Prince of Storms Read Online Free PDF

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    Relenting, he put the scroll in her hand, touching her wrist as he did so. Her skin was cool, and he suddenly wanted her.
    She saw that in him. “Put out the light.”
    â€œNo need.”
    She bent to the lamp to darken it, but he came between her and the light. He took her by the hand and led her to the sleeping platform, laying her down on the covers, taking the scroll from her.
    â€œBring down the curtain,” she whispered.
    He lowered one of the cloths tied up near the post. Shadow fell over them. He pulled the robe from her shoulders, using his good arm, since the other barely responded. With his good left hand he traced the line of her neck, the hollow at her throat, her heavy, perfect breasts.
    Voices outside. It sounded like Zhiya and Tai talking. Anzi propped herself up on her elbows. “Your work calls you.”
    â€œIt can wait.” He loosed the low slip she wore over her hips, and it fell into a puddle around her.
    The voices continued. Anzi said, “Let me ask Tai.”
    â€œDressed like this?” He pushed her back, and she let him, sprawling beneath him.
    But she turned her face away. “Perhaps Mei Ing comes to call.”
    Mei Ing? The vacuous subprefect? “Let her wait, then.”
    â€œBut she would be a worthy wife, Titus. Your own age.”
    â€œMei Ing is of no interest to me. You are. Especially now, woman. Can you stop talking?”
    She smiled, but her eyes were still earnest. “I am too old to bear children.”
    That gave him pause. “Fourteen years, Anzi.” Jinda ceb years he wanted to say, as though that made the time passage of even less account. “Five thousand days. You are not too old. But if you were, have I ever said I wanted children?” God knew he had not done well in that arena and wasn’t sure he would ever try it again.
    Anzi pulled her robe around her and rolled over until she could sit up and face him. “I am happy to be second wife, truly.”
    Happy would not be the word he would use to describe her. “You are my first wife. My only wife.”
    â€œIf not a wife, a concubine. She could soothe you.”
    â€œNo, Anzi. Enough .”
    â€œBut—”
    He pulled her across the bed and stopped her words with his mouth. Grasping her close, he managed to pull off her robe and throw it from the bed. A faint perfume came to him from the folds of the vanished robe, and more, the musk of her. He ran his hand between her legs, hearing her caught breath softly in his ear. The pulse of his blood came into his skin, his belly, his sex.
    â€œTitus,” she whispered.
    Her hand came around him, bringing an unbearable and sweet pressure, an acute hunger. Do not speak , he urged her silently. And she didn’t. He knelt between her raised knees. Pulling her hips forward, his full length went into her, and he paused, breathless.
    He leaned back enough to look at her face. She was everything he wanted, everything. When she would have said something, he shook his head, whispering, “Silently.”
    She moved on him, making their connection long and short, deep and shallow. He heard her gasping against his throat as he bent over her. “Shhh,” he said, forbidding her even that articulation. He meant to have their union in holy silence, and it made them all the more pent up with the waiting release. Leaning on his elbows, he began his own rhythm—with just enough strength at the elbows to hold him above her, and no weakness lower than that. The tent filled with the pulse of their lovemaking.
    When she could bear it no more, she arched her back, shuddering, letting go, the only sound her contorted breaths. Then his own release, churning from him, silent too, as he had demanded of her.
    They were still. Metered by the curtain, the lamp shed a glow on them, burnishing sweat-drenched skin. Outside, the pavilion had gone deeply quiet.
    They lay unspeaking, afraid to break the compact: I