Lyon (3 page)

“My secrets are not yours to hear until we've grown closer,” she crooned, all cloying again as her attention returned to him. Her bony, translucent fingers made quick work of the fastenings of his trousers. Freed, his cock surged from the gape of fabric and she reached for it.

“Careful,” he reminded softly.

She nodded and stroked him once. Twice. “You seem sufficiently roused for the task ahead.”

Then her hand covered his where it massaged the furrow forming directly along the center of her tail. What had been one long, solid form from hip to tip was beginning to remodel itself into two distinct limbs. A true separation had already begun at her groin and this was where she led his touch.

“So am I,” she whispered. “I'm open for you! Feel me?”

Under their combined touch, the tender slit at her groin deepened. It would take some time for the separation to continue along thighs, knees, calves, and ankles. And longer still for it to form webbed-toed feet from angled fins. But he needn't wait any longer, and she wouldn't require him to.

Bracing his hands in the grass on either side of her, he slung himself over her and replaced their fingers with the crown of his cock. He flexed his hips, beginning his push.

“Are you ready for me?” His voice was gruff, trembling with need.

She flattened her palms against his chest, staying him. “You understand my price?”

Their eyes caught and his jaw hardened. “I'm more than willing to meet it—if you're truly King Feydon's daughter.” He had little choice. The third fey child was destined to be his for all eternity whether he cared for her or not. It was what his brothers expected. Cleaving himself to her was his duty and would protect both her and the gate on Satyr land that stood as the only barrier between two disparate worlds.

“You will wed me in the Human way?” she asked, demanding a clearer agreement. “Take me to your lands where the Arno flows?”

Everything in him—except his cock—rebelled at the idea. “Yes,” he told her.

She smiled slowly. Releasing him, she threw her arms wide on the grass to tangle in the hair that fanned around her.

“Then come into me, husband,” she breathed.

His tip dipped farther into her, widening and stretching her small gap. Her milky readiness coated his crown and stirred every nerve ending he possessed.

“Gods, yes,” he breathed.

“I know,” she crooned. “I know you need me, darling. And I'm yours.”

He drew back and pressed forward again. And again, in an erotic dance that teased her entrance wider and lodged him farther inside her each time. He lowered his head to her, nuzzling the hair along her temple. “Yesss.”

Her crooning turned louder and more harmonious, becoming a vibrant hum. “Fuck me, fuck me!” she chanted.

With a vigorous shove of his hips, he penetrated her, tunneling hard and deep. Sheathed inside the newly formed gelatinous core of the woman he would marry, he shivered, recalling yet another reason he'd always shrunk from fornicating with Nereids. Sibela was cold—inside and out.

“Welcome home,” she lilted at his ear. “I am meant for you.”

Finding himself at a loss for a convincingly ardent reply, he kissed her instead. And to make up for his lack of affection, he then proceeded to rut her with all the considerable skill he'd acquired over the past decade. Gripping the soft-scaled rounds of her buttocks, he drove himself into her, then pulled away, reveling in the feel of her inner muscles sucking at him. He slammed home again and again, beginning to lose himself in the animal act.

Whap!
Her tail swept upward to slap his rear, and the twin tips of her caudal fin pierced his skin.

“Gods!” Lyon jerked at the pain and shifted his leg so it weighted her tail. Shoving fingers tight in her hair, he spoke to her nose to nose. “There's something about me you'll want to remember. Rough, I like.” At the beginning and finish of each sentence, he bucked her in emphatic slams. “Violent, I don't.”

Her channel undulated, squeezing him in a way that urged him toward orgasm but let him know she intended to be the one who'd decide when he'd attain it.

A hoarse, carnal groan escaped him, and she smiled knowingly.

“You will grow used to my ways in time,” she told him.

A part of him reveled in the frank coarseness of her. But something in him craved variety, and she would always demand that his lovemaking be an assault. The Nereid considered pain and aggression an inalienable part of this act. For them, every mating was a test of their partner's worthiness. It was not her fault, he reminded himself. She was who she was.

So he fucked her, rough and aggressive, ruthlessly taking what he needed and giving her what she wanted. She licked the strong column of his neck and then nipped him there and he let her. Her necklaces bit into his chest and her claws raked up and down his back and ripped at his clothing as she pelted his ears with raw pleas.

“Fuck! Ram it! Give it to me!”

To save his own skin as much as anything else, he wrenched her wrists above her head and secured them with one hand. Holding nothing back, he gave her what she begged for, sending shock waves through her body with each lusty hammer of his hips. He grunted like an animal as the force of each plow slammed his balls against her. The stubble on his jaw chafed her throat and his mouth bruised her, but she only pleaded for more.

“Yes!” she shouted, “Yes,” over and over until his ears rung and he wondered if he should bespell himself into deafness. Her frigid, slushy core warmed, and she began to hum a soft siren's song deep in her chest, indicating her heightening pleasure. His balls tightened in response, presaging the monumental release that often came with the fucking of a creature with ElseWorld blood.

Yet all the while, he remained alert to his surroundings. Apart from the actions of his body, he tracked where every Human within a hundred feet stood and used his acute senses to filter the air for sounds or signs of danger.

Above him, the Pont Neuf still bustled with activity and the enthusiastic crowd pounded across the bridge like a herd of cattle. The acrid scent of smoke told him the
lampiste
was illuminating the lamps along the bridge. Some of the chestnuts in the vendor's cart had burned, a container of beer had just been broken at King Henri's feet, and another man had just spilled his cum inside the brown-eyed Human woman Lyon had earlier abandoned.

Then, without warning, something unfamiliar and…pleasing…reached him. It was a new, momentous fragrance unlike any he'd ever experienced. Riding on the air, it invaded his lungs, his mind. And sought to leave its mark on other organs no female had ever yet touched. On his heart—his very soul.

His head jerked back from Sibela's. His brows knit in concentration as he scrutinized her face. She was staring beyond him, toward something above him on the bridge.

“Your scent—” he gasped, never breaking the rhythm of his rut. Her eyes flicked guiltily to his.

“Ignore her,” she urged, and he heard the fear in her voice. “She's nothing to us.”

She wrenched her wrists from his hold in order to clutch him to her and kiss his throat with cloying desperation.

“Ignore who?”

And then, impossibly—despite Sibela's pleas and despite the din on the bridge—a single word reached him. A single word made of two sweet syllables, fallen from feminine lips. A word that in and of itself meant nothing to him. But which fell upon his ears with the subtle impact of a delicate leaf drifting to lie upon a still pond on a quiet autumn day.

It was a simple, quiet utterance. Yet one that wreaked havoc on his senses. He felt himself losing control. Felt his gut wrench. Felt himself being forcibly hurtled toward the fiercest ejaculation of his life. His cock swelled and hardened to stone as unyielding as the bridge supports. His teeth bared and every muscle in his body seized.

Bone-deep ecstasy shuddered over him, then he shot off, harder than he ever had before. Cum flooded from him, thick and hot and never-ending.

“Gods! Gods!” he gasped, barely registering the fact that his partner was coming as well. It was as though he were experiencing his orgasm with someone other than the woman under him.

His back arched and he looked upward, toward the place on the bridge from which the unexpected sound and scent had emanated.

Above him, a shadowy form watched from along the balustrade of the bridge. He had only a quick glimpse of a pale, rosy-cheeked feminine face within a crimson hood, before it ducked out of sight.

A
crisp breeze wafted off the River Seine, rouging the pallor of Mademoiselle Juliette Rabelais' cheeks and loosening tendrils of her almond-colored hair as she paused at the entrance to the Pont Neuf. Beside her, young Fleur kept up a running commentary on everything and everyone they passed as she had all morning.

Juliette rarely came to this side of the river, but the Rive Droit—the right bank—was the location of Les Halles, the marketplace popularly known as the stomach of Paris. There was to be an entertainment in the salon at home tonight, so she'd gone shopping to replenish her supplies. Herbs and other cooking ingredients she'd gathered were now packed in the baskets she and Fleur carried.

But far more precious than the foodstuffs was the single sheet of rag paper rolled tightly and tucked in her basket among the figs, chives, spearmint, cinnamon, sage, and nutmeg. She'd paid Madame Elbe, the herbalist, a small fortune to have it stolen and delivered to her today and she'd been careful not to let Fleur see. Excitement fizzed inside her as it had since she'd scanned the paper and found her name. And another one that was familiar to her as well.

“
Allez,
Fleur,” she said, waving her younger companion ahead and indicating that she should cross the bridge alone. “Continue on and tell them I'm coming.”

“Of course, mademoiselle. But you are certain?” Fleur touched her gloved hand in concern.

With anyone else, Juliette might have been embarrassed to admit her own fears, but Fleur was too kindhearted to judge her. She swallowed a lump of affection for the girl and nodded. “
Oui.
Go and make yourself ready for tonight.”

Fleur grinned, bobbed a curtsey, and departed. Juliette watched her cap until the throng on the Pont Neuf engulfed it.

She usually took care not to associate with the other girls, for past experience had schooled her that doing so only brought sadness when they departed or were dismissed. But Fleur was lively and genuine and it was difficult not to like her. She feared they were fast becoming friends.

Her eyes located the townhouse set in an unrelieved row of residences along the Rive Gauche, the left bank of the river on the far periphery of the bridge. It was the less fashionable district, but Monsieur Valmont and his activities would not have been welcome in the more desirable neighborhood on this side of the river. Though the house looked pleasant enough with its gray plaster, red door, and wrought iron rails, revulsion welled at the thought of returning there.

A
jongleur
clutching an assortment of brightly colored balls, clubs, and rings passed her on his way on to the bridge and tipped his hat, giving her a long, significant glance. Accustomed to such sidelong glances from men, she ignored him. A group of finely dressed ladies pulled their skirts from her path and whispered as they, too, passed. She ignored them as well. Over the past year since she'd returned to Paris with M. Valmont, she and the other girls had become infamous in this neighborhood, objects of curiosity to some, and of scorn and suspicion to others.

She saw the red door open and shut in the row of houses lining the Quai di Conti, indicating that Fleur had arrived safely. It should have been a simple matter for her to dash across the bridge too.

It should have been. Yet it was not. Though she knew the bridge to be over ninety-two feet wide and nine hundred feet long and supported by twelve arches, crossing it nevertheless seemed as dangerous to her as traversing the river via tightrope.

“Move. You have to go,” she scolded herself under her breath. She'd lingered here far too long.

Determinedly she fixed her eyes on the equestrian statue of King Henri that stood at the center of the bridge. Reaching it would mean she was halfway home.

She adjusted the basket more securely in the crook of her arm. Straightening her spine, she took a hesitant step forward, then another. And then she was on the bridge.

“
Un, deux, trois
…
quinze, seize
…” As she counted her steps in a hushed voice, she combated her irrational fears by running tonight's menu through her mind.

…Should she add the figs to the cakes again? Valmont hadn't liked them done up in that manner, but Fleur and Gina had. Yes, she would add them…and she must remind Madame Gris to let the pear sauce cool before dousing the truffles, which must be checked for rot and the fromage as well…

With meticulous care, she trained her gaze on Henri, glancing neither right nor left, for in both directions lay the swirling waters of the Seine. Not overly fond of nature in general, she was particularly terrified of water. It was a fear that had come upon her suddenly three years ago at age sixteen and only grown worse in the years since.

Unfortunately for her, the Pont Neuf was an anomaly in that it had been constructed without buildings lining its sides. It was the only bridge in all of Paris where there was nothing to obscure the river from view except a collection of vendors that set up temporary shop here and there selling everything from scarves to tobacco.

A
fleuriste
pushing a colorful flower cart, a
chef de pâtisserie
, and a groomer
des chiens
, who had all been neatly tucked in the half-round bastions along the bridge's railings by day, were now fleeing with the approach of nightfall. Entertainers—
jongleurs,
acrobats, fire-eaters, and slight-of-hand tricksters—were swiftly replacing them, and the air was filling with evening cold and the smells of fresh roasted chestnuts.

Some sort of impromptu festival seemed to be getting underway, and it was making her journey homeward more hazardous than usual. In fact, the pont was swelling with a riot of humanity this evening, she realized. Why, she didn't know.

A lively farandole had begun and dancers had formed a linked chain, some by means of joined hands and others by means of holding handkerchiefs stretched between them. The meandering line snaked through the crowd, increasing in length as more participants were drawn in. She pulled the hood of her crimson-colored wrap more closely around her and sidestepped, avoiding them.

“Something's odd here tonight,” she murmured. Absently, she resettled the weighty basket to hang from her opposite arm, the knowledge of its tightly-rolled secret comforting her.

She jiggled her free hand in the pocket of her skirt finding the flakes of oatmeal and the crust of bread there with her fingertips. Both were said to ward off ill magic. Or so her foster mother had claimed. The superstitious Madame Fouche had instilled a knowledge of such charms in Juliette and now she never left home without a talisman of some sort.

Suddenly, the chestnut cart cut between her and her goal, forcing her to veer around it and bump into a lady carrying a poodle.

“
Excusez-moi, madame!”
she tossed behind her not bothering to stop. She had to keep moving. She had to stay focused. If her mind wandered, there could be trouble. Tuning out the jubilance around her, she glued her eyes to the statue.

“Almost there, almost there,” she chanted. Her breath came in shallow, quick puffs, visible in the raw autumn twilight.

Someone jostled her, nudging her off course and toward the western balustrade. More shoves—harder this time—knocked her to her knees. Her basket hit the ground, spilling half of its contents. Fast as frogs' tongues, two sets of hands shot out and rifled through the spillage, snatching items at random and leaving others to be trampled.

The familiar, pungent smell of grapemust mixed with something unearthly reached her and she gasped. A quick glance behind her told her it was exactly as she'd feared. Scant inches away were two imps, with pointed ears and grins too wide to be Human and skin that emitted an unattractive mottled glow of violet and puce.

It was them. The “bright-children.” This was the nickname she'd given these creatures as a girl, but she hadn't seen any of them for three years. She'd begun to think—to hope—that they'd only been figments of her young imagination. So much for the talismans in her pocket. They warded off nothing.

Delighted with themselves, the hooligans giggled and tossed the objects they'd pilfered between one another, thinking it a merry game. One of their new toys was long and slender—a tube tied with a ribbon. The sheet of paper that she'd paid to have stolen had now been stolen from her!

“
Arrêtez!
” She lifted her skirts and lunged to snatch it back. Heads turned, but no one bothered to assist her. She hadn't expected them to. No one ever saw these beings, except her.

Grinning, the two pixies made off with their ill-gotten gains, having no idea what they'd done. Scraping the bulk of the foodstuffs back into her basket, Juliette found her feet and gave chase. Their unnatural light flickered ahead whenever the throng shifted just right. But each time she lost them from sight, she feared it was for good.

“Wait! Let's trade! I'll give you something else from my basket instead!” she promised, hoping they would hear. “Pears!”

Non!
They didn't care for food. What had she once used to bribe them? Think! Think! Ah, yes! Shiny things. Pins. Polished agates.

Of course she had none of those with her now and the peak-eared creatures were getting away. “Come back!”

The cacophony of the dancers, musicians, and idlers along the bridge rose, drowning her out as the current of hundreds of revelers carried her along.

She found herself disgorged at the far end of the bridge at the Rive Droit, right back where she'd begun her crossing. Frustrated, she spun in a circle that swirled her skirts. She'd lost them—and her cherished parchment tube along with them!

At this rate, there would be no time to add the goods in her basket to tonight's menu. The culinary delicacies she'd already prepared would have to suffice.

What to do? In her agitated state it was becoming ever more difficult to make a coherent decision. She'd let herself become over-stimulated here in the outdoors, a dangerous thing to let happen.

Frantic, she dove back into the melee, determined to search the length of the Pont Neuf. The line of dancers had grown into a mob and it careened by, nearly squashing her. The bridge almost seemed to bounce under the thunderous pounding of boisterous footsteps. Could it take such abuse? Would it fall and topple her into the river? Dizzying fear flooded her.

She tried to focus; to shut out the crowds. Someone bumped her and the basket fell from her fingers, as she was herded into one of the semicircular bastions that projected outward from the northwest side of the bridge. Bent over the balustrade and pressed there by the surge of the crowd, she almost pitched over it into the garden twenty feet below. Her slippers left the ground and her feet dangled in midair.

Flinging her head back in an effort to right herself, she suddenly found her vision filled with a river of blood that stretched ahead as far as she could see. The Seine. The sunset had turned it into a winding slash of stunning scarlet. Like some sort of immense open vein, it pumped its sanguine waters, slicing through the heart of Paris.

“
Non!
” she wailed. Rearing back, she tried to regain her balance, only to be shoved forward again so vigorously that the railing squeezed the breath from her lungs and bruised her ribs. Averting her gaze from the river, she peered directly downward, into the comparatively placid Parc Vert Gallant. A smattering of couples dotted its walkways and benches, embracing to form clandestine shadows under the umbrella of foliage turned a seasonable ochre and cherry. Nowhere did she see the pesky thieves who'd taken her things.

Something moved on the ground below, drawing her gaze. An apparition, fading in and out of view. It was like some sort of erotic mirage, which at first appeared only as a series of undulating curves and valleys cast in high relief.

Narrowing her eyes, she tried to bring it into focus. With shocking abruptness, it solidified into reality. She gaped then, unable to believe what she was viewing.

Directly below in the park, was a gentleman. One who was surely as handsome and nearly as brazenly naked as any statue in the royal collection she'd seen at the Louvre. He was lying face down in the grass, his backside and hair painted a brilliant red-gold by the brush of sunset.

The muscles of his shoulders were carved rock, his arms strong and straining, and his weight rested on hands braced where his shadow darkened the grass. A light-colored band haphazardly bisected his ridged torso at the waist. It was his shirt, she realized, which had been thrown back off his shoulders and had caught at his elbows. Trousers sagged low on sleek narrow hips, baring the upper swells of buttocks that were moving in a powerful, rolling rhythm.

As she watched, a woman's delicate hands slipped under her lover's arms and around his ribs to stroke the concave curve of his lower back and the globes of his rear. His body was massive, completely obscuring every other part of her with the exception of her long hair spread out on the grass like some dark peacock's fan.

For the briefest of moments, he angled his head in such a way that her pale cheek peeked from below him. Then his head moved again and she disappeared from view.