excerpted from BOOK ONE
General Prince Consort anahk Tor was a hard, dangerous man, among a standing army of thousands of hard, dangerous men, but he was, nevertheless, impaled in the most tender part of him from the first moments of the formal evening meal, with the newly arrived young Tar - Rus princeling, Rüsjmahadan, for “an official consult of great import” about the prince’s impending marriage.
And the prince’s consult was with the powerful Shaman Prime of The Children of The Great Mare, Princess Dara.
My Dara, thought Tor, no, rather Tor felt — My Dara — to his deepest core, as this . . . boy encroached upon that sure feeling, but Tor was not absolutely certain how, and needed to be absolutely certain, with the double wax seal still fresh upon the new peace treaty between his king and Her Queen, and his recent love joining with Dara, the royal heir.
There was a difference in dialect with Rüsjmahadan’s entourage, and so Tor missed the subtle, idiomatic, and sly, humorous meanings of what the young prince’s visit was fully about.
The reason sometimes clearly embarrassed the young man, yet always he appeared honoured and deferential to Dara, intimately so; in a man to woman fashion, in a new lover to new lover fashion.
That sort of thing anahk Tor, better know as “The Destroyer of Nations,” would notice.
“Dara, is there anything else you need to tell me?”
This was not the time she had planned, but it was now, regardless.
“I am again pregnant by you, Tor.”
His chest swelled, for his heart leapt inside him, and he sighed deeply. He did not move or even seem to breathe for a long while, then he slipped his hand between her thighs and touched the outwardly most female part of her.
He touched her, until she sighed repeatedly for want of him, before he stood and abruptly and rudely slid the most male part of him deep into her potent, soft feminine folds. He languidly moved within her, both of them enjoying the intimate, penetrating contact; then, brusquely, he pulled all the way out of her.
“I understand about ‘your duty,’ Dara, but I still do not wish it, here.”
He pointed to his breast, over his tireless heart, pausing to see if her desire for him remained plain and visible. It did, and then he dove for the bottom of the deep river and stayed there past reason, past the limit of his lungs.
He resurfaced close to her, his great dark passion for her even more rigid, as he barely shook the water from his hard warrior’s body and re-entered her, then picked her up, without disengaging, and moved their lovemaking to the shore’s soft, matted, long grass.
He lay still, for fear she would sense the “cold, intense hard thing” within him.
His precaution did not matter.
Dara felt “it” and instinctively feared “it.”
She was not certain what it was, what she felt. If she had been, it would have terrified her. She had thought for a brief moment that it was her own feeling, before she realized it was his, so she held him tighter, but her embrace did not stave off the fearsome beast within him.
The Dark Thing pulled back from her, shifted back, deep into the underbrush, beneath his plagued heart, to hide among its surroundings, comfortable where it had lived so long, fostered under his king’s ruthless nursing, where it felt at home, and Tor felt comfortable with it, and with its judgements.
Or rather misjudgements.
Its purr rumbled off key deep inside him now, telling him things, counselling him, and Tor fought to ignore its familiar, seductive, murmuring logic.
Off kilter logic.
But Dara . . . pregnant again, with his baby, sired by him. Tor’s chest rose and sank deep, in a silent sigh that was not in relief. Not quite.
Pregnant, perhaps. By him, perhaps.
As she now whispered tender, soothing affections in his ear that penetrated straight into his hard, shielded, confined mind.
Tor closed his eyes, in confusion; against her.
Dara was all he wanted, and he wanted to believe her, but what she said mattered not, how she said what she said mattered not, as he heard her and more clearly heard and felt the icy murmurings rumble deep within him of the fiend, which had . . . .
anahk Tor, Lover and General, “the Mother and Child Killer,” “the Destroyer of All,” gently, insistently re-established his dominant sexual and love claim to her, marking her with the scent of him, the feel of him, with his virile mastery.
This young pup of a Prince would lie with Tor’s Princess, The Great Mare’s Shaman Prime, for days and nights, to learn the proper spiritual and physical ways of intimately pleasing a woman, before his own marriage, his own sacred bänding, came to pass.
However, even with Her as teacher, the boy would not surpass Tor in such skills any time soon.
Eventually, Dara, with lingering reluctance, rose from his naked side, taking the heat, tastes, and scents of her lush body with her.
Again, from deep within him, Tor and the beast, observed her, in her nakedness, as she slipped on her riding leggings.
He sat up and reached for her.
He slipped his fingers deep inside her from behind, as his other hand stroked her soft pubis. He kissed, licked, and bit her buttocks and felt her cramp strongly around his fingers, and then she stepped away from him, out of reach of him, with a sigh.
He knew that sigh, and it pleased him. It said she was not angry with him for continuing to detain her, and, of more importance, that she greatly wanted him still.
He lay back and continued watching her, as she slipped into a sleeveless tunic dress, her boots, her jacket.
He . . . and the beast within him shared his Stygian dark eyes, in studying her, and saw her sit beside him and gaze down the full, masculine length of him, to see all of him, to fill her eyes with the sight of him, committing all of him to sense memory.
She buried her face in the hairy, musky pit of his arm, before reaching back and stroking up from his foot, up the inside of his leg, feeling the hair, the war-scarred skin and hard muscle beneath.
She took gentle hold of his musky scrotum, then placed a stronger grip upon his manhood, which she bent down to tenderly kiss the head of, before taking its full, thick length within . . . .
[End of Excerpt, more of SUBMERGED available, see below]
In ancient times, a legendary half Egyptian general's rage and jealousy may be his downfall, when he seeks to break a sacred alliance between his Amazon shaman / sorceress mate and her allies.
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