Reap the Wind (Cassandra Palmer 7)

But not when he was away from it.

Which meant that our window of opportunity had just been shortened by something like a thousand years.

I tried to process that, but I didn’t have the strength. That last outburst had left me feeling weak and wobbly, with a brain that was having a hard time keeping up. Everything was coming too thick and too fast, and all I could think was the same thing, over and over.

“Then we’ve failed,” I whispered, feeling dizzy. And lost. And very, very cold.

“Like hell we’ve failed.” I looked up to find Rosier glaring at me again. “I’m going to see Adra,” he said, brushing himself off. And talking about the head of the demon council.

“Why?”

“Because he laid the damned spell! He’s the only one who can track it. He should be able to tell us approximately when Emrys’ soul will enter earth again.”

“What difference does it make?” I demanded shakily. “I can’t shift again, probably not for hours . . . and even if I could, Pritkin was born in the sixth century—”

“I know when he was born.”

I shook my head violently, because he didn’t know. He didn’t understand. “You’re talking about fifteen hundred years. Even if we had more time, I can’t—”

“You can and you will,” Rosier said, his voice a whip crack. For a moment, he sounded exactly like his son giving me an order in the middle of a fight. It was enough to snap my head up, enough to bring me back from the brink. I blinked stupid tears away.

“How?”

“That’s for you to discover. But the spell gets weaker as it moves along, losing power as the magic behind it gives out. It starts out lightning fast, but nearer the end, it slows down considerably. We have time.”

“How much time?”

“That’s what I intend to find out.” The voice was hard. Like the hand that suddenly gripped my arm, possibly because I’d started to sway a little.

I looked up and met Rosier’s green, green eyes. They were so like Pritkin’s that, for a moment, I almost thought I saw a spark of compassion in them. And then the grip turned painful.

“Eat. Sleep. Do whatever you have to do. And then find us a way back there!”

Chapter Five

I woke up to a soft bed, cool sheets, and the feel of warm skin sliding against mine. It felt good; it felt better than good. Like the unmistakable thickness that pressed hard against me.

I smiled and stretched, pushing back into a strong embrace. Enjoying the feel of hard muscle and the quiver of anticipation that shivered from me into the body behind me. Or maybe it was the other way around; maybe he was the one shivering. I couldn’t tell, didn’t care.

An arm encircled my stomach, pulling me abruptly back. And the weight against me suddenly grew larger. A rough hand began to wander, exploring the jut of a hip bone, the curve of a rib, the dip of a navel. And then smoothing up my stomach, pushing my shirt along with it, up and over the swell of a breast.

A sound escaped my lips at the combination of chilly air and warm flesh. The latter began exploring my softness, but slowly, teasingly. Deliberately ignoring the tightly furled tip.

I moaned again, louder, and pressed into his grasp. But the gentle torture continued unabated, until I was gasping and sweating, shivering and desperate. Such a little thing, to leave me completely undone. Such a silly little thing . . . but it had, and I was, and I wanted . . .

And finally, finally, practiced fingers found the tender nub, rolling it expertly, making my breath catch in my throat. I pushed into the hand, trembling and aching. And it tightened for a moment possessively before sliding back down my stomach. All the way down, past the silky scrap of my thong.

Until it grasped other things.

My breath sped up and my legs moved apart automatically. The grip tightened, rough calluses against delicate skin, and I writhed, almost in pain now. His breath sped up, too, ruffling the hair on the back of my neck as his fingers found a new nub to torture. And the desire that had been building and building suddenly caught fire, flaming out of control.

But I was trapped, caught between sinuous movements from behind, where his body still cupped me, and sure, sweet strokes from in front, those talented fingers both caging and bringing me to the brink in moments. Until the deep throb of desire blotted out everything else. A hand gripped my thigh, pulling it farther up. Leaving me open and aching as he slid slowly against me from behind, huge and hard and . . .

“Take me already!” I gasped, and heard him chuckle.

“Are you asking or demanding?”

“Either. Both.” I barely knew what I was saying as that wonderful heat kept. Missing. The target. “Can’t you find it?” I asked desperately, after another few seconds, because I was losing my mind.