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stared at the bright gold of the power under my hands, and wondered what it
would feel like to have that much power brushed across my breasts. This much I
could give her.
I said, "Kiss me, Maeve."
She opened her eyes enough to look in my direction, but she couldn't focus;
she was already half gone
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from the touch of magic and skin.
I repeated, "Kiss me."
She lowered her head, and I waited, waited until our mouths touched, then I
caressed my hands upward over the mounds of her breasts. She pressed her mouth
harder against mine, and the kiss became something deep and urgent, then my
hands slid to the hardness of her nipples, and it was as if the world
exploded. Power rocked us backward onto the bed so that she fell on top of me
and my hands were locked on her breasts, as if I'd put my hands on a live wire
and now couldn't get free.
Part of me didn't want free. Part of me wanted to sink into the golden glow of
her, and be lost. She rose above me, quivering, shrieking, jerking against my
hands where they seemed melded to her flesh. She ground her hips against mine,
and if I'd been male, she'd have hurt me. But I wasn't male, and some part of
my magic kept her amazing orgasm from jumping to me. The power pulsed wave
after wave through my body while Maeve danced above me, but that ultimate
pleasure was hers and hers alone. Somehow it seemed right. She'd waited so
long.
She opened her eyes in the midst of it all, and she must have seen my face,
understood that I was giving to her, but not taking, and she didn't like that.
She pressed her hand to my stomach, and my white glow intensified under her
touch. It was like being touched by spring's warmth, something heavy and rich
that shivered and throbbed against my skin. I had a moment to wonder if that's
what my hands felt like on her breasts when she slid her hand down the front
of my bathing suit, and slid her finger between my legs.
The moment that throbbing, pulsing power thrilled along my flesh, the orgasm
burst from my body in waves, as if her touch were a stone thrown into a deep
lake, and each ripple was another ring of pleasure, and where the stone slid
downward pleasure followed. It was like being caressed and mined with sex all
at the same time.
I came back to myself still on the bed with Maeve collapsed on top of me. I
couldn't hear her ragged breathing for the pulse in my own ears, but I could
feel the rise and fall of her chest as she struggled to breathe, as we both
struggled to breathe past the pounding of the pulses in our throats.
When I could hear again, it was her frantic breathing and ragged laugh that
came first. Then it was Rhys's voice: "I don't know whether to applaud or
cry."
"Cry," Galen said, "because we missed the entire show."
I turned my head, and it seemed to take a lot more effort than it should have.
I ended up staring at the room through a mist of Maeve's pale blond hair. I
swallowed and tried to speak, but that was still beyond me.
Galen, Nicca, and Frost were just inside the door. Rhys and Doyle were by the
bed, but not close enough to be accidentally touched.
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Maeve found her voice before I did. "I'd forgotten, forgotten. Goddess bless
me, I'd forgotten what it could be like with another sidhe." She rolled off me
slowly, awkwardly, as if her body wasn't working right. She turned to look at
me, a smile on her face even as she struggled to focus her eyes. "You were
wondrous."
I managed to whisper, "Remind me the next time I ask for a kiss to be more
specific."
That made her laugh, which made her cough. "My throat is dry."
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Funny, so was mine.
"Nicca," Doyle said, "go get the ladies some water."
As Nicca left the room, he walked wide outside the door as if someone were
standing on the left-hand side of it. It was Galen who said, "There's a tree
in the hallway. I think it's an apple tree. It burst through the stone floor
just inside the pool area, and by the time we got upstairs it had made a hole
in the floor up here."
Rhys walked over to peer at the tree in the hallway. "The blossoms are
opening."
The smell of apple blossoms began to drift in through the door.
Doyle stared down at us, at me. "How do you feel?"
"Better. My throat doesn't hurt anymore."
He offered me a hand, and I took it, let him lift me from Maeve's bed. My
knees wouldn't hold me, and only his arm around my waist kept me from the
floor. He picked me up, cradling me against his bare chest. I was too spent to
do much more than lie there. I had an urge to play with the silver ring in his
nipple, but it seemed too much effort. I was suddenly tired. Tired in a good
way, but tired nonetheless.
He carried me out into the hall, past the pink-and-white mass of blossoms that
almost filled it. I was drowning in the scent of apple blossoms again, and for
a moment power flared through me, a strong pulse that made Doyle stumble.
"Be careful, Princess, I do not wish to drop you."
"Sorry," I mumbled, "didn't mean to."
I noticed the unevenness of the stairs, and got a glimpse of the grey tree
trunk before we got to the sliding glass doors, but the last thing I
remembered was a flash of blue water and sunlight from the pool.
Then I closed my eyes, snuggled against Doyle's chest, and gave up the fight.
Sleep swept up and over me, as complete and deep as any I could remember. Do
the gods sleep well at night? I think, maybe, they do.
CHAPTER 8
I dreamed. I stood on a hill with a rounded top and gazed down upon a vast
open plain. There was a woman beside me, but I couldn't see her face. She wore
a grey cloak; or it was black, or perhaps green.
The harder I tried to see her, the thicker the shadows around her grew, until
I knew that I wasn't meant to see her. Her face was hidden in the shadows of
the cloak's hood. I couldn't tell her age, though I
thought she was not young. She had the feel of someone who had seen much, and
not all of it happy.
One thing I was sure of: I did not know her.
She held a staff in her hand, so ancient that it was black and shiny with use.
She motioned outward with her empty hand toward the plain. Doyle strode across
the grass with hounds roiling around him, huge black hounds with eyes of fire.
The Gabriel Ratchets, Hell Hounds, curved like shadows and smoke around him.
They gathered close to him so he could rub an ear, stroke a head, thump a
chest bigger
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