The mages master, p.29
The Mage's Master, page 29
part #2 of The Mages Series
“Oh gods,” she gasped, and she pushed back, leaned into the pain, into the undeniable solid truth of this, of him finally, finally doing this again. “Oh fuck. Oh, Harry. Please.”
His hand on her hip spasmed, his breath already sounding ragged behind her, and he pulled her arse up higher, harder. Driving himself powerful and painful against her body’s resistance, and he was so strong, so breathtaking, so everything, that Fasta could only cry out, drag in air, try to relax, beg for more —
And then he was through, punching deep and sharp inside, all the way down to the hilt. And the groan from his mouth was harsh, guttural, drowning in pleasure, while Fasta’s mouth actually screamed with it, of him wanting this, him being there, Henrik Hallen inside her, owning her, splitting her apart.
He was still lingering there, pressing inside, like maybe he was feeling it too — so Fasta pushed back harder against him, making stars shoot off behind her eyes. “Oh gods,” she said again. “Oh Harry. Don’t stop. Oh gods. Please.”
He gave another one of those groans, and then he dragged out, hot tight friction rising between them, hanging, waiting — and then he slammed back in. So powerful that the world spun, the light fired, and Fasta’s entire body would have staggered sideways if not for his cock, his hands, holding her up.
“Keep talking,” he gasped behind her, as he dragged out again, gods have mercy. “Don’ stop talking.”
He punctuated the order with a slap to her tender arse, making her cry out, her body quivering hard against him. “Please,” she said, the word coming automatic, because there was no thinking now, no world beyond this. “Please, take me. Fuck me. Harder.”
He obliged, driving hard back inside, making the world spin sideways, and Fasta let out a shaky, gasping cry. “Yes,” she breathed, “yes, Harry, master, just like that, please, take me, show me, please —“
The words were broken by another slamming gouge of that cock, his body owning hers, and Fasta ground back against it, craving it, needing it. “Yes,” she gasped again. “Own me, control me, take me in any way you want. I’m yours, Harry. Anything you want.”
There was more pressure behind those fingers, more light firing behind her eyes, and she could feel something shift in him, in the way this felt. “Not anything,” he said, and it took too long for Fasta’s slipping, skittering thoughts to grasp what he meant. “Not mine. Not true.”
He slammed in again with the words, and Fasta cried out again, her body shuddering hard around him. “It is true,” she gasped. “It’s only you, Harry.”
The slam inside was more aggressive, even more powerful, leaving a distant, shearing pain in its wake. “No,” he said again, “you’re lying.”
She was lying, was she lying, and she shook her head, felt her body tremble at the next juddering slam of his hips. “I’m not,” she managed. “I’m yours, Harry.”
Henrik’s hands on her hips had gone so tight that the pain was finally registering, filtering past her foggy thoughts. “You are not,” he said back, and his voice was solid now, decisive. “Stop lying to me!”
Fasta’s head shook, she wasn’t lying, wasn’t — and abruptly Henrik pulled back, out, away. Leaving her empty, aching, cold, and her head craned around toward him, not understanding — and then she shuddered at the sight of him standing there, with his trousers hanging low on his hips, his ruddy swollen cock jutting out, the wooden switch back in his hand. His eyes hard, furious, dangerous.
“We agreed,” he growled. “You wouldn’t lie to me. Tell me the truth.”
He gave a little shake of the switch with the words, making his threat far too clear, and Fasta shuddered again, felt the craving pleasure lurch even higher, even now. “I’m yours, Harry,” she breathed. “It’s the truth.”
“No it is not!” he shouted, and suddenly there was snapping surging pain, the switch slamming hard against her, against that too-wet, too-exposed, gaping-open part of her. “Tell me the truth!”
“I am!” Fasta’s voice gasped, pleaded, but there was the switch again, jolting firing beautiful pleasure. Making Fasta cry out, but it only slammed again, harder this time, searing black behind her eyes.
“Tell me the truth,” Henrik's gasping voice behind her ordered, threatened. “Or I will break you until you tell it. I swear to fuck.”
And gods, this was fucked up, because the hungry craving was surging even higher, harder, and rather than hiding, cowering, Fasta was exposing herself to him, tilting her arse up, opening herself more. Wanting it, needing it, it didn’t matter if he broke her, it was already done, he was already leaving —
“Then break me,” she whispered, but he heard it, and there was another slap, right against her exposed swollen wetness this time, so shockingly, exquisitely painful she almost choked. “Please. I’m yours, Harry.”
“You are not!” he roared behind her, and there was another ringing sting of the switch, right where she craved it. “You’re lying to me! You’re not mine and you never fucking will be!”
The words hurt more than the switch did, but suddenly there was the jolting, quivering feeling of Henrik’s blunt cock, shoving back up against her. Not gentle, not kind, only hard and powerful and dominating as it drove inside, smashed its way through the pain, exploded bright and spectacular all through Fasta’s defenses.
“You’re lying,” Henrik gasped again, and with the words was another sting from the switch, to her flank this time. “Stop lying!”
But there were no words left, not even any lies, only Henrik’s cock, Henrik’s demands, Henrik’s pain. Henrik pounding into her, Henrik punishing her, Henrik everywhere, Henrik lighting up her entire body, setting it aflame.
“You’ll never be mine,” he breathed, between thrusts, between hard swings of the switch against Fasta’s side. “Never, and you fucking know it, so just fucking admit it!”
Fasta couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, her arms her face pressed hard to the tree, her body exposed, accepting, taking whatever he would give. Sinking, slowly, into the distantly shifting darkness, until something suddenly gripped on her braid, pulling her head back. “Admit it,” he ordered. “Tell me.”
And Fasta couldn’t even follow what he meant anymore, couldn’t move past the sheer sensation of it, the rushing waves of pain and pleasure and agony. Of Henrik being unhappy with her, angry with her, even as he was still inside her, still hot and hard, his beautiful body still saying too much, betraying too much. Tell me, he’d said. Tell me.
“I want you, Harry,” Fasta’s voice said, pleaded, on its own. “I need you. I — I love you.”
There was a sudden, hurtling silence, stillness everywhere, and the sparks kept echoing, flittering under Fasta’s skin. “I love you,” she said again, into the silence, her voice cracking on the words. “I have for years. Since the first day you walked onto my job site.”
He was still deep inside her, his hand still too tight on her hair, and the stillness almost seemed more forceful than the movement, than the switch. “I think you’re brilliant,” she croaked. “I think you’re beautiful. And I can’t stand the thought of losing you.”
The stillness grew, shifted, became something else, and Fasta could feel it in his hands on her hip, her hair. Could taste the magic, suddenly, could taste him, here, so close. And though the pain was still radiating it was old, not new, and when she searched over her shoulder for his eyes he was staring at her, even as his hips did a reflexive little circle against her.
“Say that again,” he whispered, and Fasta realized he’d dropped the switch, that the hand in her hair was closing protective against the back of her neck. “Please.”
Fasta’s body pushed back against him, needing the support maybe the courage from him, and in reply he circled inside, just how she needed it. “I love you, Harry,” she heard herself say. “I need you. You’re brilliant, and beautiful, and nothing has ever felt so good in my life. And I don’t know what I’ll do once you’re gone.”
His body was moving with her now, not against her, his hands warm, stable, protective. Curling the pleasure deep inside, and Fasta groaned at the feel of it, at the feel of her body twitching up higher, tighter, closer.
“I love you,” she said again, “I love how you feel, I love this, love you being my master, Harry, please —“
He was gasping out loud with every circle of his hips, his cock feeling even fuller, harder, hotter inside. And somehow the fog had begun to fade, replaced only by the rising fundamental pleasure, and Fasta arched into him, met him, oh fuck, oh gods.
“Please,” her voice begged, “please, Harry, please, don’t stop —“
He didn’t, didn’t, just there and there and there again, exactly where Fasta needed it, craved it. Winding her tighter, higher, hotter, until there was nowhere left, nothing left, scraping high and close until, until—
It all crashed back down in a stream, in firing breaking jolts of sheer ecstasy, arcing through Fasta’s groin, her entire being. Wringing herself out against him, around him, while he swelled fuller and harder and dragged her up tighter, oh —
His own release felt like a punch in the gut, like an explosion of ecstasy inside her, Henrik Hallen spraying out into her, marking her, owning her. Pumping her full of his body, his own self, and the stars shot off again behind Fasta’s eyes, the earth quaking sideways beneath her. He was really doing this, he’d done this, he’d broken her, and now she was his.
The pleasure of that kept sparking, kept swinging, even as Henrik’s body behind her, inside her, finally went still and quiet. Even as he carefully drew out, leaving her open, gaping, leaking, his wetness already slipping slick down her thigh.
There was the sound of him fumbling with his trousers behind her, but Fasta was still trapped to the tree. And maybe he’d finally noticed that, because abruptly the stone holding her wrists fell away, crumbling too loud toward the earth.
It was too hard to move, Fasta’s body feeling too trembly to trust, and she stayed there for too long, trying to breathe. Trying to will the strength and the blood back to her limbs, and finally there was enough to move her right hand, push it away from the tree.
It made her stagger backward a little, tripping over her trousers, and thankfully Henrik was there, strong and solid behind her. His big hands capable, warm on her back, and there was enough strength behind them for her to bend down, and use both shaky hands to yank her own trousers up, over her still-tender wetness, her too-inflamed skin.
Gods, she was sore, and a glance down at her aching forearms showed her sleeves bunched and torn ragged, her skin scratched and battered from where it had scraped against the tree’s rough trunk. And though she tried to pull down the remnants of her sleeves surreptitiously, so Henrik behind her couldn’t see, his too-quick hand had already reached around and grasped one of her forearms, holding it up to the light.
“Fuck,” he whispered, and when Fasta glanced at him his face looked hollow, his eyes shadowy and appalled. “Fuck me,” he said again, and he backed away from her, stumbling over a root behind him. “Gods curse me, Fass. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
His eyes were dark and strange, pleading along with his voice, and Fasta took a breath, let it out. “I’m fine,” she began, but Henrik cut her off with a strangled-sounding groan, a hard shake of his head.
“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t with the bullshit. I won’t believe you.”
But he was here again, his hands gentle on her face, though he wasn’t meeting her eyes, was blinking at something beyond her. “You should’ve tapped,” he said now, his voice just as strange as his eyes. “Or told me to stop. Soon as I picked up the switch. Why didn’t you.”
Fasta put her hands to his, tried not to wince at the feel of the sleeve brushing at her sore skin. “I didn’t want to,” she said, and in reply Henrik made a strange choking sound, deep in his throat. And too late Fasta realized that he was actually gulping back sobs, that that was water brimming in his eyes, that she had never seen him look like this, like he was lost and small and broken.
“Tell me you didn’t mean it,” he said, those too-bright eyes pleading on hers again. “Tell me you were lying.”
He meant the things she’d said, in the middle of that, but Fasta could only shake her head. Because she hadn’t been lying, she knew that now. He had broken her, and he had found truth inside.
“I wasn’t lying,” she said, because she had to be honest, had to make him see it. “I love you, Harry.”
He actually flinched, his eyes briefly squeezing shut, like he’d been the one struck, not her. “You can’t,” he said. “You can’t, Fass.”
She couldn’t. And as Fasta stared at him, at the too-clear pain on his face, it occurred to her that maybe he was being like this because — because he didn’t feel the same way. Maybe he didn’t care.
And that had the awful ring of truth about it, didn’t it? Because he was the one who’d wanted to leave. Who maybe still wanted to leave.
“I — I’m sorry,” Fasta said, too quickly, almost tripping over the words. “If you don’t like it, or if it’s inappropriate, it’s not my place, if I’m manipulating you, trying to get what I want again. I can’t help it, I’m sorry, Harry.“
Henrik flinched again, and his hands abruptly dropped from her, now hanging slack by his sides. “Stop,” he said. “Stop apologizing. I just —“
He just what? But he didn’t finish, and one of those hands was rubbing at his mouth. And his eyes were blinking, his head shaking, and he’d backed away a little more. While the panic swung up higher, clenching tight and breathless around Fasta’s chest.
“You what,” she said. “Please, Harry.”
His throat bobbed, and he shook his head again. “I can’t,” he said, and his eyes were still so bright, so strange. “I can’t, Fasta. This” — he waved at her, at them — “needs to end. For good. Okay?”
It shouldn’t have been a surprise, but it still was, enough that Fasta’s body recoiled, her breath rattling in her lungs. “But why?” she asked, and it came out high-pitched, pathetic, plaintive. “I don’t understand, Harry.”
He shook his head again, and his hands were in fists now, his shoulders bunched and tense. “I just did that to you,” he said, his voice sounding flat, almost deadened. “I pushed myself on you, I threatened you, I hurt you. And then you come out with — with this?! I have fucked this up beyond my worst nightmares, I’ve made you fucking delusional, there is no way you mean it, and no way we can get over this!”
His voice had risen as he’d spoken, almost shouting at the end, and Fasta just wanted to sob, to scream. “I wanted all this, Harry,” she managed, somehow. “And I did mean it. I’m not delusional. I love you. I did before all this, and I will after it’s done. I swear to you, Harry.”
But he was still backing away, he was still leaving, oh gods, oh gods. “No,” he said, and the word was strangled, pained. “No. This has to be over. There’s no other choice. Please don’t fight me on this.”
But Fasta wanted to fight him, had to, and had already raised her chin, begun to protest — but he was here again, and his hands were on her shoulders, and — Fasta blinked — his mouth was pressing against hers. Hard, desperate, despairing.
“No,” he said again, once he’d pulled away, far too soon. “This is my last rule for you, okay? You let this go. Let me go. It’s done, Fass.”
His voice cracked on the last, but his eyes were determined, his mouth set. He really meant it, he did, and Fasta’s face was so hot, her eyes already streaking wetness down her cheeks, her head shaking so hard her braid swung out behind her.
“Please, Harry,” she said, but he was already backing away, and he was shaking his head, too. “I’ll come get my stuff later,” he said, his voice quiet, steady. “After we’ve both had some time. Okay?”
There was no agreeing to this, none, but Henrik wasn’t waiting for her to agree. Because he was already walking away, and when Fasta made to follow there was suddenly a single stone rising between them, hovering in front of her eyes.
“Stop,” he said, cold now, over his shoulder. “That’s an order, Fasta.”
And that was that, then, and Fasta sank to the earth, and buried her face in her hands, and sobbed.
26
The walk back to Coven Manor felt endless.
Maybe it was endless. Maybe Fasta was stuck, forever, in one laboured, pained foot in front of the other. Trapped in trees, and more trees, and the occasional person, the occasional voice, that wasn’t Henrik.
She had to look like hell, she knew, and she considered stopping into that healer in Skent — but that meant even more walking, and in the end she just kept going. Kept going back, because, she could admit, there was still the nagging, whispering hope that maybe Henrik would be there. Maybe Henrik would come.
But she could only think of it sideways, could only just touch at it, because even the barest thought of it made the miserable wringing panic flood up, so strong that more than once she had to go off into the trees, and hide. Cover her eyes, try to breathe, let the sobs lurch out of her throat until she could find enough strength, enough hope, to keep moving again.
“What the fuck happened to you,” Runar demanded, once she’d finally reached Coven Manor, and trudged up the endless stairs to his workroom. “Was this — was this Hallen?!”
Fasta tried to open her mouth to speak, but only sobs seemed to come out, and Runar made a soothing, shushing noise that was entirely at odds with the look on his face. “You’re okay now,” he said, quiet, as his hand hovered over her head. “You’re safe now.”
But maybe whatever Runar was doing was already working, because Fasta was compelled to drag in a breath, try to clarify. “It’s not,” she began, “what it looks like, Harry would never actually hurt me.”
Runar’s eyes went even more forbidding, and he glanced purposely from Fasta’s face, toward her arms, to her groin, to her arse. “Of course not,” he said, and the words were thin, scathing. “What did he hit you with, a tree branch? Did he fuck you with it, too?”
