a gasp out of her. “Jeweled ones. I could dress up these sweet tits, make them tingle.”
Prue bit her lip. “No, they’d look better on you,” she managed. Turning her head, she nipped his pectoral muscle, then suckled one brown disk deep and hard.
Erik swore and bucked against her, but he laughed. “Gods, Prue, you’re perfect. I won’t mention the dildos then.” He paused, then whispered, “Some of them are bumpy, ridged. Did you know that?”
He tasted salty, dark and fascinating. Prue licked her lips, her sex pulsing with heat and moisture, wetting her thighs. Ridged? “All I want is you,” she said.
Their eyes met. Erik’s smile faded as his gaze searched hers. “Ah, Prue.”
Without further speech, he slipped his hand under her hair, cradling the nape of her neck, the touch firm and comforting. Willingly, Prue lifted her face and he kissed her. His lips were soft and smooth, the kiss satiny, excruciatingly tender and never-ending. She sighed into his mouth, her whole body inclining forward into his, melting. He kept it light, almost chaste, his other hand brushing her cheek, stroking her hair, but the heat of his muscled body, the smell of his skin, was so enticing that by the end, he was leaning back among the pillows, Prue sprawled across his lap, clinging to his shoulders.
When he freed his lips, she murmured a protest without opening her eyes.
“Sshh,” he said. “Give me a minute. I want to remember you exactly like this.” Tucking her head under his chin, he skimmed his fingertips over her shoulders, her back, her ribs, the tender side of her breast. He stroked her cheek, traced her ear with a delicate touch, feathered her curls. All the time, he was crooning, something melodious, but nothing she recognized. It was strangely soothing.
Prue smiled into the curve of his strong throat. “What are you doing? Memorizing me by feel?” She glanced up.
“Yes,” he said seriously, smiling as if she were already a dear memory, part of a distant past. “We’ll never be the same again, love. Not after tonight.”
28
“Master,” wheezed Nasake. “Master!”
“Bah!” The Necromancer released his spectral grip and the man slid down the wall of the bedchamber, his face an interesting shade of gray green. Ignoring him, the Necromancer reached for the glass of bracing elixir he kept by his bed and took a healthy swig.
The liquor burned down his throat, and his galloping heart settled back to a regular dull thud. By Shaitan, was he surrounded by incompetents? It was true enough, what Tolaf used to say: If you want something done properly, do it yourself. Excellent advice, and the Necromancer had followed it to the letter when he’d made his first kill. The old sodomite had lasted a satisfyingly long time.
He pulled at his lower lip, brooding. His Magickal abilities had never been stronger, more magnificent, but the physical envelope betrayed him at every turn. Wistfully, he remembered the way he’d swooped on the Technomage Primus in her dreams, right across the vacuum of space. In his prime, he could have plucked the air witch right out of a nightmare and devoured her whole.
Now . . . he grimaced . . . the only stimulus that helped at all was the death energy of a seelie.
From behind, Nasake rasped something, a distorted echo of his thought.
“What?” The Necromancer turned.
“A seelie, Master.” The manservant shook with coughing. “I found another in the trap.”
“Help me dress. Hurry, fool!”
It was a mature male, so big it barely had room to turn in the tank. Strong. Still puffing from his dash down the stairs, the Necromancer surveyed it with enormous satisfaction. He didn’t spare the crumpled, white-coated heap in the corner a glance.
An hour later, he allowed the limp form of the seelie to slip to the floor. His blood seethed with power, every nerve tingling with eager purpose. With the ease of long practice, he tallied the sum of his Dark Arts. Ah yes.
The Necromancer strode from the lab, so pleased he even patted the Doorkeeper on its horned head, adroitly avoiding the clashing fangs.
But his smile faded soon enough. Settled deep in his favorite armchair in the study, he unfurled a tendril of his dark power and sent it questing across the sleeping city toward the soft, clean glow that was the air witch.
Shit! He recoiled.
She was awake. Not only conscious, but with the singer. The Necromancer ground his teeth in frustration. No guesses as to what they were doing, not at this