The Empress' New Clothes Page 6

  Kyra couldn’t believe how nonchalantly Zor had put that question to Dak while she was sitting next to him praying his fingers weren’t about to leave the puff of curls between her legs to venture further down to—ohhh good grief.

  “Aye brother, I believe it. They are an odious bunch of thieves, the lot of them.”

  Kyra listened to Dak’s reply with half an ear. Her pulse was racing, her nipples were growing thick and hard. She could only pray that Zor ceased stroking her clit before she climaxed right here at the dinner table.

  She attempted to shove his hand away. He didn’t so much as flinch.

  “Then I will send more warriors.”

  Kyra knew her breathing was growing increasingly labored. She realized with all certainty that her eyes were glazed over with need, hazy from the sharp knot of pleasure that was twining in her belly. Her gaze shot up to Dak’s face, hoping that her brother-in-law had no idea what Zor was doing to her. She should have guessed. The men were embroiled in their political discussion. Dak hadn’t spared her even a passing glance.

  “There is no need. The warriors already on Tron can see to the rebellion.”

  Zor nodded. “’Tis true.”

  Kyra inhaled sharply, knowing an orgasm was quickly approaching and not having the faintest idea of how to stave it off. Zor’s fingers had gone from slow strokes to lazy circles, and it was enough to drive any sane woman over the edge. She wondered if shouting at him would stop this embarrassing scene from playing out, but doubted it. Besides, it would only draw Dak’s already captured attention her way.

  Kyra could hear their conversation from some far off place in her mind, but she paid it little heed. She was coming. She knew she was coming and there wasn’t a blessed thing she could do to stop it.

  And then her pleasure reached that inevitable place of no longer caring. Still somewhat aware of her surroundings, Kyra bit down on her lip to keep from crying out.

  It hit her. Hard. Relentless.

  The twining in Kyra’s belly snapped as her climax ripped through her body. She cried out softly, but managed to suppress the desire to scream.

  She swallowed roughly, her breath coming out in pants. She couldn’t believe it. She refused to believe it. But it was true. She had just had an orgasm at a dinner table—with witnesses present no less. Mortified, Kyra glanced toward Dak to witness his reaction. Her eyes widened.

  Nothing.

  That was even harder for Kyra to believe. The man was apparently so used to women climaxing at dinner tables that he didn’t think it a sight worthy of garnering his attention. Her head snapped over to study Zor. Same thing. He was talking animatedly with his brother, not paying her the least amount of attention.

  Good grief. If this was telling of what life on Tryston would be like, she planned to eat her meals in her bedroom alone. Every single one of them. This was beyond humiliating. That the humiliation was her own and no one else’s was of no import. Tryston sounded like a dreadful place. It was Hugh Heffner’s Playboy Mansion on a planetary, perhaps galactic scale.

  Well, Kyra thought grimly, perhaps what this place needed was a woman to shake things up a bit and refuse to allow herself to be fondled at the dinner table in front of strangers. And then her thoughts were no more, as Zor began the process all over again, and the heat in her belly pooled like fire.

  Finally, long minutes later, and after three soul-shattering climaxes, Zor petted the dewy curls at the juncture of her thighs, as if praising her body for reacting to him. Tired and embarrassingly sated, Kyra merely nodded her compliance when Zor suggested that she retire to their chamber for a nap before the gastrolight cruiser made its landing.

  “You will need your energy, nee’ka,” Zor whispered provocatively into the whorl of her ear. “We will join this moon-rising.”

  Wide-eyed, Kyra’s head shot up. She met her husband’s gaze. Furious that all choice had been removed from her, but resigned to the fact that there was little she could do about it without dying a horrific death, Kyra inclined her head regally, stood up, and stalked off toward the bedchamber.

  * * * * *

  It took three attempts before Zor was able to successfully rouse his Sacred Mate from her slumber, albeit somewhat. Chuckling, he tugged playfully on a tuft of her fire-berry hair, waiting for her eyes to open. “Wake up the soonest, my hearts. Kita has piloted the cruiser atop the landing pad. We descend even now.”

  “Mishtaayll smska dkfrr.” Kyra opened her eyes long enough to mumble an incoherent statement, then rolled over onto her belly and resumed snoring.

  “My hearts? Nee’ka? ‘Tis time to rise, my love.”

  Zor frowned, uncertain as to what he should do to wake Kyra up. Her sleepy-headedness was his fault, for a certainty. ‘Twould have been best had he not brought her to her woman’s joy during the evening repast, yet he had deemed it prudent to gentle her to his touch. After all, this moon-rising would bring with it the consummation, and not even a High King could break the holy law in an effort to give his wench more time to accustom herself to her fate. All within the palace would expect to see the stones of Kyra’s bridal necklace fully attuned to him on the morrow.

  Slapping Kyra on her well-rounded rump, Zor decided to quit humoring his nee’ka. Time was of the essence. There was much to be seen to this day in the way of ceremony.

  “Ouch!” Kyra shrieked as she flopped onto her backside and glared at Zor. “What was that for?”

  He grunted. “I have been trying to wake you for many moments, woman. We are here. ‘Tis afternoon on Tryston.”

  Kyra’s expression went from annoyed to distressed in the blink of an eye. Her head shot up. “H-Here?” She gulped roughly, then licked her parched lips. “So soon?”

  Zor was mesmerized by the touch of Kyra’s tongue to her upper lip. He shook his head to clear it of lusty thoughts. There was time aplenty for that this moon-rising. “Aye.” Taking to his feet, he held out a hand for his Sacred Mate. “Come, wee one. Dak and Kita await us at the bay doors.”

  Kyra scrambled to her knees and shook her head in the negative. She looked her husband up and down, noting that in addition to his black leather pants, he was now wearing a black leather vest-like contraption. If anything, it made him look even more ominous than he appeared while bare-chested, drawing attention to his gigantic, muscled arms. “Please, Zor. I’m not ready. Can’t we stay in here for a little bit longer?”

  Zor sighed. What his woman’s obvious fright did to his resolve was not a good thing. There was no time left to bargain with. Much had to be accomplished this day. “I would that I could, pani,” he gently informed her, “yet we cannot afford to tarry here.”

  Pani—it occurred to Kyra that the word meant “infant” or “baby”. She frowned thoughtfully. “Why did you call me, pani? It’s the second time you’ve used that word. Are you saying I behave like an infant?” she asked stiffly.

  Zor grinned. “Mayhap you do at times.” At Kyra’s offended intake of breath, he chuckled softly. “But no, I did not call you pani because you behave like an infant, but because you are one, in terms of age.”

  “I’m thirty-two,” she pointed out reasonably. She splayed her hands out, palms up. “Hardly a child, let alone a baby.”

  Zor’s smile was amused, and if Kyra hadn’t missed her mark, condescending as well. “As I said, still a baby.”

  She arched a brow. “Oh? And how old are you?”

  “Forty-two Yessat years.”

  Kyra snorted incredulously. “Oh yeah, forty-two is so much more worldly and sophisticated than thirty-two.” She rolled her eyes and feigned a bored yawn. “Give me a break, Zor.”

  Zor reached out and stroked his nee’ka’s mane of hair affectionately. It annoyed Kyra how safe and loved the gesture made her feel. The barbarian could all but anticipate her every need. “You are thirty-two earth years, pani,”—he emphasized the word—“whereas I am forty-two Yessat years, the standard by which all galaxies in the seventh dimension measure time.”r />
  The very air in the room seemed to stop as Kyra contemplated that tidbit of information. She bit her lip, then reluctantly prodded him for more detail. “How, uh, how many earth years comprise one Yessat year?”

  Zor met his Sacred Mate’s gaze. “Approximately ten.”

  Kyra’s bottom lip quivered slightly. Zor had a mad desire to suck on it. “Then that makes you…”

  “Four hundred and twenty earth years.”

  “I see.” Good grief! Four hundred and twenty! She truly was an infant to him. Talk about your May-December romance. “That’s amazing,” she admitted breathlessly, momentarily forgetting her fear of seeing Tryston. “How long do Trystonnis typically live?”

  Zor scratched his chin. Why he always did that, Kyra had no notion. The man was always clean-shaven. “Mayhap two hundred and fifty Yessat years, sometimes as many as three hundred.”

  Kyra did the math, tallying the numbers in her head. Her jaw dropped open in astonishment. “Two thousand and five hundred to three thousand earth years? Good grief! You’ll be alive and ticking thousands of years after I’m dead!”

  Zor looked at her as though she’d gone daft. He shook his head. “Nay, my hearts, ‘tis not so.”

  Kyra peered at him inquiringly, but said nothing.

  “You will age like a Trystonni once we are joined.”

  She gasped. “Really?”

  “Aye.” Zor frowned as a misguided thought occurred to him. He jabbed a finger in the air accusingly. After all, he couldn’t fathom anyone being interested in a phenomenon so well known throughout the galaxies. “You are merely stalling for time with this talk. We must depart this place anon.”

  He flicked his wrist toward the bedchamber’s huge dressing room and telekinetically summoned his Sacred Mate’s dark qi’ka. When it landed on the bed, he crossed his arms over his leather-incased chest and threw Kyra a look that broached no argument. “Dress at once, wee one. Many of the lesser kings and their nee’kas will be here to greet their Empress and High Queen.”

  Kyra, who hadn’t even realized she was nude until just then, did a little arm-crossing of her own. “When did you take my clothes off?” she screeched.

  “When first I entered the room.” Zor grunted, offering no apology. “I have told you before, but apparently you did not heed me then, so ‘tis best do you heed me now: whilst we are alone, you will never offend me by the wearing of garments.” He slashed his hand through the air in a gesture of dominance. “By the holy law, I have the right of it to look upon what belongs to me at any time I choose.”

  Seething with rage, Kyra’s face turned a mottled red and her nostrils flared out comically. “Ooohhh!” She clenched her teeth and set her jaw.

  Zor merely laughed, thinking his nee’ka the most adorable of pani brides. Dismissing her antics with a grin and a wave of his hand, he summoned the qi’ka upon Kyra’s body.

  Kyra gasped, then gasped again when forces unseen removed her from the raised bed and sent her flying into Zor’s arms. “Shiiiit!”

  Zor paid her no mind. “Now,” her husband chastised in his most patronizing “let’s be reasonable” tone, “will you walk to our conveyance or must I carry you?”

  “I believe I’ll walk.” Kyra thrust her chin up to a stubborn angle. “As I’ve said before, I am not an infant.” When Zor began to chuckle, she glared at him, narrowing her eyes defiantly. “Are you ready or not?”

  Zor lowered his wife to the ground, then bowed mockingly. “By all means, nee’ka, let us go. Your palace awaits you.”

  Chapter 9

  As the bay doors opened and Zor laced his fingers through hers, Kyra absently noted that warriors were lined up on either side of a bejeweled path forged of amazing red crystal that led from the landing dock to some sort of ornate carriage a ways down the road.

  Kyra’s first thought was that she’d never seen so many huge men in all of her life. She felt like Thumbalina.

  Her second thought was that, in the light of day, all of these barbarians could no doubt see what lay beneath her qi’ka with zero effort. Luckily, that horrific thought was quickly replaced by a third—Kita must be in close proximity because it smelled like somebody cut one.

  Holding her breath, Kyra glanced over to Zor to see if he smelled the stench too. Although her husband remained outwardly calm and emotionless, it gave her grim satisfaction to note that the whites of his eyes were a stinging red, making an eerie contrast against his glowing blue orbs. Furthermore, he had developed a wicked tic in his cheek.

  Good!

  As the fetid odor relented, Kyra turned her attention back to the perfectly lined up men waiting below. All of these warriors were of roughly the same coloring, height, and musculature. All of them wore the same leather-like pant and vest attire, although the colors were different from Zor’s and Dak’s.

  Kyra recalled Dak mentioning during dinner that colors were significant on Tryston. Only the Chief Priestess of the Trystonni, as well as those of the immediate bloodline of the High King could don the black-like color her qi’ka was in.

  Dak, for instance, was within his rights to attire himself in black, but down the road when he married and had a son, his son—when starting his own family—could not. His son’s sons would wear the color white, the emblem of lesser kings not directly of the Emperor’s line of succession. Dak, even after he took a wife, could choose to wear either black or white, as could his Sacred Mate. A little confusing, but Kyra got the gist of it.

  Dak had also informed her that as Empress and High Queen, it was Kyra’s duty to wear “the night”—his translatorial term for the black-like hue—to all official functions, but it also fell to her to show her support of the various clans by interchangeably sporting their colors as well.

  Whatever.

  Tired of standing on the landing pad looking like a lingerie model on display, Kyra squeezed Zor’s hand, conveying her desire to get it over with and start moving. He grunted, but made no motion to leave. Harrumphing, she gave up. He wasn’t paying her any attention now anyway. All of his focus was on the warriors assembled on either side of the red crystal path.

  Stifling the urge to dig her nails into the palm of Zor’s hand—not that the gargantuan would feel it or care—Kyra waited in awkward stillness until at last her husband broke the silence.

  Raising the union of their clasped hands, Zor bellowed his decree. “I give unto you Kyra Q’ana Tal. The High Queen of Tryston and Empress of Trek Mi Q’an.”

  All of the warriors present, and there had to be roughly a hundred or more, bent down on one knee out of deference to her station. Kyra bit her lip, uncertain as to whether she was expected to bow to them or nod or something. Oh well. If she was supposed to bow, then Zor should have told her, she assured herself defensively.

  It occurred to Kyra that squatting on one knee would put these warriors at about eye level with her. As it was, the top of her head barely made it to the top of Zor’s abdomen when he was at his full height. The top of her head! Good grief.

  All at once, Kyra felt overwhelmed by the past few day’s events—being kidnapped, getting married without her knowledge, climaxing at the dinner table—it was all too much. She wanted to go home. She longed for the normalcy of manipulating numbers and scowling at IRS agents. Nevertheless, she would settle for simply going to the palace and locking herself behind closed doors.

  Then suddenly the group was moving, Kyra and Zor in the lead, Dak and Kita taking up the rear. Speaking of rears, Kyra had an odd premonition that her abominable brother-in-law was staring at hers, getting a great view in this light, no doubt. Glancing over her shoulder, she threw him a look that shot daggers when her suspicion was confirmed. Dak merely grinned, winking unrepentantly.

  Kyra sighed. The man was brazen as hell, but hard to stay mad at.

  Turning her attention to the red crystal path before her, Kyra was mortified to discover that all of the warriors were ogling her in the manner Dak had. She had thought they would all be immune
to seeing scantily clad women. “Why are you allowing them to stare at me like this?” she whispered to Zor.

  “Like what?” Zor was taken aback by the hurt transmitted in his nee’ka’s tone. “All non-mated warriors behold a desirable woman thusly. You should be pleased, as it speaks well of your beauty.”

  “I’m not pleased,” Kyra whispered tersely, her face heated with embarrassment. “I’m humiliated.”

  It struck Zor just how different his Sacred Mate’s upbringing had been from the free women of his acquaintance. Even though he realized that the lusty thoughts of non-mated warriors would never subside, Zor suddenly had the urge to shield his woman from further upset. Kyra would adjust given time. For now, he could do naught less than to help her ease into it…slowly.

  Picking up the royal party’s pace, Zor squeezed his Sacred Mate’s hand to express his respect of her feelings. Kyra threw him a grateful glance, further strengthening his resolve to move them to the Q’ana Tal conveyance the soonest.

  Truth be told, now that Zor was mated, he didn’t care for other warriors lusting after his nee’ka any more than his nee’ka desired to be lusted after by them. Her wee body was his, made for his pleasure alone. Still, Zor knew from his own forty-two Yessat years before mating just how lusty a lot the Trystonni were. He tried not to take offense as he witnessed the unabashed perusal so many eyes gave to his wife.

  Zor’s muscles grew taut with a surge of primal territorialism. He could feel the gazes of his warriors taking in every nuance of his woman’s body. From the sparkling stones embedded into Kyra’s sandals, to the slit skirt that revealed the creamy sekta pearl skin of her left leg and hip, to the wisp of fire-berry curls shielding her mound, to the plumpness of her lush breasts and jutting nipples…

  Zor felt all of the stares and was surprised to discover that his first inclination was to whisk Kyra away and lock her in their bedchamber where none save the Kefa slaves could see her charms. In the past, mated warriors had claimed he would one day feel this powerful urge, that ‘twas natural before securing the woman through the joining, and mayhap even after. Zor had laughed, insisting that no wench could make him feel that strongly for her. How wrong he had been.