Heart of Steel - Meljean Brook [111]
He was never going to leave the bed again.
Others on the airship had already left theirs. He heard the footsteps of the deck crew on watch above, the clatter of pots in the galley below. The engines rumbled, carrying him toward Rabat, the tower, and . . . nothing.
At his side, Yasmeen stirred. Eyes still heavy with sleep, her sleek body arched in a long stretch. Her knees cracked. She tensed, drew a sharp breath.
There. His reason to leave the bed. Archimedes could support her even when he felt almost nothing. He stroked his hand down her spine, smiled at her purr. She flipped her hair back, sat up, and stiffly straddled him, her knees popping again as they folded beneath her.
“Yasmeen—”
He broke off as she reached down, took his cock in a firm grip. Already roused by the morning and the memories of the night, he stiffened quickly against her stroking palm. She leaned over and kissed his lips, his jaw. Against his ear, she said, “I’m tired of pacing a cabin again and again. If you don’t mind, I’d like to loosen my knees up another way.”
Mind? He was already so hard he ached. “Use me,” he said. “For as long as you like.”
He felt her smile against his skin. “It takes me about half an hour.”
Oh, God. His fingers gripped her thighs, and heaven surrounded him as she sank onto his shaft, softly biting her bottom lip, eyelids half closed as she worked herself down his length. He slipped his hand between her legs, thumb stroking through her dark curls.
“Oh.” Her head fell back, the ends of her hair brushing his thighs. “By the lady . . . I can’t even feel my knees anymore. Just . . . you.”
And then she rocked, and before the half hour had passed, she’d ruined him for pacing a cabin again, too.
It was for the best that she’d drawn the line at the cabin door, but she still missed Archimedes’ touch, his wicked replies, all the things that couldn’t be said or done in front of a crew. At least she could read his smile and his eyes—and that morning, both were telling her that he was troubled.
He stood beside her on the quarterdeck, flying over the sparkling Mediterranean. A perfect sky lay before them, brilliantly blue, yet he looked inward, his eyes unfocused.
Perhaps he felt her gaze. He glanced at her, the corners of his lips tilting in the same smile that Yasmeen found herself giving when she met his gaze after a long time apart—not amusement, but simply the pleasure of seeing him, having his attention again.
“You looked very serious,” she said.
His brows rose, and he nodded. “I suppose I am. I was attempting to judge our speed, and the distance to Rabat. We will arrive tomorrow, I think?”
Why guess when he could ask her? “Twelve hundred miles from Brindisi,” she said. “A full forty hours, with this wind against us. We’ll reach the city the morning after tomorrow.”
“And how long until we are within range of the tower?”
Oh, lady. She had completely forgotten that he was susceptible to that signal. It was just . . . impossible to imagine him subdued in that way, with every strong emotion turned mild. Shallow happiness, shallow anger, no desire. She didn’t know whether he could bed her, but he wouldn’t want to bed her.
How could that ever be Archimedes?
“Rabat’s tower has about a 250-mile radius,” she said. “It will be late tomorrow night.”
He nodded, watching the sky ahead. Terrified, yet not showing a bit of it. Such a man—and her line at the cabin door said nothing of hands. Silently, she laced her fingers through his, faced the oncoming wind. His throat worked.
“I will still love you,” he said.
She squeezed his hand. “Yes. And it is only temporary. A few days, at most.”
Not much time at all.
But the day felt as if it flew by, and though Yasmeen reminded herself that they would only be in Rabat a short time, she could hardly bear the thought of watching everything lively in him fading. Where was her heart of steel