Clans of Luteri Ch. 07-09

It fit her perfectly, neither too tight to bother her nor too loose, the warm metal looking natural on her skin, the swirled markings offering their bloodlines that any Luterian could read.

When they were done, Jaime embraced him and gave him his congratulations twice, laughing, and Jaime kissed her cheek, and kissed her other cheek, and then again, which made her laugh, and then he waved as they walked and got in the carriage, gone for a three days to Versace.

Kane would have taken a small primitive cottage in the middle of a field to have the time alone with her and the privacy, those being his requirements, but he wanted Aslin to have a different experience of Alveria before she left it.

#

The Ascarot was grand and luxurious, a lobby with tall ceilings and marble and cut glass and huge sprays of hothouse flowers and various useless Alverian lords sitting and idling. Aslin had taken the wreath out of her hair, not disturbing its careful styling, a series of braids in a circle that almost looked too heavy for her head, and the Alverian men looked up from their papers and watched the Corsaire pass, their eyes appreciative. A servant brought them to their rooms with their bags and let them in, bowing.

Aslin walked around the rooms, looking into all of them, and then back to where he was standing in the center of the room.

"Do you like it?" he asked, watching her.

She nodded, glancing at him sidelong, and he realized she was shy of him.

"Well, I hope you do, Corsaire," he said, approaching her, but she veered away to the flowers, touching them. "Because we are not leaving these rooms for awhile."

She glanced at him briefly and evaded him again, going to the double doors, opening them to the balcony looking out to the city. She put her hands on the railing. He followed her out, standing behind her, drawing her to him and moving her hair aside, his lips on her throat, breathing in her scent. Her breath caught and she tipped her head, offering the place like she did, sending a wave of desire through him.

"We will have to eat," she objected.

"I have already arranged that they will bring food to our room," he said in her ear, his arm slipping around her small waist, pressing himself against her, his need growing with the tightness in his trousers. He returned his lips to her throat, her scent. "And there is a bath, and there is a bed, and there is too much furniture."

"It's afternoon, Kane," she said low, like there was a time for these things and a time not to do them.

"Corsaire, at this point I'd bed you at midday on the top of a roof in rain and trust my balance," he answered, his hand coming behind her to cup her full breast in the dress.

She jumped, turning quickly.

"People can see."

"We're wed, we've been wed, and you're beautiful, Corsaire," he said, grinning. "I don't think they imagine we are playing cards, if they are thinking about us at all."

She let him lead her back into the room. He drew her to face him. He put the back of his fingers on her cheek. She leaned into him. He pushed his hand into her hair and brought her to him and kissed her until he was aching and she was flushed and breathing. He drew back.

"I have imagined you in your undergarments so many times, Corsaire, but now I need to see you naked. I very much so want to see you without anything at all, to see your breasts and your nipples and your belly and the dark hair where your thighs meet and the pink between your legs and your sweet round bottom and your long pretty legs," he told her.

She was blushing furiously, not looking at him. He tipped her chin until she did. He studied her face. His eyes narrowed.

"Would you like me to call for some food? We could eat first, and I know you have brought a new book that interests you. I have things to read and I can pen a letter to my sister."

He saw the relief in her eyes, confirming his suspicions. She was nervous about the sex.

"I would like that, Kane."

He nodded.

"I only have one condition, Corsaire, if we are not going to go to bed right away."

"Okay," she said a little warily.

"I would like you to be naked."

"Naked?" she echoed.

He grinned at her.

"I will go as slow as you like to calm your nervousness, Corsaire, but I want to look at your beauty."

"But—. Here? Now?"

"Yes."

"But—."

"We could just go straight to the bed. I wouldn't object if you'd prefer it."

"No, that not—. All right."

"And take your hair down."

"All right."

"You could leave your shoes on," he said, grinning again. "They have a nice heel."

She stared at him.

"Why?"

"Never mind," he said.

He stepped back from her. After a moment he gave an exaggerated sigh, crossing his arms, gesturing at her.

"If you're waiting for me to turn my back, Corsaire, it seems a little silly, doesn't it, since you'll be walking around that way?"

He appealed to her sensible side. She frowned at him and walked into the bedroom and sat at the chair there in front of a mirror, putting her hands to her hair, collecting pins. The mass of it finally released as she unraveled each braid and shook at it, loose, very wavy and beautiful, falling down to mid-thigh when she was standing, silky and dark.

She leaned down and removed the shoes, little fussy Alvarians buckles. He looked at them a little regretfully as she set them aside. He went and took off his weapon, sat on the bed and took off his own Alverian boots. She rose and went to her case and went through it, retrieving her comb.

"You are stalling, Corsaire," he said, unwilling to sit through that, although it was usually pleasant to watch her.

She gave him a look and put the comb away. She walked to the generous closet and carefully removed her shawl, hanging it, brushing it with her hands. She turned her back to him and unbuttoned the dress, too many buttons. When she was done she shrugged it off her shoulders, stepping out of it and hanging it carefully.

He rose and helped her to undo the laces of the thing at her waist that bound her and pushed her flesh to places like she wasn't pleasing on her own, a complicated affair, and removed it, too. His eyes ran over her, the clothing he'd got her, her little short white cotton pants under it, trimmed with lace now, the little shirt above it, also trimmed with lace, with a white ribbon. She turned around.

"Couldn't I just—?" she began.

She stopped when he looked pointedly at the bed—like he wasn't going take her everywhere in their rooms, including the balcony if she'd let him. She looked down, tugging the little ribbon. It had a tiny row of buttons under that and he watched her fingers working them as the sweet place between her breasts came into view, the curving flesh promising more.

She took a deep breath, not looking at him, and drew it off her shoulders, her pink nipples large and so tempting. He didn't take his eyes off them and she didn't look at him. She grasped the waist of the little pants and pulled them straight down, her breasts and hair going with her, and stepped out of them, one hand covering her breasts inadequately, the other in front of her pussy.

"You're not going to leave them on the floor?" he said, indicating the short pants.

She looked down at them blankly. She turned her back as if she were more covered there and reached down to pick them up. As he knew she would, she went straight down, her shoulders disappearing behind her round heart-shaped butt and giving him a view of the pink between her legs, his head tilting, entirely aroused by her teasing.

She straightened fast with the pants in her hand, whirling around, realizing. She sniffed. She walked past him and opened a drawer, putting things away carefully.

He walked out into the common area and sat at the table, picking up the newspaper provided there by the hotel, ignoring her. He pretended not to see her appear in the doorway, hesitant, her hair covering her breasts. She had arranged it this way and he briefly wondered if she had any idea what she did to him, had any idea how difficult it was for him not to have her right away with that hair all around her.

She came into the room bit by bit, her dark eyes going to him every once in awhile, a shy, nervous creature. He pretended not to notice, turning the page, although he couldn't read any of the words. He had never bothered to learn written Alverian.

"There is to be a troupe coming through Versace, Aslin, the day after tomorrow," he lied.

"What is that?"

"It is a traveling group of people who have talents in entertainment. There will be jugglers and tumblers and other spectacles. There will be old women to read your fortune in your hand and puppet plays."

"Puppet plays?"

He could tell she was curious. She stepped toward him, looking at the paper.

"You haven't seen a puppet play?" he asked her curiously.

It's like she'd grown up without knowing about the stars. She shook her head, one delicious nipple peeking through her hair and making his cock surge.

"We can go if you'd like," he said, returning to the paper and the meaningless squiggle lines there, turning the page again.

There was a knock on the door and she gave a strangled sound and vanished, the door to the bedroom closing behind her. The servant bowed when Kane opened the door to the rooms.

"Lunch, Lord Tavishi, as you requested."

The man pulled in the rolling cart, laying out the table quickly with all the finery. The Ascarot was know for its chefs. The man bowed again and exited. When he was gone, Kane went to the bedroom door and opened it. She was in the bed, the coverlet over her.

"I've fought the invaders off. You're safe, Corsaire."

"May I put on some clothing, Kane?"

"I could join you and we could begin the marriage this instant, Aslin, but the food will grow cold," he said lazily, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe.

She vacated the bed and went to move past him. Kane stopped her in the doorway, stepping in her path.

He leaned down and kissed her. He straightened and took her hair, managing the silky mass and putting it over her shoulders, looking down at her. She covered her breasts with her hands and he took her wrists and pulled them away gently.

"I need to look at you, Corsaire. I can't see you through your hair the way I'd like, and I definitely can't see you through your hands."

Without waiting for her answer, he went back to the table, sitting. He busied himself taking the tops off of trays and tureens as she came straight into the room, obviously deciding to brazen it out. She sat across from him, her head high, her breasts high, straight back, her cheeks flushed, and took her napkin and put it neatly on her lap. At this moment he couldn't think of anything more tantalizing than eating and

watching her breasts across from him.

The meal was very enjoyable. The food was good, too. When they were done he wheeled the cart to the door and returned to take up the paper again.

"I don't know this word, Corsaire," he said—in truth, he didn't know any of them—tilting the paper toward her and putting his finger on a line randomly, looking for a largish one for credibility. "I don't read the language well. Will you say it aloud to me?"

She immediately came to his side and looked down at it.

"It is constrained," she said.

"Will you read this article aloud then?"

She nodded, bending over a little to see it better, holding her hair back that wanted to fall.

"With horror, we attempt to relate the progress of evil, generally prevailing among children with wicked

parents, although we are constrained...."

She stopped abruptly when his hand reached down from where he was sitting and found the back of her leg behind the knee, slowly moving up. Shai, her skin was soft like silk or velvet but warm. He could smell her scent.

"Keep going, Corsaire. I am interested," he lied.

"...to mention those who often bring the hoary heads of honest parents with sorrow to the grave."

Her reading voice—she had a lovely voice for reading—became a little wavering and high as his hand resumed its way, now on the back of her thigh. He was enjoying the anticipation, enjoying flustering her.

"What is hoary?" he asked her.

"It means wizened, or gray, or can mean a word overused," she said, her breathing quicker.

He had almost found the place he wanted, where the top of her thigh met her butt, and then he was running his fingers on it lightly, very sensitive. He caressed her there as she read, her breathing even faster. The Corsaire was a sensual creature, and he would learn all the places she liked touched. She liked this, as he had thought she would. He could smell it on her, her arousal.

"Read it more then, if you would."

She read as he caressed there, her voice wavering as his fingers followed the curve of her, brushing inward and higher as he slid his fingers between her legs, pressing on her outer lips.

"...may prove a lasting warning to the world," she managed to finish, by this time breathing in light stutters.

"Thank you," he said, dropping his hand.

She straightened and stepped away from him, flushed. Her nipples were hard. She backed away from him.

"You're welcome," she said awkwardly.

He returned to the paper. She went to her bag, his eyes on her bottom and bliche hips that swayed as she walked. He didn't think he'd ever get used to her beauty. It was like he forgot and then chanced upon it

again. She reached for the buckles, bending over. She looked over her shoulder at him nervously, her hair trailing, but he flicked his eyes downward.

She bent farther and he turned his head and looked at her sidelong, giving himself over to the show as she tugged it open, reaching inside quickly and feeling around, her pussy a neat little pink swelling, her lower lips perfect. His heart was thudding. He turned his eyes back to the paper when she looked over her shoulder again.

She straightened with the book in her hand. She walked over to the large armchair and sat, her back very straight, and held it in front of her the way she did. It aroused him more to see her naked and so proper. She opened it, setting aside the marker for her place.

"What are you reading?" he asked her after a few minutes passed.

She looked up at him guiltily, her cheeks flushed. He would have liked to know what she was thinking to give her that glow and keep the page unturned for so long.

"I am reading—." She closed it and looked at the cover. "Catalise."

"I have never read him," Kane said.

He got up and came behind her chair, leaning over it as she opened the book again. He was idly reading over her shoulder—not at all, actually, it being in Alverian script—resting his hand on the place where her neck met her shoulder and letting his thumb caress the small hairs there, that sensitive place. He watched her nipples harden as she shivered.

Her legs were pressed together tight and he marveled at her skin in this light, the dark hair on her mound a stark contrast against her pale thighs. He stayed quiet as she read silently to herself—or as she pretended to do so, he couldn't tell—his fingers still caressing her. He let his hand trail to her shoulder. Her breasts were rising with her breathing, faster. He let himself caress Shai's Kiss.

"What is it about?"

"It is...," she paused as his fingertips moved over the top of the swell of her breast, "a book of...a play."

He made a small encouraging sound, his fingers now tracing underneath the swell.

"A play about...a man."

"A man?" he encouraged.

"Yes, he—," she said and then stopped, a sharp intake of breath when he touched her nipple before moving to the other breast.

"He what?" Kane said, his own breathing very deep as he moved again to caress the firm swell, under it, circling up to touch her nipple lightly.

He liked teasing her, but he needed to take care of this wanting for her that had become like a need in him. He would have her and then he would have her again right away, and maybe that would give him some respite from it.

"He...he—," was as far as she got as he squeezed a hard pink bud, moving to the other.

She was breathing in shudders. He straightened. She was now holding the book limply. He came around in front of her, taking it from her and putting it on the side table.

He squatted, putting his hands on her knees and drawing her legs apart, kneeling between them, her breasts at exactly the right level. He did what he wanted, fingers and mouth, gentle, smelling her heat, hearing the hitches in her breathing, her soft cries.

He straightened, standing up, taking her by her arms and drawing her to her feet, looking down at her.

She was breathing and flushed, squirming a little still as she'd squirmed in the chair, her eyes heavy with pleasure. He released her. She was ready. He knew he was. He was done waiting. He drew off the ridiculous Alverian coat. She backed away as he dropped it, pulling off his shirt, dropping it, too, as she continued to retreat and he followed.

#

Aslin backed away, involuntary, her nipples throbbing as Kane came toward her. He looked very big and very dangerous at this moment and not at all like the Alverian lord he had pretended to be today, dressed that way for the ceremony. His shirt was off, a scar on his arm, one on his shoulder and she knew he had a long one on his back, and his chest filled her view and his eyes said he had no more patience with her fear.

She wouldn't cry again, she told herself. She would get used to it, Miss Stram had said she would. Obviously married women endured this pain all the time and they seemed fine. She was silly to be so afraid. Yes, it had hurt, but then it had been over. But her hands were shaking and she put them behind her as she felt the wall behind her and then she bumped into it and was flat against it.

His arms were huge as his hands came flat on either side of her head and he pressed his body against hers, kissing her again. Kissing Kane always made her forget everything, her arms coming up around his neck, her fingers in his hair, relaxing into him, returning it, excitement in her belly and between her legs, small twinges and then stronger tugs. But as soon as he drew back her anxiety returned, his eyes on her face.

He abruptly turned her around so she was facing the wall. She cried out, her hands going flat against it, surprised. He pressed against her from behind as her cheek rested against the wall, cool. She could see a pattern of flowers in the wallpaper, blurry. She felt his weight. She closed her eyes tightly, waiting.

"You're afraid, Corsaire," he said in her ear.

She shook her head, her eyes still closed.

"No."

"I can feel your body trembling, Aslin."

"I'm sorry," she said.

She was embarrassing herself, her heart pounding. They were married. This was what happened. She had told herself so, lying in bed at night after she'd agreed, alternately afraid and heated. She wished he would just do it. She would get through it and then it would be over. It was the anticipation that frightened her. But she didn't know how to say that to him.

"It's nothing, Kane," she said, her voice wavering. "Please just...I'm fine, I am. You can...do that, if you'd like."

"You're not just nervous," he said close behind her as if he'd realized something, his voice low, his body strong against her, so much of him. "You think I'm going to hurt you."

Her whole body shook when he said that and she felt her eyes sting. Why did he have to talk about it? She felt him rest his forehead on top of her head, heard his deep breathing. She moved herself against the hardness she felt behind her, rubbing on him gently, trying to encourage him. Feeling him sent an ache throbbing between her legs. She didn't know how she could want and fear the same thing at the same time and so much. She felt his hand go to her hip, large and warm, stilling her.