Wind and wildfire mages.., p.37
Wind & Wildfire (Mages of the Wheel), page 37
“This is not how you plant a tree, Vali Ahad,” she chided, kneeling in front of him. He pressed her hands together so he held both her wrists in one hand and brushed at the dirt on her face, more gently this time.
“I think it is the perfect way to plant a tree. I would not wish to do it any other way, or with anyone else.”
No. There was no one else. Just him, the quiet, stern man with laughter and potential buried within him.
“This was supposed to be a betrothal present.” She let her gaze rove his face and stroked her hand up his exposed arm.
“It still could be,” he coaxed with a smile that made her melt. Little muscles in his arm played under her fingers as he curved a hand around her neck. His gaze flicked to the side, and tension replaced his ease as he released her and stood. A few fat rain droplets began to fall around them as Dilay turned and rose beside him. The Queen Sultana approached, Beste at her side.
Dilay bowed. The Queen eyed the tree as though she did not understand it, then turned to Dilay.
“I was wrong to compare you to a termite,” the Queen said. Dilay blinked, and Omar scowled. “You are a thorn I cannot be rid of.”
“Anne.” Omar took a step forward. The Queen turned her head a fraction in denial of him, her gaze set on Dilay’s.
Dilay did not know how to respond, or even how to feel at the Sultana’s proclamation.
“I do not enjoy watching the two of you cavorting like otters out here in the dirt”—she paused when Omar made a strangled noise—“but it pleases me to see him smile.”
Beside her, Beste ducked her head to hide her own smile, her gaze catching briefly on Dilay’s as she looked down. Had Omar told his mother he was going to ask to marry Dilay? She looked up at him, but he appeared both embarrassed and irritated.
“Efendim,” Dilay began, but the Sultana flicked a hand.
“You have defied me at every turn, Instructor Akar.” She folded her hands in front of her caftan. Dilay pressed her lips together to silence her protests. “I can appreciate a woman who does not buckle. You will need that spine if you are going to survive here.”
Beste touched fingers to the Sultana’s elbow and the latter huffed impatiently.
“I will do what I can to help you.”
The spattered drops of rain fell harder, and the Queen glanced skyward, then at them. “Do not stand out here in the rain like a couple of gaping sandgrouse,” she said, then turned back for her rooms. Beste walked beside her, her fingers clutched in the Sultana’s sleeve.
Dilay stared at her back, trying to pick apart whether she was angry or baffled. “Will she ever cease to compare me to animals?”
“Only if she ceases to like you,” Omar said, with a subdued smile. He glanced up into the darkening sky, then down at the tree. “We should go in.” He took her hand, twining his fingers with hers, and urged her toward his rooms. The doors stood open, and when they reached the stone patio outside them Dilay stopped, tugging Omar to a halt beside her.
“Stand in the rain with me, Vali Ahad.”
He looked skeptically into the swirling grey above them as the rain fell harder. The spring shower was cold, bracing, and smelled, always, a bit like ocean brine. Omar closed his eyes. It was not a deluge, as it had been the night they were trapped in her room. But they were soon soaked, and water trickled in rivulets down his upturned face.
“To what end?” he asked, but there was a ghost of a smile on his face. The water made his caftan and salvar cling, and Dilay’s gaze strayed repeatedly to him. To muscles and expanses she wanted to know by touch, the way she knew his voice as she knew her own.
“You said you never had. Storms are the cusp between the First and Second House, a confluence of air and water, primal. Everyone should stand in the rain, at least once. Especially someone who means to rule over all the Houses.”
“But,” he said, his eyes opening as he dropped his chin to look at her. To her chagrin, he caught her gaze fixed far too low to be appropriate. As heat rose in her face, he turned her body into his. “I cannot send you home to your family wet and shivering, what will they think of me?”
It was cold, especially as her clothes began to cling and water slipped down the back of her neck. But his eyes were warm, as were his hands, that heat seeping, barely, through the fabric of her sleeves where he held her arms. She did not mind the chill.
He stepped close, his bigger body eclipsing hers. “I’ll have Ruslan bring you something dry to wear.” He brushed damp hair off her face with his fingers. Dilay nodded mutely. Wet clothes felt very much like no clothes, suddenly, with parts of his body pressing against her she might not otherwise have been able to discern through layers of cloth. The hard ridge of pressure against her belly, for instance. They stared at each other. Surely he was thinking the same thing she was? That it was only that morning she had been in much more intimate contact, and was now craving the same.
When he ducked to kiss her, it occurred to her in the heartbeat before his mouth touched hers that they were likely being watched. Curious servants and a disapproving mother. But the thought was lost swiftly to the new sensation of soft lips and icy rain, his fingers slippery along her neck, their clothes twisting and sticking together. Chilly streamers of wet in contrast to the heat of his body.
He pet his hands down her back. Without the thicker, stiffer fabric of her entari, she could actually feel the friction of his touch, not just the pressure, and her body responded by bowing closer.
He moved, keeping her pressed to him with an arm around her shoulders, and maneuvered her through the doors and into the sitting room. Ruslan had kept his promise, and a tray with a coffee ibrik and small cups sat on the table. Dilay noted them, interested in the idea of a warm drink, but was distracted when Omar stepped away from her.
He closed the doors and pulled the curtains across them, and Dilay brushed self-consciously at her wet, sagging braids, then crossed her arms over her chest. Thankfully her caftan was not white, and transparent when wet, like his. Though she greatly appreciated the view his afforded her.
“You are even more handsome when you are wet,” she said when he moved back to her. “While I look like a bedraggled—”
He cupped her cheek, sealing her lips with his thumb. “I like it when you’re mussed,” he said, “I like how real you are.” His gaze fixed on his thumb over her lips, and he stroked across her mouth, so little sharp bolts of sensation popped throughout her body. All she could think about was touching him. She didn’t care about dry clothes, or returning home as she should. “I’ll call Ruslan.” He dropped his thumb away from her mouth.
Dilay caught the fabric of his caftan as he turned.
She stepped close. “Do you want me to go?”
“No.” He hooked his hands over her elbows and pulled her hard to his body. “I asked you to stay. I asked you to stay forever. And you still have not answered me. I thought you might like space to think.”
“I…” She lowered her hands, working them beneath the caftan and up, to his skin. It was cold, damp, and prickled the instant she touched him, beginning a larger tremor. Magic whispered over his skin, pale light like the promise of morning sun. “…have had enough of distance between us.”
“Yes,” he said. The magic brightened.
“I want to see.” She traced a trail of light along his stomach. Flux, in a normal mage, was no more dangerous than dilated eyes or flushed cheeks. But in Omar…he seemed more settled into his control than he ever had, but she would have to pay careful attention to him.
He held his arms aloft. Dilay shot him a mocking smile. “Do you not know how to remove your own caftan, Sabri Sultan?” He answered with a little, knowing smile, and she took handfuls of the fabric and pushed it up until she couldn’t reach any higher. Omar grabbed the caftan at the back of the neck and tugged it up and over. She didn’t wait for him to peel it from his arms, but touched her fingers to his waist, gliding them up over his ribs. He stopped with his arms still locked in the caftan, and dropped his head to her shoulder, his arms falling between them. Dilay paused to pull the caftan off then resumed her touches, and his visible magic flared in response, whipping in little hurricanes of light over his skin. She chased them with her fingertips, reminded of the light orb chasing game many children played.
“You have had me like this twice now,” Omar said. “It hardly seems fair.”
“You were not wet, the last time.” She brushed a kiss to his shoulder, circling her hands to his back. He flinched, stepping forward and away from her touch with a hiss. Dilay yanked her hands back, remembering only then that he had wounds. She took his arm and made him turn enough she could look. Black and purple streaked his body, yellowing at the edges. In some places he had been struck so hard the skin had broken.
“Omar.” She ran her fingers gently over a few of the unmarked places. “These should be bandaged.”
“I was told to let them breathe.” He turned to place a kiss on her neck, and when she unconsciously bent her head to the side he continued, from the neckline of her own caftan up to her ear. “It’s all right.” He turned her to face him once more, his soft kisses upending her thoughts.
“Thank you,” she said. Those wounds were for her, and the others. He’d stood up for her, for something that mattered to her, and to him.
“Together, yes?” he said. “All these things, these changes, and battles. We can fight them together.”
Dilay nodded, afraid if she spoke her voice would betray too much emotion. He looked down at her for a moment, too serious. He cupped her face in both hands. “I thought I would always be alone, but…”
“I won’t let you be alone.” Then she kissed him, because the confession made her shy. “I love you,” she admitted when they parted.
“So”—he touched his forehead to hers—“marry me.” He grabbed fistfuls of her caftan and tugged her to him, then held her there as he stroked her back again. His fingers stretched low, toward her backside, like he meant to grab her there and lock their hips together. But instead he tugged her caftan up over her hips.
“I am still thinking.” She drew back but he pulled her to him again, nipping at her lips with his in reprimand. “I would have to give up everything.”
He pulled it higher, revealing the thin, pale chemise beneath it. Dilay helped him pull the caftan over her head. He tossed it away.
“I did not intend for you to give up anything.”
“How can I teach and be your Sultana?”
“My Sultana,” he repeated, hands settling on her hips. He explored her face with his gaze, stroking his hands down her waist, to her hips again, then finally did cinch hers to his. His eyes lit, literally, with his magic. “I have never heard more beautiful words.”
“Not even when I said I love you?”
“Do they not mean the same thing?” He smiled, but his gaze had fixed down as he plucked at her wet, clinging chemise. “I knew you loved me when you marched in to save me at the riot,” he bent down to say against her ear as he pulled the chemise up and off.
Dilay pinched the sensitive skin of his belly and made a scandalized noise. He chuckled, touching his lips against her shoulder as he stroked her arms. She shivered at the warmth, craving that same everywhere on her chilled skin.
“I did not march.” She ran the backs of her fingers over his stomach and up his chest. She had never wanted to touch someone so much, never wanted time to memorize every bit of them. “And you did not need saving.”
Omar studied the band of cloth around her chest. “I might now,” he said.
Dilay giggled, and he wrapped his arms around her, guiding her toward the couch that dominated the sitting area.
The door to the hall clicked, someone outside turning the latch. Dilay gasped, and he tossed her, with what care he could, onto the couch. She cried out in surprise, ducking down below the back of the couch to stay out of view of the door. Omar flicked the fingers of one hand at the door. Magic flared and died on his skin and the door slammed shut from the gust of wind. Someone shouted in surprise from the other side.
Omar vaulted over the couch and to the doors to turn the deadbolt.
“Who was that?” She sat up as he stepped over the back of the couch and settled beside her.
“Don’t care,” he said, pulling her firmly into his lap, in the same straddled position she had been in the tower. This time, however, they had on far less, and presumably, would not be enduring any interruptions. Any more interruptions.
“You are more athletic than I might have given you credit for, considering how much you read,” Dilay teased. He clicked his tongue.
“You’ll have to start giving me more credit, considering how often you’ve misjudged me. Besides”—he cupped her waist, the playful look on his face fading as he stared down at her exposed skin—“the right incentive can inspire a great many things.” He rubbed his thumbs up her stomach, causing her to gasp. She curved her fingers over his shoulders as he snugged her hips to his with a low, rumbled sound.
“How…” He studied the band of cloth around her chest. Dilay twisted so he could see the laces at the back. “Do you lace that yourself?” He plucked at it in consternation.
“Of course I do.” Dilay laughed. “Some of us do not have servants devoted to the task of dressing us. And I know where all my clothes are.”
“Of course you do.” Omar lay, gingerly, against the back of the couch, a hand sliding up her back to urge her to lay against him. “Your bedroom is a closet.”
She gave his chest a gentle slap, then kissed the spot in apology. He tipped his head back, closing his eyes as his fingers tangled in the knot that held the laces of the breast wrap tight. While he tugged and felt his way through them, Dilay took her time tracing sigils on his chest, chasing the flutters of light beneath it.
When the laces finally gave and he issued a small sound of triumph, she stopped, twisting her arms behind her back to tug the band loose, then up over her head. He dropped his hands to her waist with a whisper of admiration. He tried, and failed, to not stare at her exposed breasts, and Dilay stifled a smile.
She dropped the fabric band over the back of the couch and laid against him again, pressing her bared breasts to his chilly skin. The shock of it, cold and warmth, the coarser friction of his chest hair on her breasts and nipples, the surprised groan that escaped him, all encouraged the thrum between her legs. That desire made her bolder, and she angled her hips, pressing the juncture of her thighs against his arousal.
He grabbed her hips with a sharp inhale, holding her to him as his legs flexed beneath her. Dilay nuzzled his ear, kissing, then nipping his earlobe, closing her eyes as she inhaled the calming scent of rain and the cool taste of his magic on her tongue.
“We’re getting this lovely couch all wet,” Dilay said in his ear. Omar turned his head, capturing her mouth in his. This kiss wasn’t like the others, it was frantic. He fumbled at her waist, alternating between trying to yank the knot of her salvar free and simply shoving at them to try and get them off. Dilay assisted, her nails useful tools at loosening the wet fabric of the knot. She rose over him on her knees. Omar slid the salvar off her. Dilay kicked her legs free one at a time, then worked the waistband of his salvar loose as well. Omar’s gaze followed her movements, locked on her bared torso, his neck flushed and his eyes nothing but light.
“You can touch me,” she murmured. “I want you to.” She did, her body ached for touch, everywhere, but especially those places most sensitive. Her breasts, and thighs, and between them.
For a moment he appeared overwhelmed, then he arched beneath her to push the salvar off his hips. When he sat he urged her toward him, sitting up straight to press his face against her lower belly. His coarse beard tickled and scuffed her skin, that sensation scored with soft brushes of his lips, and she thought, his tongue, but she was so lost in the cacophony that she could not parse them. She dug her fingers against his hair, wishing again that it was long enough to grab. Instead she stroked the short strands, holding him to her as he stretched up, continuing the blissful torture over her ribs and breastbone.
“How are you so soft?” He touched the tip of his nose and lips to the inner curve of her breast, and Dilay shivered, her nipples tightening and her fingers digging against his head. “How am I to think of anything but touching you ever again?” He punctuated the reverent question with a kiss, running his hands up her waist to bend her forward so he could reach to continue a series of soft, slow kisses over the circumference of her breast.
Dilay had to grip his shoulders to prevent herself melting off the couch. She nearly collapsed back to his lap when he turned his attention to her nipple, eliciting a gasp from her and an answering sound from him. His mouth had always felt wonderful, whether on hers, or her neck, any of her skin. But his lips, and tongue, on her breasts, sent her spinning into a breathless stupor. She had a brief moment of sanity when he took a break to switch from one breast to the other, his warm hands stroking firmly down her waist to her hips.
“I rarely think of anything else,” she said in a quavering voice, which crumbled apart when he pulled her to him. Her bare thighs pressed to his, their skin warming together where it touched. He looked down between them, dropping his hands to her thighs. He opened his legs a bit wider, so her backside sank between them, and pulled her hips flush to his.
“So”—he squeezed—“touch me.”
“Is that a command?” She set her hands on his hips, her thumbs sliding up and down the lowest span of his stomach.
“A plea,” he replied. Dilay swept her hands up, over his ribs, and chest, to his shoulders, his body bowing into the stroke. She continued it down his arms and he dug his fingers into the curve of her backside, holding her as he rocked their hips together. A plaintive sound escaped her when the hot, smooth length of his arousal pressed against her core, bringing relief and more desire in one.
