them both. He made no move to secure his waist length black hair into a queue, signaling that whatever his intentions, they didn’t include a battle.

They would save that for tomorrow.

However, it was plain that Mathin wouldn’t mind a bit of mischief while the opportunity presented itself. Keilor smiled grimly. Perhaps he would provide a distraction after all.

***

Amber mead flowed into Keilor’s paper-thin stone cup, filling it to the brim. Mathin also replenished his own glass. Keilor’s mouth lifted sardonically. No doubt Mathin would get him drunk as an elf if he let him. Granted, there wasn’t much else to do in Mathin’s Spartan room.

A narrow bed with a plain chest at the end of it, a small table and two chairs made up the sum of the soldier’s guest room. A single window let in light. Mathin could have had better, but like many warriors, was satisfied with the bare essentials.

Mathin shot back half his cup and sprawled in his chair with a satisfied sigh, using one scuffed boot to tilt himself back. He laced his hands over his flat stomach, cradled the cup, and studied Keilor with curiosity. “So tell me about the charmer.”

“She’s a pocket full of trouble,” Keilor answered immediately, his scowl reborn. Trouble and then some.

The corner of Mathin’s lip curled up. “But worth it?”

Keilor drummed his fingers on the table. “I spoke with Jayems for her.”