The Nightborn by Isabel Cooper (howl and other poems TXT) 📗

hands wander instead, stroking up Zelen’s chest and making small circles over his nipples, then down over his thighs, in, and up—but not too far.

The way he looked, fighting not to writhe or grab for her, was a caress in itself. The way he groaned as her fingers approached the top of his thighs was another. When Branwyn finally did wrap her fingers around his cock, lightly squeezing the hot, hard shaft, Zelen said her name in a breathless plea that went straight between her legs.

“That’s me,” she said, and bent, touching her tongue to the head, licking at the moisture there, and finally taking his cock into her mouth.

For a while Branwyn teased him, pulling away whenever Zelen got too tense, her hands firm on his thighs while her lips and tongue were busy. Her hair fell around them. Branwyn felt it brushing her breasts as she moved, adding to her excitement, just as she was a thousand times more aware than normal of the feel of the coverlet against her wet center when she shifted position.

“Branwyn,” Zelen said again, deeper than before and even more ragged. “Please—”

She lifted her head. “You could mean two things by that,” she said, meeting his wild eyes. “Which one would you prefer?”

“Cruel woman,” said Zelen. “Come back here, I think. I want you with me this time.”

“On account then,” said Branwyn, and gave his erection one lingering swirl of her tongue around the head before sliding up beside Zelen.

He turned on his side to meet her, kissing her deeply while he parted her legs with one hand, stroking her aching sex until Branwyn was squirming against him, showing as little hurry as she’d done with him. Then, when she was arching her back and moaning, Zelen guided her good leg over his hips and slid inside her.

It felt even better than it had before, and that without even the fuel of pent-up fear and grief. This was pure pleasure, delight in each other, with no urgency save what gradually built between them as they rocked in rhythm.

“I could stay here for a year or two,” she said, even as Zelen’s fingers on her nipples were quickening her pulse.

“Medically unwise,” he said, the words hot against her earlobe, “but I’d do it with you regardless.”

And Branwyn laughed and let herself flow toward him: toward his touch, toward the pleasure of his cock thrusting deep inside her, and in due course, toward a climax as overwhelming and as inevitable as the summer sun at midday. She basked in it, and in Zelen’s answering release, rejoicing in every line of his arching body and every pulse of heat inside her.

Eventually, in the morning, the rest of the world would exist again. It could take its damn time.

Chapter 33

“Sir.”

Idriel’s voice was quiet but insistent, reaching through exhaustion and satiation both. Zelen’s instinct was still to ignore it. The bed was soft. He felt less dead than he had on his return to the city, but he wasn’t ready to bound out and greet the day yet. Moreover, Branwyn was tucked neatly against his side, her breath light on his neck. If he was going to rise for any reason, it would be because of her, and in the more anatomical sense.

But a matter that sent Idriel in to wake him, especially when Zelen had company, was not trivial. Events of the last few days made it even more likely to be urgent. Zelen opened his eyes and grunted.

It wasn’t dawn yet. Idriel carried a candle rather than activating the magical lights, and the flame picked out shadows in his craggy, lined face. “Sir,” he said, seeing Zelen awake, “we’ve caught a boy breaking into the house.”

“Lgh.”

“He was armed, sir, if you can call it that, and seems to be seeking other children. I wondered if you wanted to speak with him before I summon the guards.”

“Oh gods,” said Zelen, managing actual words with considerable effort, “what’s happened now? Yes, put him in the study and give him a hot drink and a tea cake. I’ll be in directly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why in the world,” Branwyn muttered as Idriel closed the door, “would you have one child here, much less a number?” She slid away to let Zelen get up.

“I’ve no idea. I helped look for that one earlier. Maybe the boy came to ask for my aid again? Or demand it, given how he arrived.”

“Or he suspects you, though I don’t know why he would.” Branwyn sat up, lithe in the moonlight, and swung her long legs over the side of the bed.

“You should stay here,” said Zelen, wrapping his robe around him. “Not that I wouldn’t be glad of your company, but it’d likely make the conversation more tricky, so there’s no reason you have to get up.”

“You never know,” she said. “Two sets of ears—three in this case—can pick up on details that one might miss. I won’t come in, but I’ll lurk outside and listen, unless you object.”

“Not at all.”

Only two of the servants were awake at that hour, which proved to be four after midnight: Idriel and the maid who’d collared the boy as he’d broken in through the kitchen. She clearly noticed Branwyn’s presence, and the fact that she was wearing Zelen’s robe, but showed neither surprise nor any other emotion. Their sleeping arrangements, Zelen reflected, were probably no secret, and other events had taken their place as the latest excitement.

He left both of them and Branwyn behind at the study door and slipped past it without letting the boy who sat on the couch see who was in the hall.

The boy was rigid, the tea and cake untouched before him. Zelen thought he was between eight and twelve, but poverty made that hard to tell, as did the boy’s too-large black clothing and the soot he’d smeared liberally on his face and neck. Either Idriel or the maid had scrubbed him as best they could before sending him into the study,