Page 44 of Strange Familiar

“Alise.” He said her name like he’d answered a question. With his free hand, he touched her cheek, tracing the skin along her jaw up to her temple, the caress reverent. She felt as if her skin drank it in, that touch, as if she’d been starving without realizing it. His fingers threaded into her hair and he drew closer, gaze on her lips.

She wanted, oh, she wanted, needed, craved, longed for that kiss. She couldn’t give into it. This would only lead to more pain. And yet the lure of the momentary pleasure proved more than she could resist. “We can’t,” she whispered, unable to pull away. “I can’t.”

“You can,” he insisted. “Let me remind you of what we have between us.”

As if she needed reminding. Her heart already jolted in her chest like a wounded thing, a fish out of water, flapping on the shore and gasping for breath. Her father’s creature. She’d gone too far to come back.

And there was Bria to protect.

And… Cillian’s lips brushed over hers.

And she was lost. The will-sapping sweetness of his taste, his touch, the abundant affection radiating from him like sunshine on frozen ground—it all poured into her and she clung to him, unable and unwilling to break away. She made a sound of helpless despair and he pulled her in closer, laying back against the couch and draping her over him, holding her close and kissing her with ravenous need. Feeling that from him and from herself, Alise found she couldn’t withhold herself, couldn’t recall all the very good reasons that this had to be in her past.

Instead she surrendered utterly, giving over to the all-consuming need to be held and cherished and loved. To be touched in earnest joy and feel herself blossom in return. Vaguely, in the back of her mind, she recognized that she’d been pretending to herself that the affection and praise her father had generated had been enough to sustain her.

But it had never been enough. No, it had never been real, no more than drinking wine could nourish her instead of real food.

Cillian’s hands roved over her, sparking new flames and fanning old ones, his breath coming harder and his magic more urgent. “Alise…” he groaned. “This isn’t why I came here, why I asked to see you—or not entirely why—but can I, can we…”

“Yes,” she answered recklessly. “Yes. Please now.”

They were alone and as private as could be in House Elal, she reasoned. Or whatever facsimile of reason she currently employed, as she had no doubt her more rational self—temporarily drowned out by lust and the sheer need to be touched—would judge this little episode harshly. Indulging herself in Cillian’s ardent sweetness would solve nothing. In truth, this would only complicate her feelings and his.

But she couldn’t refuse. Instead she told herself this would be the last time, that she should savor for the last time what she’d never have again. Not with him. Not like this.

So she allowed him to trigger the fastening of her Ophiel gown and draw it off of her. She worked away the buttons of his shirt, no wizardry to his clothing, always the slow and rustic way for the Harahels. Once they’d wrestled the extraneous aside, they sighed in unison at the full body, skin to skin reunion. Alise melted into him, surrounded by the scent of cinnamon and sugar her mind evoked, a full metaphor of the rich and delicious things he meant to her.

His hand closed over her breast, teasing her taut nipple, knowing exactly how she liked it, his mouth drawing on hers, their tongues twining in a near silent language of a breath and a slide and tremor of exchange. Her heart swelled, feeling as if she bled inside, with joy and grief entangled inextricably. If only she could have this always. Hold this moment forever suspended with no thoughts, no past, no future.

Cillian rolled her under him, breathing the question she didn’t need him to ask, poised there at her weeping entrance, her hips lifting to ease his way, to welcome him home.

“Alise,” Cillian said roughly in her ear, his breathing harsh, his hands vising on her eagerly pumping hips. “Did you hear my question?”

“Yes,” she panted. “Yes, I want you.”

“Not that. Did you have your fertility unlocked? I don’t want to…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. He thought she might be testing her fertility with the boys, her potential familiars, trying to get with child. It would be funny if it weren’t so tragic. If only, if only. She wound her arms around his neck, her legs around his narrow hips. Never let him go. Her fingers wound into his silky dark curls, she met his warm gaze. “No. I didn’t want them. I only ever wanted you.”

Making an animal sound, so unlike her quiet, reserved bookworm, Cillian surged into her, piercing her with pleasure so exquisite, she could only cry out in return, throwing her head back to release the intense wave of ecstasy. Moving in her, knowing her body and her needs, he thrust her higher, soon hurtling her over the edge. She shuddered in wave after wave of climax, gripping his shoulders as if she might fall. He rode her orgasm through with her, then resumed the dance, taking them both up.

She squirmed beneath him, deliciously pinned, needing more and more. He gave her more and all, rocking her into new heights, his lips along her throat, teeth nipping her collarbones, words in her ear that chanted his love his need his longing their forever.

Blurring and blending, she lost time to the endless lovemaking, climaxing over and over as he held off, watching her face and kissing her in long, lingering swallows. As if he’d thirsted for her, too. At last, his face a rictus of erotic pain, he gritted out that he couldn’t hold off any longer.

“Then don’t,” she purred, clasping him to her, holding on as if she inevitably wouldn’t have to let go. Receiving him, gripping him with everything in her, she opened as he flooded her, crying her name and his love and the sweet ecstasy of it all.

He collapsed on her, face in the crook of her neck, lips pressed to the hollow of her throat, their bodies slick with sweat and clinging at every possible nook and curve. She buried her nose in his silky curls, knowing she only imagined he smelled of cinnamon sugar and glorying in it anyway.

“I love you, Alise,” he said against her skin, pressing a kiss to seal the words there, like a promise, like a vow, like a gift she couldn’t keep.

“I know,” she breathed, uncertain if he even heard her, saying it more to herself. She did know that. Nothing with Cillian was ever a mystery that way. He felt what he felt, with his whole heart, earnestly and without reservation. She was the problem, riddled with holes and rotting inside. Seeing how she’d spent these last weeks and months, seeing herself clearly, she had to confront all the lies she’d swallowed. She’d taken them in and built herself out of them.

Too late to change now.

Cillian must have felt the shift in her because he levered up, gazing down at her in the dimness. She’d never lit the fire for them, or even very many lamps, so intent on ending the interview and getting rid of him as fast as possible. Where Cillian was kindness, she was unkind. Stingy to his generosity, sour to his sweet, empty to his wholeness. Reaching out with her magic, she brought the fire elementals to life, encouraging them to warm and light the dark salon.

Cillian smiled at her, close-lipped and wistful. “You don’t have to say it back to me. I won’t bother you about how you feel and if you don’t want to be with me, I promise I won’t trail after you like a puppy.”

---