“Easy, habiba. Stay right here with us.”
There was a strained note to his voice, though, and she wondered if he was regretting his decision to let her ride one of his prized horses. Then she raised her attention to his gaze and realized it was something else. Fire, the rage of Hell in the depths of his eyes, but not toward her. Coman shifted restlessly beneath him, but he stilled him with the movement of his knees. “Come here, habiba.
This one time, I’m going to outrun those memories of yours. For both our sakes.” Before she could protest, he’d plucked her off Hasna and sat her before him on the black. He slipped off the white mare’s bridle and tossed it over a salt-encrusted bush. Hasna followed them as he put the black into an easy trot toward the water’s edge. His arm slipped around Jess’s waist, making her far more cognizant of his heat at her back, the solid chest, the feel of his groin and her buttocks snugged in against it. A soft command, and the horse was cantering, the wind building in their faces.
Male vampires didn’t have facial hair, and she’d missed that during her captivity, the rasp of a man’s five o’clock shadow.
However, she didn’t mind the smooth, firm line of Mason’s jaw, pressed against her temple. She put one hand on his forearm across her stomach, and had no place other than his thigh to put the other.
“Would you like to go as fast as he wants to go? Feel his wildness call to your own, habiba?”
“I would love it,” she said, before she could think to be more reserved.
“Good. I would, too.” His arm tightened around her waist in approval, and she couldn’t help but compare the muscles that flexed against the back of her shoulder to the musculature of the horse’s crest. “Now, as he runs, move with me, no stiffness. I won’t let you fall.”
Of all the scenarios she’d imagined for herself, combining one of her favorite pastimes with the company of a vampire had been far off the radar. But now, she made a concerted effort to relax her body into his, giving herself tacit permission to enjoy the forbidden, without interposing the memory of Farida to keep him at a safe distance. “Go,” she encouraged.
He smiled against her temple. Another word, that musical language she didn’t know, and she gasped as the horse’s feet lifted off the ground in a joyous response. Coman leaped forward, Hasna on his flank.
The silver line of moonlight on the water wavered into jagged lightning as the body between her legs moved with all the reckless power and speed the stallion had been blessed with. She’d seen horses run wild in pasture, but the fence curbed their speed. When given limitless stretches of ground, horses became the favored animal of the gods, fire on their fetlocks, thundering them to the heavens to do battle for Zeus.
Coman went faster and faster, as if on the next breath he was going to leave the ground in truth. As exhilarating as that was, feeling the male body behind her added to it. Mason moved with Coman, united with that horse’s exuberant spirit. He let out a wild yell, like a Berber raider coming over the dunes. It made her laugh and tremble at once, her fingers digging into his thigh and forearm, her head thrown back on his shoulder, fear for once gone from her mind when his arm cinched around her. Remarkably, they went even faster. His breath was at her ear, body pressed in hard against hers. She was so alive. Damn it, she was alive. Nothing could touch her like this. Nothing except what she wanted to touch her.
Perhaps it was only a few minutes, but when he brought the horse back to a half gallop, then to a canter, she was breathing hard, as if she’d been the one running. A long time ago, she’d galloped her palomino, Deena, through forest meadows. As they cooled down by the river, Deena would walk and Jess would lie back on her rump, letting the reins go slack, because Deena knew the way home. Jess had stared up through the screen of trees at the blue sky, listened to cicadas and frogs, and dreamed about the marvelous, heroic woman she would be, never realizing she should have treasured the girlhood, because her ability to dream for herself was a loss she would never get back.
You don’t know that, habiba . Your life is far from over. And you are that marvelous, heroic woman. Keeping his arm around her, he lay back and brought her with him, her shoulder blades against his upper abdomen, head pillowed on his chest. The distracting press of his impressive groin adjusted in the small of her back. But he had no demands of her, allowing her to use him as a prop as she stared up at the stars and moon. Then at Hasna, for the mare’s head filled her vision, ears pricked forward as she nosed Jess, curious about her position. It made her chuckle, stroke the long nose until the horse snorted and nosed Coman instead.
He gave her a playful nip, but stayed to a walk, mindful of his master’s will. Mason’s thighs were warm beneath Jess’s palms and she had to make a conscious effort not to stroke the long muscles as she might Coman’s flanks.
“She stayed right with him,” she said, desperately hoping he would continue to ignore her thoughts, or at least not comment on them.
“She can run nearly as fast. His legs are just longer. They’ve been together since they were babies. They’re very devoted to one another, gentle as lambs, for all that their high spirits make them a bit of a handful.”
“They’re magnificent.”
“Thank you. Coman’s name means ‘noble.’ Their bloodlines go back centuries. Far purer than mine. I think they know they outrank me, but they’re tolerant.”
It made her want to smile, but she restrained herself this time. When she turned her head to look out at the sea, it pressed her cheek to him, so that she felt the bump of his nipple, distractingly close to her lips. She noted again that he smelled good, like cinnamon and a male musk, as well as a trace of the tropical flowers she’d passed in his gardens. He smelled like his home, as well as the desert.
He’d let his arm slide to a resting spot on her hip, and she was aware of the pressure of his long fingers there, how easy it would be to slide upward beneath her T-shirt. Or down, beneath the loose waistband of her jeans to tease her between her legs. Then, using a modicum of that impressive strength to lift her, he could turn her over and let her rest on her stomach, his heartbeat in her ear, her legs tangled with his behind the horse’s shoulders, her fingers curled into his shirt at the ribs. She could sleep this way, moving in a fantastic dream of moonlight and horses running under the night sky.
“Sit up, habiba, and I’ll turn you over.”
“No,” she whispered, staring at the sea. “Don’t. My thoughts don’t mean anything.” Of course he didn’t listen to her. He lifted them both to a sitting position, and as she sat tensely, he guided one leg over so she was sitting sidesaddle, legs draped over one thigh, and then the next step, turning her to face him, straddling his lap. She’d gone numb, her mind not working. She was afraid, but wanting, too, caught between her dream of him and Farida—
“Jessica.” He curved his palm over her cheek, but she wouldn’t look up. She stared at the open collar of his shirt, at the column of his throat, the smooth skin revealed there. He paused, his breath stirring her brow, then he reached between them and, before her eyes, he slipped two buttons, so she saw more of that muscular flesh. Lifting her hand, he placed it inside the fabric, against his heart, warm male flesh.
“Being with Farida, it was a dream. A beautiful one. I don’t blame you for escaping there when the awful memories you’ve had to carry become too much. But this is you and me right now. Can you face that?” Sometime during the ride, his hair had become unclipped and the wind rippled it forward over one of his shoulders, teasing her cheek. Reaching up, she caught it, twined her fingers in the copper strands, but she shook her head. “I don’t know what’s real or a lie anymore, Mason. I don’t think I even want to know. Can you please . . . just let me pretend for a little while?” Before he could answer, she slid her hands under his arms, pressing her palms into his back, laying her cheek with wonder on the warm flesh. This is Lord Mason, Farida’s Mason. That’s all that’s important.
Her tension eased as he sighed, folded his arms around her and lay back again, taking her with him. “This is not helping you, Jessica.” His deep voice thrummed against her upper body, through her chest and stomach.
“For right now, it is.” She turned her head so she could look at the shore again. Coman was unconcerned by their movements, nosing Hasna, having a horse conversation of some type. He kept to a walk in a floating silver world of water and moonlight, and the rush of water passed over his hooves as he moved along in the shallow surf. Occasionally, as higher waves came in, it lapped up to Mason’s boots. She curled her wet toes against them. His body was warm and strong beneath her, his arms a bulwark against any fear.
Her mind stirred uneasily, wanting to remind her he was what she feared most of all. She hushed it, because she knew. She knew what he was, what he was likely to become. But he was giving her this moment, whether or not he would use it as a weapon against her later.
Maybe she’d accepted that something vital in her spirit had broken, when she realized she’d escaped Raithe only to walk back into a vampire’s hands. Whatever the powers that be were, they didn’t mean her to be free of vampires, perhaps ever. She would never have a lasting peace, a life of her own choosing, a life without fear. So all she could have were moments, and those moments only at the behest of whatever Master she was forced to serve. So fine. Whatever his game, he was giving her this one.
Given his effect on her senses, she shouldn’t have been surprised to find that her body was starting to want more out of this moment than tranquil moonlight. It was impossible to ignore the feast of male beneath her, her legs straddled over his groin. Despite his un-demanding touch on her back, his cock was hard against her belly. She had the absurd idea to make a slow rub against it, tease him, see how far his restraint went.
“I wouldn’t advise it, love.” His hand cupped her head, stroked the cap of hair, caressed the shell of her ear, a soothing rhythm that made her as sleepy as the evidence of his desire stirred her. In that dreamlike reaction, she slid her fingers up to his throat, traced the line of his jugular, that place that was so arousing to vampires. Deliberately baring a throat to a male vampire was as provocative as stripping. Maybe more so.