Selected for Sport Ch. 12

His heart leapt.

A second later she was on her back, crushed under his bulk, arms pinned above her head, but she was too busy kissing him to care. A huge weight seemed to have lifted off her, and there were tears in her eyes: in an oblique, sneaky way which held his dignity intact, he had yet allowed her to keep hers. Her kisses were fluttering along neck, ears, cheek, chin; Xanir was laughing softly but withholding his lips, then sat upright with his weight holding her prone, palm to palm. "You owe me a proper apology."

She squirmed in his hold, growling, "Proper is not the word," but her efforts were fruitless and so she stilled, panting, the colour rushed into her cheeks. Her eyes darted around the arena, and she tried to whisper too low for the remaining men to hear: "I have also learned a dance for you, my lord. May I present it?"

Xanir's eyes watched the colour flare anew in her flushed cheeks, eyes darting shyly from his, and his blood surged with lust, realising which dance she meant. He had longed for this. His eyes dropped to her heaving chest, and the gleam was brighter, taunting when they lifted back to hers. "Outstanding." Bending close, he licked those panting lips, and thrust his tongue hard between them, before standing and pulling her to her feet.

"I will see you in the halmud for breakfast" he dismissed his friends absently, eyes entranced by his bride's heaving mounds as he urged her backwards towards the stone bench.

"Oh course, gracious Tahl," the chorus heralded their departure. Em Feliz shot, "Be of good cheer," cheekily over his shoulder while he followed the others beyond the wall.

Alanna's colour flared again when she realised that his and her guards, having followed the lords to the archways in the walls, had each halted under one arch. OK they were standing with their backs to the arena, but still: "Can we not go inside?" Her voice was breathless while he eased her onto her back on the cushions, those black eyes burning brighter and brighter. Why was she complaining? This was so much better than she had ever dreamed.

Xanir growled, low. "Would you deny me the glory of the sunrise on your naked skin?" His hands were impatient at her bodice, and his breath caught as he teased apart the neckline, revealing the deep, juicy cleavage. He groaned, dropping his head to nuzzle between them, tongue sweeping over the aching peaks shaped by urgent hands.

Her body was trembling uncontrollably a few moments later when Xanir moved to kneel over her, peeling her knees apart and folding them to either side of the bench. Alanna's mind swirled in the thundering fire: those hours of stretching were paying off. "I -- my apology -- your dance -," she breathed, eyes straying to the bead bag smothered under the silk pooled on the sand.

"Later," growled Xanir, opening his trousers and lifting her hips with urgent hands. "I need this first." Her undulating cry was swallowed by fierce lips when he surged inside, washing heat higher, the initial burn exploding into delight. At last. Her blood was rioting and she just couldn't come down, his fierce, insistent thrusts pushing her over the edge again, and again, and again, skin tightening and evaporating in the heat until she couldn't see, couldn't breathe. The exquisite feeling of him swelling within her had caught her breath, and he lunged again swiftly, brutally, exploding with a roar of pleasure that sang to her heart, the proud head thrown back and neck tendons straining against dark skin.

Her throat was hoarse and dry, moisture sparkling in the corners of her eyes when slowly his fingers relaxed their clench deep into her buttocks. Explain those bruises, flickered across her fluttering mind, and her lips curled up. Badge of pride.

Her breath eased when he shifted his weight, flattening himself beside her and tucking her inside his arm. She slanted a teasing look up at those lazily simmering black eyes and murmured, "Dance? Or apology?"