He was panting into her mouth. “I’ve got to come inside you now, I’ve got to. Don’t you understand, Merryn? Now. I’ve got to or I’ll spill my seed.”
She felt him shoving frantically against her, but he couldn’t come inside her unless she let him go. She wasn’t about to do that, there was too much pleasure having him just where he was. His tongue, by all the gods’ astounding miracles, his tongue, wet, probing, was the biggest miracle of all, and she didn’t want it to stop.
“Kiss me, Bishop. Don’t stop kissing me. That’s what I want. Don’t stop.”
“I want to kiss your damned belly.” He was shuddering, nipping at her bottom lip. “I want your breasts, I want—”
“All right, but if I don’t like it will you kiss my mouth again?”
“You will like it, I swear.” She let him go. He came up on his hands and knees over her, panting, looking down at her face, seeing how wild she was feeling, knowing she wanted him, but—
His hands pulled her thighs apart, and he was staring at her, and he couldn’t help himself, it was just too late. He couldn’t take the time to kiss her belly, to rub his cheek against her red hair. “Merryn,” he said, “try to like this, all right?”
He clutched her legs, pulling her up, and yelled as he went into her, hard and fast. He heard her scream, felt her fists hitting his chest, his shoulders, but nothing mattered. He tore through her maidenhead, felt the wonder of it even as he pressed against her womb. Oh, God, her womb. He drew back, went into her again and again. He heard her shouting his name, trying to shove at him, but he didn’t care. He felt himself explode, fly apart, felt himself scattered and free, and he was held there in her, part of her, as he found his release. He would have accepted death in that moment, because that was what it felt like. He’d been freed, released, and now he was floating, and he couldn’t breathe because his heart was pounding out of his chest. His strength was gone. He fell on top of her, his head beside hers. And he felt a wonderful peace come over him. He felt immensely tired.
He didn’t think she’d liked it. Damn.
Next time—next time he would make sure she yelled until she was hoarse.
In the next moment he was asleep.
25
Sometime Else
HIS BRAIN BEGAN TO CLEAR. The pain was nothing now, just a heaviness in his chest, as if someone had punched him there with his fist, but Brecia—she was sprawled on top of him, not moving.
He felt a shock of fear so great he nearly yelled. No, she had to be all right. The fear scored his gut, his heart began to pound. He lifted his arms and wrapped them around her, squeezed her. She didn’t move.
“Brecia.”
He began stroking her back, up and down, and he wondered how she’d managed to save him. It had been a mortal wound, delivered by a mortal into the chest of a wizard who had foolishly made himself mortal, and it had nearly killed him. Because he’d been arrogant, because he’d wanted to show Brecia how strong he was, how powerful, how the number of his enemies wouldn’t matter. Mortal or wizard, it wouldn’t matter. But it had. By all the powers that watched over stupid wizards, he should be dead, but he wasn’t, and all because of a witch.
Brecia had saved him.
She didn’t move. No, she couldn’t have given her life for his. He wouldn’t accept it. He held her tight against him and slowly turned until they were on their sides, their faces close. He eased his hand between them and pressed it against her breast. “Damn you, you brave witch, let your heart beat. Do you hear me, Brecia? I am tired of this. Let your heart beat!” He began pressing the heel of his palm against her heart, rhythmically, then stroking her and kissing her still mouth. “Open your eyes. You’re supposed to want to survive, to fight to survive, you know that? To do something so stupid, it beleaguers a wizard’s brain. Brecia, open your witch’s eyes or I’ll thrash you.”
He felt her heart pound against his hand, and smiled. “All I had to do was threaten you and you obeyed me.”
Her eyes opened. She was nearly cross-eyed, she was lying so close to him. “Get your hand off my breast, you dim-witted wizard.”
“Why? Dim-witted, am I? Well, you have a point there. No, my hand stays here. You feel very good to me. Just a moment.” He eased his hand inside her gown. His fingers touched her breast.
They also touched wetness.
He frowned, then shoved her onto her back and came over her. “What is wrong here? Why are you wet?” He jerked open the wool gown and saw that there was blood streaking over her white breasts, over her heart. Oh, God, she’d taken his wound into her. He’d known that, but seeing the blood, his blood and hers, mixed together on her white flesh, knowing the pain she must have endured, knowing she could have died and had been willing to, to save him, he couldn’t bear it.
“You healed me.” He pressed his palm against her breast. Her blood was drying even as his fingers pressed down hard. “Is there pain, Brecia?”
“Not so much now. Just a slight ache.”
He pulled away from her and sat up. The blood had dried on her chest. As he looked at her, the blood began to fade, then it was gone and her flesh was white and pure again.
He said, “I’m alive. My blood is pulsing through me. I’m strong again, invulnerable. Never will I make myself mortal again.”
“That was a smart thing you just said, prince.”
He managed a smile. “I have never before heard of a witch saving a wizard.”