The Mage's Master, page 13
part #2 of The Mages Series
So she opened her eyes again, made herself look at him, made her hand reach downward. Finding that hot swollen hardness, tightening her fingers around it, lifting it up. And then — she gasped, bit her lip — putting it there, between her spread legs.
It shuddered against her at the touch, strong, and for some strange reason that was enough to bring the certainty, the focus, back to Fasta’s thoughts. Henrik wanted this, too. Henrik had done this to her before, over that desk. And now he wanted to see her take him, and she was damn well going to show him that.
So she kept her eyes on his, even as she lowered herself a little against him, nudging that hard blunt head against her slippery wetness. And oh, there was a lot of him, too much of him, and Fasta sucked in a breath, forced herself to relax, to sink a little further.
“Good girl,” Henrik’s voice rumbled, and the sound of it made Fasta’s whole body clench up, hard. Enough to push him all the way out again, and he actually gave a chuckle, a little roll upwards of his hips. “C’mon, babe,” he whispered. “Seen you take way more than this.”
Gods curse him, but Fasta pulled in a desperate breath, willed herself to relax. And then pushed down, hard, against him, feeling the pressure building and building, she could do this, had to do this, had to breathe, relax, spread herself wider, arch herself backwards, how was he so fucking huge, oh —
But then the pressure shuddered, broke — and with a single shocking, burning thrust he was suddenly there, wedged all the way up inside, hot and hard, skin to skin. And Fasta was crying out, cursing at the bastard, while he actually grinned at her, and gave a smooth painful glorious circle of his hips.
“Fuckin’ right, babe,” he breathed, even as Fasta gasped again, damn near shouted with it. Because it felt impossible, overwhelming, everywhere, everything, there were no thoughts, no truths, no nothing, but this —
“Tell me,” he whispered now, circling his hips up again, hard, raw, powerful. “How’s it feel.”
He was actually expecting her to talk in this, to make coherent sentences, and Fasta could only seem to gasp, choking on her breath, while her shaking, oddly prickling hands went to his still-covered chest, tried to brace herself against the warm solid truth of it.
“Tell me,” Henrik said again, harsher this time, his eyes intent, compelling, on hers. “C’mon, Fass. Truth.”
Truth. She gulped for breath, tried to think, to find words. But there was no thinking still, no nothing, except for the fullness of it, the taut swollen everywhere invasion of it, Henrik Harry was inside her, fucking her, breaking her, and this was everything, everything —
“Say it,” he ordered, with another purposeful, almost-painful circle of his hips. “What’s in your head righ’ now.”
Fasta shuddered all over, her body going even tighter on him, making him go fuller in her, fuck, fuck. “Everything,” she gasped, finally, because that was a word, that was truth. “Everything, Harry.”
It came out choked, almost pleading, and Fasta was shocked, or maybe not, to feel a streak of wetness, slipping down her cheek. “Everything, Harry,” she gasped again. “I’m sorry, I just —“
She couldn’t finish, couldn’t breathe, just shook her head, felt it, too strong, too much. While Henrik’s still-clothed chest heaved under her hands, his eyes gone still, arrested, strange.
“S’okay,” he said, and with the word his hand moved, came up, curled tight round the back of her neck. “S’good, Fass. So good.”
And then he pulled, pulled her all the way down over him, and somehow his mouth had come to hers, his lips and tongue warm, alive. While Fasta clung to him, frantic, desperate, and kissing him back, needing his tongue invading her just like his cock was invading her, needed him here, now, all of him, please —
She was grinding down against him, now, meeting those hard circling hips, and the tension the fullness the pressure was rising, swinging up wild and uncontrollable. Consuming so much that she was clutching him, kissing him, silently begging him, while the whole world drew in tighter, tighter, hard and close and —
And it collapsed, reverberated, so powerful that Fasta bit down, hard, against his lips, even as her body wrenched itself around him, grinding out its furious blazing pleasure all over him, around him. Making him arch up even tighter, fuller, deeper, his mouth under hers groaning aloud — and oh, fuck, he was right there, with her, emptying himself out up inside her, his hand on her neck tight and painful, his shuddering cock commanding her, controlling her, consuming her.
And then it was over, the invading fullness between Fasta’s legs abruptly shrinking, becoming something normal, bearable again. And her mouth still against Henrik’s seemed able to find air again, pulling in shaky breaths, while her body went limp and sated and boneless all over. Fuck.
Henrik’s chest rose and fell under her, his breaths harsh against her lips, and when Fasta pulled back to look at him his eyes were strange, uneasy. A little distant, even, and it occurred to Fasta, suddenly, that maybe — maybe — she’d fucked that up. Because that — that had been her and Harry. Not a master and his slave, or vice versa, not in the least.
She reached blindly for the frame of her bed, meaning to find something solid to pull herself up with that wasn’t Henrik — but then blinked, suddenly, because the bedpost wasn’t there. Because — Fasta pulled up, stared — all four brass bedposts had pointed in toward them, actually bending the entire bed’s frame, curving in at them as if they’d been a magnet, or a sun.
“Um,” she said, and she pulled up a little more, feeling the shift of Henrik’s still-soft body inside her with the movement. “Was that you? Or me?”
Henrik’s glance at it was perfunctory, seeming entirely unsurprised, and Fasta realized that unlike her, he must have felt it as it had happened. “Not sure,” he said, reaching his hand overhead to grip at it, and Fasta felt the mattress under them straighten again, returning to its proper flat state. “Both of us, probably.”
Fasta bit her lip and looked at him, at that still-distant uneasiness in his eyes — and then blinked again at the realization that there was a cut, on his mouth, maybe from where she’d bitten it. And — she frowned downwards, at his tunic — she’d somehow managed to tear his tunic, too, at the neck. And when had she done that, had he noticed that, but his angling eyes said that maybe yeah, he had.
“Um,” Fasta said again, and tried for a smile. “Sorry. It’s, uh, been a while.”
Something moved in Henrik’s eyes, something Fasta couldn’t quite read. “Don’t apologize,” he said finally, his voice gruff. “Occupational hazard.”
His mouth was smiling, like maybe that was supposed to be a joke, but something seemed to clench, tight and sudden, around Fasta’s chest. Because he was referring to the fact that he was being paid, this was his job now. That making her want that, and need that, and feel that, just now, had been work.
And his eyes on her maybe said it too, and now he was clearing his throat, and swallowing. “An’ you know what,” he said, his voice far too casual, “I think maybe it’d be better if I sleep on the floor, from now on.”
Oh. Oh. Fasta felt herself flinch, and her body seemed to jerk up, off, away from him, all on its own. Leaving her empty again, but for Henrik’s now-dripping wetness, and though that was still hers it had been paid for, too.
And gods, suddenly this was fucking Fasta up, making a rampant swirling mess in her head. And where moments ago there had been that impossible wrung-out contentment, right now there was only distance, and aloneness, and something a lot like shame.
“Um,” she said again, pushing back to stand on shaky legs, trying not to look at the proof of what they’d just done, in the still-curving posts of the bed. “Should probably get ready, when were we supposed to go see that new job again?”
She didn’t wait for Henrik to answer, didn’t even meet his eyes, and she grabbed blindly at her wardrobe for her clothes. Clutching them to her chest as she dodged into the water-closet, and shut the door hard behind her.
14
When Fasta stepped back into her room again, some time later, she was composed, tall, her hair braided back, her eyes swollen but dry. She was fine. This would be fine.
Henrik was waiting for her, sitting fully clothed on her bed, which — Fasta’s eyes flicked to the bed, lingered — looked mostly as it always had, but still with posts that curved inward slightly at the corners. Like Henrik had fixed it, but not quite all the way, and Fasta couldn’t find the space to think about that right now, couldn’t bear it.
“Should you change?” she asked, her voice sounding odd to her ears, her eyes darting down to the ripped neck of his tunic. But Henrik just shrugged, his big shoulder moving jerky under the white fabric.
“I don’t give a shit about impressing some noble,” he said, voice flat. “But I can change, if you want. Or if I stink.”
Henrik never stank — Fasta was rather ashamed to admit that even his sweat smelled delicious — and she shrugged, too. “Up to you,” she said, her voice still sounding stilted, strange. “Though maybe we should bring your clothes and things in here anyway, if you’re still planning to stay a while.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Henrik said, his hand briefly coming up to rub against his mouth. “You wanna go, then?”
Fasta managed a nod, and together they walked in silence down to the dining-hall. And ate in silence too, while this thing, this weight, seemed to hang heavier and heavier over Fasta’s head. So much that it was a relief to finish, to stand, to finally stop feeling Henrik’s eyes, Henrik’s body, across the table.
“Listen, Fass,” Henrik said, finally, once they were walking on the road toward Hartmoor, and the noble’s estate. “About that payment thing…”
His voice trailed off, and Fasta pulled in a lungful of air. “Right,” she said. “Maybe when we’re done today, we could walk over to the bank at Skent, and I’ll make the transfer. You could send it off to Andreas from there, too.”
There was silence from Henrik beside her, and when she glanced over, he was looking straight ahead, and giving a curt nod. Not saying anything else, at all, and Fasta surreptitiously snapped up a rock into her hand, clenched it tight. She would be fine. This had to be fine.
“So who is this noble again?” she asked Henrik. “You said he’d just taken over the place?”
Henrik’s shoulder gave a jerky shrug. “The Earl of Valkin, apparently,” he said. “Whoever that is.”
Fasta usually knew which nobles belonged to which titles — that was her father’s regular circle, after all, and the one she’d grown up in — but she vaguely remembered hearing that the Earl of Valkin had died a few years back, and that the title and lands had been contested. If she discussed such matters with her father, she’d probably have found out who’d finally snagged it, but her brief visits to the estate were already tedious enough, without adding in painful parlour-gossip about which far-off persons were squabbling over whose houses.
“I suppose we’ll find out,” Fasta said gloomily, and Henrik shrugged again. Letting the silence spiral out again between them, and it was so stupid, because they’d always talked as they travelled, even if it was just empty comments, or teasing, or pointless debates over what kinds of stone and ore deposits were buried underneath.
Fasta was almost relieved when they finally reached the edge of the estate’s grounds, and announced themselves at the gatehouse. Which seemed permanently and expensively staffed, judging by the look of it, with a proctor who was clearly expecting them, and immediately took off to find “master”.
“Great,” Henrik said, under his breath, as they watched the guy’s livery-clad form jogging up the long, curving drive, and disappearing behind the sheltering trees. “Any noble who makes his underlings call him master is gonna be a real piece of work.”
Fasta elbowed Henrik in the side, while trying to clobber down the memory of herself calling Henrik that, just the night before. While she’d been on her knees, and he’d slammed that cock into her mouth, made her clean him up, afterwards…
She cleared her throat, meaning to look past Henrik toward the closest outbuilding, which felt like a carriage-house — but instead her eyes had caught on Henrik again, or rather, his tunic. At where the rip at the neck of it had stretched out a little, showing off the smooth skin and light hair beneath, and when she glanced up his eyes, they were watching her. Looking at her looking at him, and he took a breath, opened his mouth —
“Well, if it isn’t the great Fasta Valgeirr!” came a voice. A familiar voice, one that set off something strange in Fasta’s chest, and she whirled around to look — and found herself staring at a handsome, astonishingly familiar face.
“Elgin?” she asked blankly, even as her traitorous eyes darted down his slim, muscular form, and back up to his laughing dark eyes. “What are you doing here?”
He flashed her a grin, just as swift and stunning as it had always been, and gave an elaborate bow, a flourish of the silken riding-cape he was wearing. “The Earl of Valkin, Lord Norberg, at your service,” he said. “My lady.”
Fasta blinked at him — Elgin Bryant might be Lord Norberg, but he was not the Earl of Valkin — but he’d stood tall again, tossing the riding-cape over his shoulder. “It sounds ludicrous, I know,” he said, with another one of those grins. “Eight months in, and I’m still not used to it.”
Fasta kept staring at him, trying to digest this, and Elgin tilted his head, stared back. “Your father didn’t tell you,” he said now, slowly. “Gods, Fasta, you must’ve been shaking your head at this crazy titled maniac who wanted you to come in and restore his entire estate.”
Fasta didn’t deny it, and let her eyes slip past him, to the estate’s manicured grounds and gardens. The house wasn’t even visible yet, but she could feel it, situated at the end of the curving drive, beyond that patch of trees. She could also feel an excessive number of outbuildings — sheds, stables, that carriage-house, a kennel — and had to admit that this was one of the larger estates she’d seen, rivalling even her father’s.
“How did you end up with this place?” she asked Elgin. “I don’t even remember you being related to that old Earl.”
“Distantly,” Elgin replied, which was fair, because all that crowd was interrelated somehow, if you went back far enough. “And the stingy bastard left no legitimate heirs, and no instructions, and after an excessively tedious barrage of negotiations, here I am. Coming to terms with the fact that my massive new estate” — he gestured irritably behind his head — “is a complete and utter dump.”
Fasta gave a wry chuckle, and let her eyes flit over it again. “It can’t be that bad, can it? The grounds look great.”
“Yeah, that’s because our old Earl was all about the look,” Elgin replied, “while he let the buildings he didn’t use run to ruin. And plastered over the interiors of the buildings he did use, meaning that there’s rot and damp behind everything. Some of it might be salvageable, but a lot of it is going to have to be redone from the bottom up. So please, Fasta,” — he gave her that grin again, wheedling this time — “please, rescue me, and do it properly, for the love of the gods. Otherwise I’ll end up trapped here forever, raging at shoddy workmanship into my dotage.”
Fasta couldn’t help another laugh, because she could picture it, knew very well just how particular Elgin could be. “Well, we’ll see what we can do,” she said, with a sideways glance at Henrik — and then her brain caught, suddenly, on the fact that Elgin hadn’t once spoken to Henrik in all this, or acknowledged his existence. And the look on Henrik’s face said that he hadn’t at all missed that, and that he damn well wasn’t happy about it, either.
“Oh, Elgin, this is Henrik Hallen,” Fasta said, giving a brief touch to Henrik’s elbow, perhaps in silent apology. “My partner. And Harry, this is Elgin Bryant, who I used to know as Lord Norberg, but apparently” — she couldn’t help a half-smile toward his dancing dark eyes — “is now also the Earl of Valkin. We used to, um, study earth magic together, at the Academy.”
“Though Fasta was always way out of my league,” Elgin said to Henrik, reaching out a hand, giving Fasta a too-obvious wink. “So you’re her partner? With work, I presume? Unless I’m missing something here?”
His voice stayed light, teasing, like this was all a joke, but Fasta could see the tension in Henrik’s forearm, the muscles straining as his big hand briefly gripped Elgin’s. “Yeah, we work together,” he said, voice flat. “For five years now.”
Elgin tilted his head at Henrik, seeming to consider that. “You know, I think I’ve actually heard of you,” he said, with a sudden smile. “Earth-mage too, right? You do Fasta’s heavy lifting?”
Henrik’s shoulders went even stiffer, and Fasta bit back a groan — she knew just how much Henrik loathed being likened to a common labourer — and she cleared her throat, gave another brief brush of her fingers against Henrik’s elbow. “Actually, Henrik specializes in resource identification, extraction, and refinement,” she told Elgin. “And sedimentary and metamorphic rock transitions. He’s also extremely gifted with period and artisanal masonry and earthwork.”
Elgin’s arched eyebrows went up, but he kept the smile on his face. “Impressive,” he said. “Where did you study?”
It was absolutely the wrong question, and Fasta could almost feel Henrik’s anger lurching beside her. “I’m self-taught,” he said, voice curt. “Through actual experience.”
Elgin blinked, maybe reading that for the insult it was, and Fasta cleared her throat. “Henrik has all his certifications,” she said, “and earned some of the highest marks ever on the Academy’s masonry exams. Afterwards the supervisor couldn’t even tell what work was his, and what was original.”
She shot Henrik a quick smile, because that week they’d spent in the capital, while Henrik had consistently dumbfounded all the so-called masonry experts at the Earth Academy, was still one of her favourite memories. They’d spent the week exploring the city together, and sharing meals, and playing around with earth-magic, and one very memorable evening had involved Henrik getting very drunk, and telling Fasta that no one had a right to be as rich and smart as she was, while also having a face and a rack like that.
