Kushiel's Chosen

of Naamah; when one entrusts oneself wholly to Naamah, her grace enfolds one like a cloak. So said Cecilie Laveau-Penin, who taught me in the arts, and she should know, who was the pride of Cereus House. I have found it to be true.
    "You," Kazan said hoarsely, rising to his feet and bowing. "You are enough to make the gods jealous, you.”
    There is something else that comes of placing oneself in Naamah's hand, and that is desire. It would have happened with me anyway, but it comes sooner with Naamah's surrender than when pressed to it by Kushiel's Dart. I gazed at Kazan Atrabiades, and felt my blood quicken in my veins.
    He was not ill-made, Kazan, although I had been reluctant to concede it. In truth, his fierce good looks were much sought after by the young women of Dobrek. And he was vain, after a fashion; if the Illyrian style of pointed mustaches and narrow beard were not to my taste, I had to admit he maintained his with care. He'd even paid a visit to the bathing room himself, and his black hair gleamed with brushing.
    When all was said and done, he did cut a rather dashing figure.
    It was a balmy and beautiful night, with bright stars emerging in the canopy of black overhead. The sea murmured and sighed as we dined on chicken roasted with rosemary and stuffed with goat cheese, accompanied by a salad of lentils and parsley-and wine, a good deal of wine. It was a red wine, new and a little harsh on the tongue, but I drank it recklessly and it made the lamps burn brighter. Kazan had two cups to my every one, and his gaze never left me. When his speech grew thicker, it was with desire, and not wine.
    A cord may only be drawn so taut before it snaps; so with him. The servant lass had not yet cleared the dinner things when Kazan pushed back his chair and stood, extending his hand to me. "Come here, you," he said in his hoarse whisper.
    Naamah's Servant, I went.
    His hands closed hard about my waist and his mouth came down on mine; his tongue parted my lips, and he kissed me as a starving man eats. Urgency went through me like a bolt, and I wound my arms about his neck, his long hair sliding over my bare skin, kissing him back. He groaned aloud in my mouth, hands sliding lower to cup my buttocks, kneading my flesh and drawing me hard against him. Crockery slid off the table and smashed as he leaned me back against the edge of it, bracing his thighs against mine. I put my head back as his hands rose to fondle my breasts, nipples rising taut in response beneath the fabric of my dress. He moved his mouth over my neck and throat as if to devour me whole, tearing away my necklace of shells with one sharp jerk.
    Never mind, I thought foolishly, Oltukh will make me another. I was ready for Kazan to take me then and there; Elua knows, more than ready. It was he who reined himself in, raising his head and breathing hard.
    "It is not right, here," he said harshly. "Inside!"
    Inside, outside; it mattered naught to me. Grasping my hand hard enough to hurt, Kazan strode into the house, dragging me stumbling after him. I caught a brief glimpse of Marjopí's face as we passed, too astonished to be disapproving. Moving like the wind, Kazan hauled me into his bedchamber and slammed the door shut behind him.
    "Here," he said, reaching for me.
    "Wait," I whispered; I had regained a measure of composure and guided him to the bed. The room was dimly lit by a single clay lamp. He sat staring avidly at me as I stood before him and loosed the ties that bound my dress, letting it slide from my shoulders. Stepping neatly out of it, I knelt before him to remove his leather boots.
    Undressing is the first of the arts of the bedchamber proper that one learns and it is one of the hardest to execute with grace, being fraught with awkwardness in a way that lovemaking is not. I did not practice it often, as an anguis-sette; still, I knew what I was about. When I had done with his boots, I rose to remove his shirt. There is a trick to it, sliding one's hands under the hem that they may glide over the flesh as the shirt is raised. I could feel his chest rise and fall with his swift breathing.
    When I unlaced his breeches, fingertips skimming the rigid phallus trapped beneath, he made an inarticulate sound. Still, he managed to stand. I drew his breeches down slowly, dragging my nails lightly over the skin of his hips and legs as I sank to my knees.
    And that is as far as I got with D'Angeline subtleties and Kazan Atrabiades, who was shuddering all