Selected for Sport Ch. 09

By the stars, he had needed this. Something about the wordless defiance melting to helpless need, the beautiful curves and luscious passage yielding to his hands and cock, Xanir felt the harsh clench of desire tightening, higher and harder than he had felt since he'd left. His head swam as he watched and felt his rigid erection emerge glistening from her wet core and slam back inside, hearing her breathless moans as he pounded her savagely.

The tight burn was rising too swiftly, unbearably swiftly inside Alanna and she arched against the hands holding her, crying out as the wild thrusts drove her closer, closer. The pleasure clenched, the spark igniting and the pleasure burst too soon under the furious, driving melee of heat and friction and demanding strength.

Unable to hold together, she sobbed a scream and bucked while the cock continued to drive relentlessly into her, plunging through her rippling passage. Too much sensation, yet the harsh hands forced her shoulders back to the table, the deep voice grunting in pleasure while he thrust. Her nipples were throbbing against the wood and she moaned under his relentless invasion, begging breathlessly for a halt as the torment grew again in her quivering flesh.

The sensation of her breaking under his thrusts, the explosion of hot wet need around his cock while she cried out, convulsing: he had to feel that again. Xanir panted as he plunged more forcefully between her legs, clenching his will to subdue his own rocketing need to explode in the warm depths. He reared and pulled her back by her wrists to arch her buttocks higher, the new angle heightening the delicious friction while he quickened his pace. He had to feel it.

The fingers clamped on her wrists would leave bruises, and the hard slam of his hips to her buttocks slapped through the room, punctuating the second crescendo of her rising, breathless pleas. The burn was so intense, she couldn't bear it, she really was going to melt, her body slowly clenching tighter against those forceful plunges of his rampant cock.

Too much, too much, too much. A muttered oath behind her, and he pulled her back harder, the swift lunges of his hips increasing in tempo to a staccato blur while his own voice rose in praise. Alanna screamed as her muscles clenched unbearably before he drove through to shatter her into a thousand fragments, her shriek peaking at the force cramping in her limbs, brain whiting out.

Xanir shouted as he wrenched her torso back against his and jammed her hips against the table edge, his cock surging inside her exquisitely rippling passage, exploding with glorious, unstoppable force. He crushed her to him, hips juddering as he emptied in rhythmic spurts, groaning with each delicious gush. Eventually, heart thundering against her back, he held her limp, shuddering form, circling his hips gently, and kissed the back of her sweat-damp neck.

Long minutes later, Alanna lay prone on the desk, still struggling to draw enough breath into her lungs, to recover, pull herself back together. He had moved away some moments ago, a hand caressing her hair briefly before the sound of him rearranging his clothing and walking away.

At the head of the table, Xanir smiled as he made himself a cup of tea from the fresh service a servant had just brought in, eyes dwelling appreciatively on the picture she made. Sweat was glistening on the perfect, creamy skin, light rippling over the beautiful curves that seemed melted over the desk as she struggled to just breathe. The loose hair was a tumble of sunshine behind her head, shimmering in the light from the windows. The sight of those swollen breasts, trembling with the power with which he'd shattered her, teased his erection back to life.

No. He had indulged himself too much already. His father had taught him the fine line between making his lords wait too little, or too much.

Although she was magnificently tempting.

Sipping his tea one-handed, Xanir poured water into a glass and made his way back toward her.

Alanna shuddered a soft, wordless protest as she was gathered up too soon and perched sideways on one thigh, his arm around her shoulders. How did he do this to her? She wasn't ready to move. Drawing a soft gasp, her eyes fluttered open when the rim of a glass nudged her lips. Her hands were already halfway to grasp it when halted by that firm, quiet, "No." She clasped them loosely around his wrist and forearm instead, and this he allowed as he fed her small sips of cool water.

Xanir paused for a moment, moving his hand to brush away the tears still lingering on her burning cheeks, combing straight a lock of her golden hair. A gentle finger dropped to trace the still-red scar fading on her thigh, the mark of the arrow. Her eyes shot to his, and she gulped. She had thought that he didn't - what - care? Remember? At least that he had been firmly reminding her that no matter what had occurred in the past, her primary purpose was to give him pleasure.

She swallowed again, watching him bend free a small blue bead from the filigreed golden arm ring around his bicep and thread a few loose strands of her hair through it, plaiting it in then binding it with a narrow blue ribbon. All perfectly silently. Then he kissed her nose and went back to - watering her - while her breathing gradually slowed from the riot caused by that simple kiss.

However he did this, he did it. Time to stop fooling herself that next time she would retain some semblance of dignity. Alanna trembled again, aware that never in a thousand lifetimes would she surpass him in this. Maybe this was why he selected a new bride every year? Enjoyment of novelty, to draw these responses from each, until familiarity dulled the jaded reactions, all became rote, and he sent his childless bride home.

The thought hurt, but she needed some armour, and her eyes shifted sideways, trying to pull her thoughts away from him. They widened, and suddenly she leaned forward on Xanir's knee, amazed at the colourful map lying nearby on the table. She recognised the small peninsula in the far north - her home. The shapes of the northern neighbours fell into place, slotted like a multi-coloured headdress above the empire - his empire - that straddled the entire south of every map she had ever known.

But on this map the Tahlmese empire was merely the centrepiece. Far to the east of his borders, beyond spiky-drawn mountains and an inland sea, the mapmaker had inked a beautiful sketch of a city straddling a broad river. The lofty central spire, reaching to the sun, evoked childhood tales of valour, intrigue and justice woven though impossible feats of bravery. As a girl she had played there with her brothers and cousins and imagination, sure even then that the fabled city didn't exist beyond the tapestry on the nursery wall.

"Riva," she breathed.

Xanir was amused at the new flush in her cheeks as his bride bent over the map, unthinkingly using the ancient name for the citadel of Siane. She obviously had no idea what the bead meant, the depth of personal service to Tahl required to earn such, which was fine by him. The longer it took for the furore to break over her when his perfumed court realised that her status was now equal to Rihanne, his favourite concubine, the better.

Then his eyes followed her finger, and softened, remembering his own childhood days spent as a knight of Riva, chasing down evil and saving the world with his friends. He twitched the map closer, touched the city and gave it its current name.

Her face fell, and the small finger traced the Tower of Aruzeno while her features reassembled into the calm princess he took so much pleasure in discomposing. Xanir's lips twisted, and he traced the wide borders of the country surrounding the city, before adding, "Siane." The name of the country hadn't changed.

Her eyes flashed back to his and the smile that lit her face almost stopped his breath, pulsing blood through him. "Riva!" she insisted.

He laughed, setting her back on her feet, enjoying the wash of colour as she realised she was still naked while he bent to retrieve her discarded dress, eyes level with the soft curve of her buttocks. His erection was painful again, but he drew himself together and shook out the scrap of silk in his hand.

Her left arm was covering her breasts in a protective gesture, but it seemed instinctive, she was pouring over the map again, so absorbed by her fascination as to not heed the hands wrapping the fabric regretfully around her curves. His lips twisted. He knew what she was doing, but could not take the time now to break down even this passive, sidestepping form of resistance. Not until tonight.

The sparkling eyes turned back to his, and she pointed to the neighbouring country to Siane, breathing hopefully, "Timbal?"

Then the blush rose in her cheeks again as she obeyed his soft, "Lift your hair." Her gaze dropped to his hands, deftly wrapping the inner silk under her breasts and looping it up, over her shoulders to tie behind her neck with the outer sheath before he bent to press another, fierce kiss to the vulnerable join.

Xanir smiled, enjoying the colour washing her soft skin, the renewed tremor. Maybe she wasn't faking her interest in the map. But he could break her from it. "No, that is Rishbal. Timbal is their southern neighbour."

The blue eyes were wide, hopeful and tentatively questioning, and he spared a hand from smoothing the silk to touch the relative countries, repeating their names. The smile lingered on her lips and she reached out a fingertip to touch and repeat after him. She went on to trace dozens of the colourful shapes bounding his southern borders, and Xanir shrugged indulgently and named each one. She had pleased him, after all.

Immensely. Again.

He looked down at the lissom figure that was still trembling faintly while his hands smoothed the fabric over her hips, thoughtfully admiring the remaining glow to her skin and the unmistakeable scent of sex stamped all over her, from her flowing hair to her painted toenails. Drawing a second bead from his arm ring he threaded it next to the first. One for sacrifice. One for pleasure. And damn the riot that would ensue in the perfumed garden. His lips twisted as he acknowledged inwardly that if she earned many more he would have to make her a keratz, a wind rider. The smile faded and he called for the others to re-enter: she would be in no position to earn any others during her time here.

At his shout, her head sprang up from contemplation of the map. Alanna shrank as the doors and windows behind them swung wide, his guards stepping in, eyes circling the room before bowing to their Tahl and turning to watch positions, calling their own chorused salute. Her own quartet entered next, followed by the stream of lords pushing to return to their places, avid eyes stroking over the thoroughly dishevelled Tahl-maia.

Alanna shrank further from the blatant lust on the male faces, her breathing rapid and cheeks hot, eyes on the tiled floor as her escort closed in and cleared a passage for her back to the main doorway. Bethesda's favourite Tahl'mese idiom echoed in her head: Beautiful wife, strong arm. The Tahl would purposefully flaunt her, to prove his strength.

That was why she had been selected, after all. To prove he was the strongest.

The spark lit in her eyes again. Damn it all, she would learn to fight his touch.

Late that night, Xanir groaned at the rhythmic knock on the inner door to his bedroom. He had just returned from his bath after another bewitching encounter with his bride, reinforcing exquisitely what he could do to her, and was in no mood to entertain his chief spy.

His half-cousin ignored his inner wishes and cracked the hidden door open, saying laconically, "Very brief."

A moment later, over a cup of hot tea, Xanir stared at the three papers laid out before him.

"I have said before, March Kjeldahl has an elusive agent with a photographic memory and excellent skill with the pencil," Em Feliz said. He touched the map and added, "I believe she now graces your bed."

"Invisible ink?" Xanir asked absently, eyes skimming the innocuous words overlaying the perfect reproduction of what he had shown her this morning. He spoke rudimentary Kjell, a fact he had neglected to mention to his bride. As she had hidden this skill of hers.

"This is the first time copying and testing the letters of your brides has paid off," responded Em Feliz in satisfaction, "And it took me over a month to isolate the way to raise the ink, so the first sheet is nearly ruined with my testing." Xanir twitched the stained page closer, nose wrinkling at the aroma rising from the paper. His eyes narrowed at the occasional word underlying the overt message.

"The antidote?"

"She hasn't quite perfected it, but it is evident that she understands nearly everything that is said in front of her, or memorises words for future study. Unless you arrange an accident, the Kjell will be able to reproduce the aconite antidote after she returns, if she hasn't already managed to smuggle this out by some other means I am not yet aware of."

"Why did she save me?" Xanir asked absently, studying the imperfect list of ingredients. His family had kept this antidote a secret for generations. If knowledge spread that it even existed a different poison may be used, one that they couldn't combat.

Em Feliz shrugged. "A kindly instinct? Self-preservation? Overwhelming gratitude at the intense pleasure you had just -." He laughed as Xanir pushed him off the sofa, continuing to tease from the floor: "Her sweet cries from the convocation chamber are already legendary."

Then he sobered, rising to resume their conversation. "It may be the first reason. The map and the antidote are not aggressive, just sneaky theft of knowledge you probably would not allow her. It is the third that interests me most."

Xanir's eyes narrowed on the head and shoulders sketches of a burly man next to a scowling boy with similar features. His eyes returned to the man. "One of the Zalmat?"

"Yes. He was tested and investigated before admittance, of course, but if you read your Maia's words, it may be that we missed something. Especially as that is not the name or history he gave us."

There was something nasty about Hector Beguine when he visited Glen that summer, and as I recall he fled Jarl Borgason shortly after the failed coup of 28, fearing reprisals, although I never knew for what. I believe he has now resurfaced in the Tahl's Palace. Please let me know what you can find out about him?

"Glen?" asked Xanir, a tingle of anger running along his skin at her familiar use of the name.

"One of her cousins," replied his spymaster. "If she is right, then the man guarding the perfumed garden is actually from Norveig, not Angle, and a nasty piece of work. Hector Beguine was indicted for suspected treason against Jarl Borgason's overlord."

Trust Em Feliz to have found that out in half a day.

"What form of treason?"

"I don't know."

Eyes narrowed, Xanir tapped the papers in front of him, thinking deeply while his spymaster waited. "Can you reproduce this concoction?" he asked eventually.

Em Feliz smiled. "Of course. You wish me to send a precise copy, the message hidden underneath the letter?"

"Yes."

"Including the map on the second page?"

A pause, and their eyes met.

"Yes. She may get to hear if only one half gets through. And I want that answer. Letting Kjeldahl have the map doesn't matter."

Em Feliz rolled his eyes. "I heard she has two beads," he muttered as he drew the papers together.

"Get out," retorted Xanir, turning back to his bed.

The smile lingered on his lips as he slid between the sheets. His bride was a tantalisingly intelligent woman, no doubt accustomed to being treated with due respect. She must be doubly devastated that he could reduce her to a soft, helpless sex kitten at will, obliterating her ability to think. No wonder she still fought against succumbing to his touch.

Damn, he was rock hard again.

For a moment Xanir tried to relax, then abruptly sighed and flung back the covers. He may as well sleep in her bed. Afterwards.