Njada Horses
Tagor was making a good profit on his horse sales, and though he didn’t show his pleasure by grinning like some fool, he at least paid respect to the traders who gave him good price. One of the buyers; a very wealthy merchant had been looking forward to the Njada warriors coming to the town, and in their honor, he was going to be throwing a massive banquet. The celebration would include much food, wine, and of course entertainment, such as oiled wrestling and exotic dancers from the Spice nations. Always something for the men to look forward to before the long journey back to the mountains.
Sheikh Mustaf, who was one of the wealthiest men in the south lands handed over great leather bags of coin to Tagor and his brother, before gesturing with his hands about the spectacular feast. It would be starting around four, at the cliff side hotel that was one of the most expensive in all of Tsumal.
The invitation accepted, Tagor turned to finally seeing Jamai and his new slave; who had been dressed in a garment far more suited to her skin and bodily curves. Not only that with her hair brushed and free from her face, he was able to get a better look at what he had just spent two horses and a bag of silver on. Least to say, he still believed he got a good deal
Walking over to the pair, he spoke in his own tongue. A deep and rich accent, that sounded like a bear growling out words, but so husky that the female might find it very attractive and masculine. Jamai understood and then he told the slave what his Master said.
“Master approves. You are to be made ready to sit with him at tonight’s feast.”
That said, he simply joined his men and started to walk back to their own horses, and head off to the hotel where the festivities were to begin. Tagor mounted his horse effortlessly, giving llyra a sideways glance, before walking the horse down the street.
<3>
But she found herself desiring this one…
That made him dangerous in ways she never thought possible. And she was at his mercy.
Jamai returned to her side after they finished speaking.
“Master approves. You are to be made ready to sit with him at tonight’s feast.”
Her eyes widened. She could not have heard that right.
For the first time, she spoke, her voice low and melodious, bringing her head up to meet Jamai’s gaze.
“I am but a slave and do not deserve to sit in such elegance. Surely he is mistaken on this.”
Knowing that Tagor did not like to be kept waiting, Jamai tried to hurry IIyra along so they could keep up with the procession of Njada riders and servants that were heading to the Kharmhar Hotel grounds. The new slave was actually questioning the Master’s choice to have her treated higher than she believed her station required. She had been a slave to some terrible master in her time, so this would have caught her totally off guard. Jamai frowned at the girl’s admission and spoke in a low tone so as not to get attention from the other servants, who may well pass this juicy piece of gossip along.
“Never question the Master. You do not understand the Njada, they are different from the like of the Slave markets. Proud and noble horsemen of the mountains. They live in a cruel environment, and are realistic about the frailty of human existence in such climbs. They treat women differently. Some say they are crueler, but I know different. When a Njada takes a soul mate, regardless if she be slave or free, they are the future bearer of Njada sons.”
As they walked along, IIyra would be able to see her Master, riding proudly in the saddle of his steed, looking as though he was a King among men. His long hair bound in lashings of leather, that went down his bronzed back. He did not speak or gossip as he road, determined to see his people up to the hotel, to be honored guests of the Sheikh.
“You…are very lucky. Master’s last woman died in child birth. He has not taken another….till now.” Jamai became quite serious at this point. He was in awe of his Master, and knew him very well. “You be good to please him, and the rewards can be plentiful. Even…taking off your binds.”
Ah yes, he knew exactly what IIyra was, and that her magic had been bound. From here he walked on silently, to let her ponder what he had told her.
<3>
Ilyra hurried to keep up with Jamai as Tagor’s caravan moved to the hotel to partake in the celebrations. She was so confused by her new Master. Jamai moved close to her and spoke in a low tone so others would not hear and spread idle gossip about their Master’s newest aquisition.
“Never question the Master. You do not understand the Njada, they are different from the like of the Slave markets. Proud and noble horsemen of the mountains. They live in a cruel environment, and are realistic about the frailty of human existence in such climbs. They treat women differently. Some say they are crueler, but I know different. When a Njada takes a soul mate, regardless if she be slave or free, they are the future bearer of Njada sons.”
Jamai’s words served to confuse the young elf even further and she nearly tripped over her own feet thinking about his words. She looked toward the front of the caravan where Targon rode tall and proud upon his mount, his hair rustling in the wind like a reed in a pond.
“You…are very lucky. Master’s last woman died in child birth. He has not taken another….till now…You be good to please him, and the rewards can be plentiful. Even…taking off your binds.”
Ilyra’s eyes widened in shock. She’d never once thought about having children of her own. Being a slave…such things had been denied to her and she had wondered on more then one occassion if it was the bracelets preventing her from becoming pregnant. She’d been pawed over numerous times since they were forced upon her and not once was there issue.
Was it possible? Would she finally be free? Well as free as she was able beneath the house of her Master.
Or was this all some dream and she would wake to find herself under Belial’s cruel thumb once more?
Once more she found her gaze drawn to Tagor and to her shock, found him staring back at her. Eyes wide and face red, she looked away from him, wondering if she would be punished for looking at him. She trembled slightly, finding that she was beginning to find him pleasing to her eye. She looked up at him once more, beneath her lashes to see that he hadn’t stopped looking at her. She gave him a small smile before glancing away.
Already there were much celebrations in place with a band playing welcome music to the caravans of the Njada, who rode through the stone gates, with large banners lining the road. Such colour and festivity would be completely surreal to the slave girl of Tsumal. The Sheik himself was already in the large outdoor grounds seated under a large tent, and being waited on by scantily clad slaves. His many wives were in his presence, all covered from head to foot in silks and only their eyes showing. In the centre of a ring, the oil wrestling had commenced, with many taking bets and the shouts of the crowd were filled with awe and excitement. Tagor and his men all dismounted from their horses, with young boys taking the reigns and leading the horses to stables, so that the Njada could go and take their seats.
This was the moment that Jamai had waited for, and he placed a hand on IIyra’s arm. He brought her close and said to her ear.
“Wait till he is seated and served drink. Then I give you the word, you are to go and take the cushion at the right of his feet. You are to sit on your knees, and keep your hands behind your back. You are not to look at other men of wealth. You may watch the entertainment however. You are to be dutiful, and silent.” Jamai let her go and then he went to where the other Njada servants were, to start to help with the distribution of food and drink to their Masters. Now, IIlyra may have thought this would be a good time to make an escape, however, the gates were heavily guarded, and many eyes were watching.
Tagor took his seat on a fur covered chair, that gave him front row to the action with the oiled wrestlers. Behemoths of men, that grappled and were highly skilled. A young boy brought him his drink and bowed politely as Tagor took it. This was the cue. Ilyra needed to make her way to his side and take her place. Her first public showing. Would she make him proud, or regret her purchase?
<3>
As they went through the gates, Ilyra got her first glimpse of all the pomp and circumstance surrounding the occasion. Colorful flags, music…even a pit where men were wrestling around in oil. Slaves flitted about, naked except the veils over their faces, serving their own masters and in some cases, their mistresses.
The Sheik was sitting beneath a large tented pavilion, his many wives at his feet, covered as tradition and protocol dictated, his personal slaves catering to his every need.
Ilyra had been subjected to such finery before…but never on such a grand scale. It was slightly overwhelming. The caravan stopped and Tagor and his men dismounted from their horses, young boys running up to lead them to the stables to be fed and cared for.
Jamai leaned in to Ilyra, his hand on her arm. “Wait till he is seated and served drink. Then I give you the word, you are to go and take the cushion at the right of his feet. You are to sit on your knees, and keep your hands behind your back. You are not to look at other men of wealth. You may watch the entertainment however. You are to be dutiful, and silent.” he whispered. She nodded once, signaling her understanding. She knew how this worked. It had been ingrained into her for over 10 years;
Slaves are seen and not heard…
Slaves have no rights other than those their Masters give them…
Slaves are subject to all manner of punishment for any slight against their Master’s house, no matter how small…
And so on and so forth. She had spent years learning the ins and outs of her bond to her masters and had performed her duties well. The one time she had tried to escape had been a lesson she never forgot…she had an 8 inch scar across her stomach from the knife that had nearly gutted her and magic suppressing bracelets on her wrists for her insolence. It was because of those bracelets she had been unable to heal her wound correctly.
She had no desire to try her new Master’s patience by trying to escape.
She noticed when Tagor took a seat. A young boy brought him his drink and bowed politely as Tagor took it. Taking a deep breath and trying to settle her nerves, being that close to him for the first time made her feel odd, she lowered her eyes and quickly made her way to his side. Rounding his back, for it would have been offensive to all watching should she have passed him from the front, she settled onto the cushion on his right side, on her knees and her hands behind her back as she was told. She had no desire to watch the wrestling or the dancers. She remained silent and still, her head bowed in respect.
The heat of Tagor’s body beside her pressed heavily on her senses and she struggled hard against the desire to look at him. His nearness was intoxicating. His scent, of horse, of man…and something darker, nearly caused her to sway. She gulped hard, wishing she wasn’t so close to the enigmatic man.
Why did he effect her so?
As she remained by his side, her thoughts turned to the coming night. Where was she to sleep? At his side? Or with the other slaves. She was hoping it was the latter option. The man was rapidly making her a bundle of nerves, as he was an unknown. He had yet to dictate a set of rules to her for his house and she was a bit lost.
He hadn’t even spoken to her yet, the language barrier making it difficult to know his moods and how she should act around him. Or did he speak clearly and was giving her orders through Jamai to keep her unbalanced?
She wanted to sigh, but kept the emotions to herself. The whole situation was still new and she did not want to bring the wrath of his anger down upon her head.
Her stomach made a rumbling noise, hopefully unheard with the music playing loudly, reminding her that she had yet to eat this day. Nothing new there. She’d gone longer without food before.
Tagor kept a keen eye on the wrestlers. Both men that were in the pit, fierce and determined to break the other first. It was a sport after all and one that Tagor found favour. Their bodies gleamed with sweet and the rubbed in oil, and at one point, the man from the south had gone for an ankle grab, and tore it up, taking his opponent off balance, and thus winning the fight. There was a large roar from the crowds, as a judge held up the winner’s arm, the loser looking like he had broken something. No doubt he would be punished later by his Master.
A large tray of foods, sweet meats, fruits and sour dough was brought along, and Tagor took a bowl at his left side, filling it and then passed it down to be placed in front of Illyra. He himself only took a handful and then waved the boy away, before looking at IIyra as he ate a morsel and nodded for her to do the same. She dare not disobey, as the next act came on. Exotic dancers, a group of about ten, that took to the ring, whooping and shimmying to the sound of native drums. Wearing large head dresses of feathers and beads, their breasts uncovered but painted with bright colors, they started mesmerizing dances, that had some of the Njada men practically ready to rut the ground. The beat of the music was fast tempo, and the clapping in the crowd grew. Some of the dancers broke away and sat on the laps of the wealthy men, gyrating and bouncing in a fashion that was like lap dancing.
One dancer approached Tagor, but he put his hand up before she could get close enough to sit on his lap. Dejected, she went to move for another wealthy Master, a much older man, but nowhere near as good looking as the Njada leader. Tagor reached down behind IIyra’s neck, and started to work his fingers, like he was massaging the back of her neck and lower part of her head. He did this as the dancers were finishing their routine, almost like he was enjoying it but wanted to touch a woman intimately as the show went on. Tagor looked down at Ilyra again and there was something in his eyes. He didn’t smile, but his face was showing no hostility to her. If she looked up at him, she would surely get a surprise.
As the dancers finished their set, they all moved through the crowd, and started to pick men that they would give favor too, some Njada started to rut the dancers right then and there. Music continued to play, as the pit dissolved into something of an orgy, with much laughter, screams and cries of passion. For Tagor, he did not want some ordinary dancer, nor to use one of the Cheif’s dancers. He had just bought his new woman, and he wanted to experience her for himself.
Rising from his chair, he nodded for her to follow, and head for the Njada camp that had been set up within the walls of the ceremony grounds. The largest tent belonged to Tagor, who entered it first, with two servants allowing IIyra to follow.
If she entered she would find herself within a simply astonishing room, that had the ground lined with furs of all sizes, burning candles and incense pots, large jugs of wines and foods, and statues of horses and other trinkets that had been brought from home. Tagor would be taking off his large leather waist decoration and his leather gauntlets as IIlyra entered, Seeing her, he removed his sandals, and then walked to her as she stood with head bowed. He walked around her slowly, before coming in behind her. His large hand drew away her hair and let it flow down one shoulder. His calloused fingers moved over her own scarred flesh, and yet he did this like he was trying to tame her. His experience with horses was second to none, and he was treating her as though she was his prized stallion.
Tagor growled something in his own language, as he undid the ties of her dress, so it would fall to the floor at her feet. He was now naked in behind her, and the heat of his body would easily be felt across her own. If Ilyra had remembered Jamai’s words, that Njada men could be cruel, but he knew better, he may have been speaking about Tagor. If he had, he was right. For all his size and his power, he was in fact incredibly gentle towards Ilyra. Lulling her into a false sense of security perhaps? One has to remember, that the women are seen as the ones to bare their sons. So, technically, she was no longer a slave, only down in this part of the world was she viewed as such.
The horseman then turned Ilyra around, and brought his hands up to her face, smoothing his thumbs over her cheeks, and then gliding his hands down from her neck, to shoulders, and then to her ripe breasts. How he loved a woman’s breasts. Being that she was slightly smaller than he, he picked her up suddenly under the buttocks, and pulled her up so her legs would wind around his hips, and her own sex was right over his engorged head. Tagor stared at Ilyra’s eyes before his face buried between her breasts, slowly pulling her down onto him and holding her there as he feasted on the sweet curves all the way up to her left nipple, that he suckled hungrily. Slowly bouncing her effortlessly upon his cock. She may have never experienced this before from a Master, but he was one that liked to enjoy his women. His lips worked up to her neck, as he walked her towards the furs, where he would go down on his knees, one at a time, then lay her down on the soft fur cushion mound. Lording over her, he continued to rock his body, filling her with his girth and his fists pushed into the fur either side of her. His animal like grunts escaped his lips as his eyes bore into hers. He was truly enjoying her and wanted to see her in full bloom.
Tagor rolled on his back, and pulled her over so she was straddling him. Gazing up at her expectantly, he wanted to see her ride….her stallion.
<3>
Was this hers? She’d never had a meal so extravagant before. She stared at everything, hunger gnawing at her insides as she carefully looked at her Master. He grunted something and waved a hand at the bowl in her hands – a sign she had his permission to eat. The poor girl was so starved, she could have easily resorted to animal savagery as she ate. But she was brought up with dignity and manners and she put her mother’s teachings to great use. She picked carefully at a slice of orange, slipping it into her mouth and chewing slowly and carefully. The explosion of citrus across her taste buds was nearly her undoing and her eyes closed in delight. She continued to eat her meal slowly so as not to be sick, enjoying everything that was before her.
The exotic dancers came to the floor and the music changed in tempo. Some of Tagor’s men were whooping and cheering as the scantily clad women performed for them. The crowd around them clapped along with the music as some of the dancers broke formation to sidle up to the Masters around the floor, dancing for them alone. One such woman moved in Tagor’s direction and Ilyra bowed her head, not wishing to see the woman do whatever she wanted without punishment to her Master. It was not her place to be jealous of whomever he dedicated his passions to. Something else she’d also learned. There was another of those grunts from him and she looked up to see that the dancer had moved away, a disappointed scowl upon her face. She looked at Tagor from the corner of her eye.
Who was this man?
She looked down at her bowl of food, reaching for a grape when she felt calloused fingers against the back of her neck. She froze, and her breath hitched in her throat. Was she to be punished now? Would he choke her before the eyes of everyone around her? She wondered what she’d done to displease him already and felt the sting of tears in her eyes, which she quickly blinked away. She thought she had been well-behaved and obedient.
Though his hands were large, his touch was gentle and comforting and she found herself becoming all the more confused. She was so off-balance with him…and it was only the first day! She turned her head to look at him once more, scared of what she would see. And was surprised once again. There was no anger on his face, as impassive as a brick wall…but there was something in his eyes…
It unnerved her like nothing ever had before. Her face heated under his gaze and she turned away, staring at the bowl in her hands. She set it aside, no longer hungry.
The dancers finished and moved through the crowds, bestowing their favors upon the available men. A few of the Njada chosen rutted with the women right there in public, to the cheers of those watching. The festivities descended into chaos, orgies cropping up all over the pavilion as passionate cries and laughter echoed from all corners. The Sheik had sent all but one of his wives back inside and he was currently rutting with her against one of the poles, her cries of passion echoing around them.
Ilyra gulped hard as she listened to all this, not daring to bring her gaze upward any more.
A movement beside her caught her attention and she was startled when he wrapped a hand around her bicep and hauled her to her feet. He nodded his head to their encampment that had been set up on the grounds and started to walk away, his long stride eating up the distance. She scrambled to follow him.
Tagor’s Tent
She could easily pick out his tent as it was the largest and he went inside, holding the flap open for her to follow. Her hands clasped together tightly, she entered the tent and stood in its center, getting a good look at the opulence. It wasn’t rich by any means, but it looked comfortable. The ground was lined with furs, comfortable and soft beneath her feet. Candles were lit on every available surface and there were more trays of food and little things, most likely from his home, that gave the place a lived-in feel.
A noise caught her attention and she turned to see Tagor closing the flap on the tent, tying it securely against the desert winds. She was now completely alone with her new Master. What was in store for her?
She bowed her head and remained in place as he turned toward her. There was a rustle of sound, but she didn’t raise her head to see what he was doing. She more then sensed when he approached her, his bare feet appearing to her eyes for a brief second before he moved in behind her. His large hand reached out and brushed her hair aside over her left shoulder. Her heart was pounding fiercely in her ears and her hands were visibly shaking.
His hands brushed over the skin of her shoulders and she squeaked in fright, fearing the worst. But he remained steady, simply running his hands over the scars that could be seen as if he was waiting for her to become used to his touch.
“Calm down, you silly girl. He is your master. He will only hurt you if you disobey.” her subconscious mind berated her. This voice had begun to pop up in her head shortly after her magic was bound and she found herself listening to it more often then not. Slowly, she began to relax beneath his hands as her mind continued to tell her to be calm and obey.
She was nearly calm once more when he grunted behind her and she found the ties of her garment loosened, the gauzy material slipping from her body to pool at her feet. She wanted to cover herself, her hands twitching to do just that, but she’d been in this position before and remained still, though she was trembling from head to toe, emotions off all sorts crashing around in her mind.
She gasped, thinking about Jamai’s words to her earlier that day. “…They live in a cruel environment, and are realistic about the frailty of human existence in such climbs. They treat women differently. Some say they are crueler, but I know different. When a Njada takes a soul mate, regardless if she be slave or free, they are the future bearer of Njada sons.”
She felt the heat of his body against her back and her eyes slipped closed, praying that he wouldn’t hurt her. She had been hurt for so long, it was all she expected nowadays.
Her eyes snapped open when he turned her to face him and she found herself caught in his heated gaze. His hands came up, smoothing over her cheeks. He ran his large hands down her neck, across to her shoulders and down to her breasts where his hands remained for a time. He stared at them, squeezing and pinching and making her hot all over. He seemed to be fascinated with them, much to her shock. She’d never had this much attention paid to her body.
It seemed to be a day of firsts for the elven slave girl.
His hands moved around behind her and grabbed onto her bottom, making her squeak. She grabbed at his shoulders, admiring the smoothness of his skin for a brief moment before she found her smaller frame hauled against his rock hard body. Her feet dangled above the floor and there was only one thing she could do to keep her balance; she locked her thighs around his waist. Her quivering sex was directly over his hard shaft, open and ready for him to take what he wanted. His heated gaze pinned hers in place for a moment before he lowered his head, burying his face between her bosoms just as he lowered her body onto his thick shaft.
And was he huge! She felt as if she was splitting in two, his girth spreading her open farther than she ever thought possible. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps as he pressed into her, but the slight pain of his entry was offset by his mouth covering her left nipple, suckling hungrily. He did not thrust into her right away, giving her time to adjust to his size. The sensation was indescribable. She couldn’t help herself as she moaned throatily, her inner muscles throbbing around him. He was so much bigger then her previous Masters. Of that she had no doubt.
Another first.
He seemed to sense when she was ready for he began to bounce her upon him. Never before had a Master taken her so quickly and in such a way. It was as if he was thinking of her pleasure first, instead of his own. This had never, ever happened to her before. Her previous Masters used her for their own lusts, leaving her aching and wanting on more then one occasion. She had to make do with her own manipulations when she was alone on her pallet in the slave’s quarters.
Tagor was stripping away all her preconceived notions about what a Master was supposed to be.
A particularly hard thrust against her womb had her seeing stars for a moment. His lips were at her neck and still within her, he turned and walked toward the furs, where he slowly went down to his knees. He placed her upon her back and bent over her, rocking his body into hers, his fists planted on either side of her head. He grunted as their bodies writhed together, his eyes pinning her in place and she could see he was enjoying what she had on offer. Did she have the same look in her eyes?
Becoming daring, her hands reached upward, pressing against the hard pectorals of his chest, her pale fingers standing out against his tanned skin. Being out of her homeland…one would have thought her own skin would darken over time. But her blood…the blood of the Winter Elves would not allow that. It was why she was such a prized possession among her former Masters.
She was startled from her musings when Tagor rolled onto his back, pulling her with him so that her small form straddled his bigger one. This had the distinct advantage of not only allowing her some control, but it spread her legs open wider and pressed him deeper. Her mouth dropped open and a long drawn out moan issued forth, husky and deep. But she didn’t know what to do now. She’d never been in such a position before. She stared at him in confusion as he looked at her in expectation.
This was so new to her in ways she never expected. She trembled over him, wishing there wasn’t this language barrier between them, wanting to know how she could please him.
“I-I wish you could understand me.” she whispered as she sat astride him. “I don’t know what to do. You are so different from my previous Masters.” In answer, his hips thrust upward between her thighs. She gasped again, her eyes sliding closed as her hands pressed against his chest to steady herself. This move brought her hips upward a slight bit of their own volition and she remained suspended there for a few moments before her legs grew tired of remaining that way and she sat back.
Her gray eyes flew open in surprise at the sensation this caused.
“Quar’valsharess Dumo Uns’aa!1“ she gasped, staring at him with wide, disbelieving eyes.
Quote:
1″Goddess Bless Me!”
Hearing her call out as she gasped due to the sensations Tagor was creating, he actually smiled. He couldn’t understand her at all when it came to English, but he could read body language very well. Unusual for a slave to not know this position. Maybe she had only ever been taken on all fours. That didn’t matter. Her hands were flat to his chest for stability as she made her first hip roll. It was a start. Gently, Tagor forced his pelvis up off the floor, so she would find herself rising and then the rolls would become more fluent.
“Dashaaaa.” (Good) He actually made a sound like word, that meant he was pleased she was moving in the right way. There was nothing more beautiful then to watch a woman ride a horse, and to have Ilyra ride him in the same fashion was equally as erotic. He reached out with both hands, and pressed them to her bosom, kneading them as he pushed up again. What she should find was that their bodies would start to move in unison. There was a drum beating in the distance, that came from the ceremonial pit, and Tagor started to use this drum beat to time his hip movements. He growled in a deep throaty manner and closed his eyes as she could feel his head get deeper into her womb. He had every intention of making her pregnant, one way or another.
After she got the hang of riding him, he pushed his torso up, cradling her in his arms so their faces were but inches apart. Men as a rule do not usually kiss their slaves. Kissing was seen as extremely intimate, but then again this was Tagor. A man among the horsemen of Njada who was not only a horse whisperer, he knew how to treat a woman that was to be his. He never had scores of slaves, only one woman. He had high standards, that they be clean and well kept, and subservient. Ilyra was most certainly being treated to the most erotic love making she had ever endured.
Tagor slowed his movement, and with his dark eyes he stared at hers, and then did the unthinkable. He kissed her…he started at her chin, and worked his way up, to cover her lips, as the couple were now fully locked together. He broke the kiss, and uttered…
“Miarra…” (Mine)
<3>
He said something in his language, but she had no clue as to what it was. It sounded like an approval to her and she gave him a tentative smile in return. His hands left her hips and pressed her breasts, kneading them as he raised his hips beneath her again. She bit her lip and brought her hands up from his chest to wrap lightly around his wrists. Her head bowed back as her movements became more fluid, going by some instinct she never knew she possessed.
A drum began to beat somewhere outside the tent, a low and throbbing beat that resonated within her. He used this to set the rhythm of their bodies as they ground together. He growled low in his throat, the vibrations moving from his body to hers and she cried out once more. He began to press deeper, so deep in fact she imagined she could feel him in her stomach. Unbeknown to her, she began murmuring to him in her own language.
“Jabbuk…ji bwael…dos phuul ji izznarg…morfeth uns’aa satiir saph j’nesst!” (Master…so good…you’re so large…make me feel like woman!)
Her body took on a life of its own as she rode him, her moans coming out in her melodious voice. Then he decided to change the game.
She gasped when he moved, sitting up beneath her, his face inches from her own. His arms snaked around her back as he slowed his movements beneath her. Surprised by this, she could only stare at him, wondering what was happening between them. That intense gaze…dark and sensual…Her heart was pounding fiercely within her breast.
She nearly went cross-eyed as his face moved closer. She felt the press of his lips against her chin and her eyes slid close. This was an intimacy she’d never been subjected to. Her hands squeezed gently at his forearms as his lips moved upward until they covered her own. She squeaked again as he kissed her.
When he drew away from the kiss, he spoke a single word.
“Miarra…”
On some deep level…she understood what that meant. How this was possible, she hadn’t a clue.
But she realized then…it seemed her days of being treated cruelly…were at an end.
She was his. He laid claim to her body and there would be no letting her go.
She placed a hand against his chest, directly over his own heart.
“Dossta” (“Yours.”) she nodded. She didn’t know if it would have been appropriate to return his kiss and so she waited expectantly, their bodies still locked together.
