The Queens of Merab 2 Temair’s Rayne Page 5

  When she braced her hands on Dathan’s straining thighs and buried her nose beneath his sac, Miach gave up the struggle for control. He fumbled with the laces on his breeches, and managed to pull himself free as Dathan’s sharp cry of pleasure cut the peaceful silence. He knew, Miach just knew Temair had taken the Rayne Lord’s balls into her mouth, rolling the testes over her tongue.

  Miach gripped his own sac, tugging sharply, using the pain to fend off the orgasm that threatened to overwhelm him with every tilt of Temair’s head, every choked cry from the seemingly unflappable Rayne Lord.

  Temair drew back long enough to give Dathan a teasing glance, then in one long, smooth motion she took that long, golden cock deep into her throat. Miach stroked his own aching dick in time with her movements. She took Dathan deep, Miach stroked from root to tip. She stopped to suck at the tip; Miach jerked his fist over his own aching cock-head.

  Dathan’s cock glistened with moisture. Temair’s saliva, Miach knew, but also Dathan’s own pre-cum. Miach’s dick wept in sympathy, the slickness making the almost painful drag of his hand sweet.

  Temair nibbled her way down the side of Dathan’s shaft, pausing to give a noisy suck to his balls. Dathan gasped and tangled one hand in the Princess’s hair. The position left him in a graceful arch, weight supported on one trembling arm, head thrown back in ecstasy. It was the most beautiful, carnal sight Miach had ever witnessed. He couldn’t help but wonder how the Rayne Lord’s hands felt tangled in Temair’s hair. How he tasted on her lips.

  The Rayne Lord turned his head in Miach’s direction. His eyes heavy lidded, lips parted and wet, Miach could tell from the new jerky rhythm of the other man’s breathing that Dathan was a second away from coming. Miach stroked harder and faster, scalded by the sight of Temair’s lips stretched to surround Dathan’s dick, of Dathan clinging to control by a thread. Fuck, he realized. He was hanging on by a thread himself.

  Then Dathan effectively cut that thread, sending Miach into a freefall he might never recover from. The Rayne Lord focused his ocean-streaked eyes and Miach would swear the other man could see him. A slow lick over a full lower lip, a naughty smile, and Dathan was shooting, streaking pearly ropes into Temair’s mouth, over her lips, even onto her breasts where her dress gaped open.

  The sight sent Miach over, scalding streaks of liquid fire lacing over his fist, searing jagged stripes along his own abdomen and over his sleeveless tunic. The force of his climax sent heat billowing around him, enough that the leaves around him shifted in the current, and would probably have withered if it weren’t so fucking humid.

  Miach slammed his eyes closed, shutting out the visual, caught in a sensory overload that was more than he could bear. He stroked himself soft, only stopping when he became so sensitive the pleasure bled into pain.

  Eyes still closed, he stuffed himself back into his breeches, yanking impatiently at his laces. Finally, he got pissed at himself for being a coward and forced his eyes open. Dathan and Temair were fully dressed and composed, smiling indulgently at a pair of excited young girls. Miach wondered sourly if they’d managed to cover Dathan’s cock before their guests arrived.

  As he crouched to wipe his slick hand on the thick moss at his feet, a heavy sense of uneasiness settled in his gut. Any man would be jealous to see his wife finding such pleasure in another’s arms, and Miach was jealous, but not for the expected reasons.

  He was jealous because he’d wanted to join in. He’d reveled in the sensuality of the moment, drunk in every whimper and sigh to pass Temair’s flushed lips. And had it been Aquil, or any of the other sons of Rayne down there with her, he probably would have joined in.

  No, the sense of uneasiness had nothing to do with Temair’s actions, and everything to do with her choice of partner.

  Dathan taunted him, teased him with ideas and emotions Miach had never experienced. Had never expected to experience. He’d never planned to fall in love, to be a husband let alone First Consort to the Queen. Was he in love with Temair? What he felt for her certainly exceeded friendship, ventured into near obsession. Wrapping his head around that concept had about exhausted his imagination. Adding the idea of a… not a relationship… a dalliance? Adding the idea of a dalliance with the Rayne Consort was enough to twist his mind into greasy knots of anxiety.

  And that was even before he took into account the fact that he was not a lover of men.

  He needed to speak to Temair and find out what her feelings were where Dathan was concerned. He had no right to tell her who she may choose as Consort, but he could damn well try and dissuade her from making a choice that may put her very safety, and his very sanity, at risk.

  The man was not of the right temperament to make sure that Temair was always looked after and protected. Miach had no doubts that Dathan would make her laugh, keep her entertained. And he was obviously a skilled enough lover. Without the threat of a rebellion that might be enough, but with the uncertainty that was moving through Emetra, Miach wasn’t willing to take any chances with his Princess’s life.

  It had nothing to do with his own feelings.

  * * *

  The man in the shadows smiled as the First Consort swore softly and headed back to Villa Rayne.

  Taking stock of the situation, the rebel conspirator was well pleased. The Crown Princess was obviously leaning toward Lord Dathan, the most flighty and irresponsible of Lady Rayne’s sons, which would create a vulnerability that the rebel was eager to exploit. Add to that the clear fact that the First Consort was caught on the twin horns of desire and resentment, and the conspirator was quite sure he’d have no problem at all when the time came to make his move.

  He all but rubbed his hands together in glee as he headed back to his rooms in the Villa to contact his noble ally.

  * * *

  Two days later, Temair was as confused as ever. She knew intellectually that Dathan was all wrong for the job of Consort. Miach called him flakey. Temair wouldn’t go that far, but she was well aware that Dathan’s priorities lay more in the areas of relaxation and entertainment. She knew this, but her heart and body didn’t seem care whether or not he was the appropriate choice. Nor did her magic.

  She’d barely seen him since their interlude by the lagoon -- his family and her entourage had made sure of it -- but his touch still seemed to hum over her skin. Even Miach’s mind-bending lovemaking didn’t wipe Dathan from her mind. On the contrary, every one of Miach’s touches seemed to deepen and resonate with the echo of Dathan’s.

  The problem, Temair realized, was that her personal desires seemed at odds with what was best for the Queendom. Aquil, whom she’d spent numerous hours with over the last two days, was the perfect choice for Emetra. He was well spoken, politically savvy, handsome in a manner uncommonly dignified for a man of only twenty-four years, and he even seemed to get along with Miach.

  Yes, Aquil seemed best for Emetra, but Dathan seemed best for her.

  He was utterly charming, but lacked the tact and subtlety of his younger brother. He was utterly gorgeous, and he knew it, but instead of being vain, he seemed to take his looks as a sort of genetic joke. The warmth of his personality overshadowed his physical perfection -- just barely -- inviting everyone in his vicinity to come closer. He didn’t give a hoot for politics or protocol, didn’t seem to care about a person’s social standing or even their political leanings.

  Perhaps the most troubling thing was his disregard for the unrest in the country. At the previous night’s dinner, Miach had very pointedly asked him what he thought of the rebel cause. Dathan’s answer, that he’d not seen signs of unrest among the Rayne folk, and he didn’t think it was cause to worry overmuch, had just reinforced Miach’s apparent dislike for the man. Of course, Miach didn’t need anything to make him dislike Dathan more. Every time the two men were in the same room, Miach’s whole body went tense and battle ready. She stroked a finger along one of her marriage bracelets and smiled. Temair shouldn’t have found it so adorable, but she couldn’t hel
p it, not when it was so crystal clear that there was something a lot more powerful than dislike brewing in Miach’s chaos-black eyes when he looked at Dathan.

  With her feelings still in such a jumble, she was glad to sit down with her friends for a late lunch. She wished she could share her concerns with her mother, but she didn’t dare risk upsetting her at this stage in her pregnancy. Perhaps with their combined wisdom, as limited as that may be, she, Sorcha and Nuriel could figure out what she was going to do.

  * * *

  Nuriel raised her brows inquiringly as Temair flopped into her seat with a deep sigh. She’d noticed that her foster sister seemed increasingly troubled over the last few days, and since there had been no sign of the rebel attacks that had plagued their visit to Fyre House, she assumed Temair was angsting over her choice of Consort.

  Why Temair was angsting was a source of confusion to her. All seven of the Sons of Rayne were beautiful. While the three youngest, at sixteen, seventeen and nineteen, were a bit on the young side, as far as Nuriel was concerned any of the older four would be an excellent choice.

  “This is much more difficult than choosing Miach was,” Temair muttered, piling her plate with chunks of tropical fruit that was lightly fermented in sugar and liqueur.

  Sorcha laughed as she helped herself to a piece of still steaming bread. “That’s because you and Miach were caught being naughty, so you didn’t actually have to make a choice.”

  Temair shot her an irritated look, but stuffed a wedge of melon into her mouth rather than answering.

  “I don’t understand the problem,” Nuriel put in. “They’re all pleasant. They’re all drop-dead gorgeous. Just pick one.”

  “They’re not interchangeable, Ellie,” Sorcha scolded, using the nickname Nuriel despised. “They’re as individual as the three of us.”

  “I know that,” Nuriel huffed. “And don’t call me Ellie.” Sorcha and Temair both grinned, and Nuriel had to restrain herself from throwing a berry at them. “I just meant that they are all pleasant in their own unique way, and since none of them are ugly, it would be hard to go wrong.”

  Temair sighed again. “I suppose Aquil is the logical choice.”

  “Oh, he’d do very well,” Nuriel agreed. “He’s got a lovely singing voice, did you notice? And when he brought you flowers last night before dinner, I about swooned.” The flowers, Nuriel thought, had been a much more romantic gesture than the single iridescent shell Dathan had left on Temair’s breakfast plate.

  Temair gave a little growl of frustration and tugged at her hair with both hands. “He’s perfect,” she agreed. “He’d be perfect even if he couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. But he leaves me cold.”

  “How anyone could look at that man and be left cold is completely beyond my ability to understand,” Nuriel commented, earning a dark look from Sorcha. “I’m just saying…”

  “But it isn’t Aquil you want, is it?” Sorcha asked, with one of her spooky, magic priestess looks that seemed to pierce to a person’s very soul.

  Temair just tugged harder on her hair and groaned.

  “He’d be a disaster at Court.” Sorcha had turned back to Temair and spoke seriously. Nuriel felt like she’d missed a part of the conversation.

  “I know,” Temair agreed. She rolled her eyes ruefully. “But tell that to my libido.”

  “You’ve got the beginnings of blue sparks in your eyes, too.”

  Nuriel leaned in and peered at Temair’s eyes. Until Sorcha had mentioned it, she hadn’t noticed the vague cobalt flickers in Temair’s warm brown eyes.

  “Yeah.” Temair stopped pulling at her hair and dragged her fingers through the tousled mass. “My magic and my body seem to be on the same page.” She closed her eyes and dropped her head back against the high back of her chair. “Unfortunately, I think it’s the wrong page.”

  “Has he given you any indication what he wants?” Temair gave Sorcha a very dry, very amused look. The redhead blushed a tiny bit, milk-pale skin flushing rosy pink, as she murmured, “Oh.” She shook her head, sending sparks of copper fire through her riot of curls. “Well, has he given a hint that he wants something other than that?”

  Nuriel narrowed her eyes in irritation. She hated when her foster sisters had conversations that left her out. “Ok, you’ve lost me,” she interrupted, drawing both women’s eyes to her. “We clearly aren’t talking about Aquil anymore. Care to clue me in?”

  It wasn’t Temair or Sorcha who answered, though. Instead a deep, resonant voice came from the back of the room.

  “They’re talking about the half-wit,” Miach said sourly, approaching the table. Nuriel’s brows rose again. The crimson sparks that usually lurked in his eyes were nearly ablaze.

  “The…?” Nuriel was still feeling a little clueless, and she didn’t like it. She might not be all serious like Temair, or all militant like Sorcha, but that didn’t mean she was stupid

  “Dathan.” Miach practically spit out the name.

  “Oooh.” Suddenly the conversation made sense. Nuriel gave a little laugh, “Now I feel like the half-wit.”

  Sorcha gave her a brief, commiserating smile, before turning back to the drama that was unfolding before them.

  “My Lady.” Miach had clearly forced the deference in his tone. Beneath the words, his emotions seethed. “You must realize how bad Dathan would be for us,” he paused. “I mean, for Emetra.”

  “I understand your concerns, My Lord Husband,” Temair replied, leaning forward to lace her fingers over Miach’s marriage cuffs. Nuriel blinked, because she’d swear sparks passed between them at the innocent touch. “I even share them,” the Crown Princess continued. Her eyes warmed, and it was clear that the woman speaking now was Miach’s wife, not the ascending Queen. “And yet those concerns don’t change how I feel.”

  “And what of my feelings, Spark?” Miach responded softly, and Nuriel could practically feel those feelings, so to speak, billowing off him in waves of heat.

  “I need to go for a walk,” Sorcha suddenly announced, rising abruptly. When Nuriel made no move to follow -- no way was she missing what happened next -- Sorcha grabbed her by the arm and tugged her to her feet. “I need company,” the redhead announced, towing Nuriel’s unwilling self toward the door. As her foster sister dragged her from the room, Nuriel had time to see that neither Temair nor Miach seemed to have noticed their departure.

  Chapter Six

  Miach could have singed himself for asking the question, and for a number of reasons, the most obvious being that it was Temair who would rule Emetra, not Miach. Temair was the one who would keep the magic balanced, and Temair was the one who got to make the choices. But it wasn’t the implied questioning of Temair’s authority and judgment that made Miach sick to his stomach. It was the fact that he’d acknowledged his growing feelings for Temair out loud, and had even acknowledged he might have feelings about Dathan.

  It wasn’t his place to feel. More, he loathed the feeling of vulnerability it gave him.

  Almost as if she could sense his turmoil Temair slipped from her chair to kneel between his spread thighs, reaching up to cup his face in her hands.

  “I don’t want you to be unhappy,” she said. The heat of her touch radiated through his skin, sending warmth cascading through his entire body. The amber lights of her fyre flickered in her eyes, overpowering the faint glimmers of blue that had been there since her rendezvous with Dathan by the lagoon.

  “It’s not about my happiness.” Miach was trying desperately to put the situation back in perspective, but from the look in his wife’s eyes, it wasn’t working. “My happiness doesn’t matter, My Lady,” he continued firmly. “What matters is your safety, and the security of Emetra.”

  Temair let her hands glide down, the firm yet gentle pressure on the back of his neck sending licks of flame in the wake of her comforting warmth. “Miach, do you really believe he’d allow me to be endangered?”

  Torn by his conflicting emotions, Miach pushed out of his
chair, pulling free of Temair’s touch. He looked down at her and something broke loose in his chest, arousal and anger, and confusion because the remembered image of Temair taking Dathan’s throbbing cock between her full lips was making Miach every bit as hard as the sight of her on her knees at his feet. He hurriedly reached down, helping her to rise.

  The soft look in her eyes was like fuel to the flame of his fyre, and he began to pace, trying to work off some of the angry energy burning through him.

  “Would he allow you to be endangered? Not knowingly.” The admission cost nothing; it was true, as far as it went. “Would he allow you to be endangered, perhaps even put you in danger through his negligence? Oh, absolutely.” He turned to face her. Her brow was furrowed, her clear eyes troubled.

  “I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration,” she said tentatively, but Miach didn’t let her finish. He couldn’t. He’d said his feelings didn’t matter, and he meant it. But since he meant it, he was desperate to find a reason that didn’t involve him to keep her from choosing Dathan as her second Consort.

  “He doesn’t even acknowledge the fucking rebellion, Spark!” he burst out. “You could have died twice, and all he has to say is ‘It doesn’t concern me overmuch.’ ” Miach spoke the last words in an uncanny imitation of Dathan’s lazy delivery.

  Temair moved to face him, planting herself firmly in his path when he’d have continued pacing. “I’m not disagreeing with your reasons.”

  And Miach would be damned if he’d let her patronize him. “Then choose, Aquil,” he told her flatly.

  “Oh, Miach.” She sighed, and allowed him to move around her. “I wish it was that easy.”

  * * *

  Dathan stood outside the doors to the breakfast room, hidden from sight and felt his temper come to a boil. He’d known he knocked Miach off kilter. He’d even enjoyed it. The Fyre Lord was so tightly wound Dathan knew that when he let go it would be explosive. He’d just assumed that explosion would be sexual in nature.