Shield's Lady

fingers through hers and then he lowered himself between her legs. His hair-roughened skin was exquisitely exciting against the softness of her inner thighs. She became intensely aware of how big he was. His weight pressed down on her. Gryph’s eyes were moonlit seas as he slowly eased himself to the damp, warm entrance of her body.
    “Gryph?”
    “Just keep holding my hand, Shield Lady. Remember, we go through this together.”
    She nodded, her breath growing fast and shallow with excitement. She felt his wide, blunt shaft probe her tender folds of flesh and she flinched.
    “Hold me, Shield Lady. Put your free arm around me and hold me as tight as you can. Don’t let go, whatever happens. Just remember I’ll be with you all the way.”
    His mouth covered hers. She could feel the throbbing tension in him. It was as if he had braced himself for a trip into strange, unknown territory. His fingers tightened around hers and he moved their clasped hands a short distance across the quilt until Sariana realized they were touching an object.
    Belatedly she recognized the leather of his weapon kit beneath her palm. Then she was touching the cool prisma of the lock. Gryph was holding her hand flat against the crystal now. A part of her wanted to question the strange action, but the rest of her was too caught up in the gathering storm that was about to break.
    Rainbow gems glittered in the swirling heart of the whirlwind. Gryph was going to run with her into the center of the storm and catch flashing prisma jewels with her.
    “Now,” Gryph said against her mouth.
    “Yes, now, please.” Sariana clutched him more tightly with her free hand. His muscles bunched, strong and powerful, under her palm. He was rigid with desire.
    Gryph gathered himself and then, without any further warning, thrust deeply into her.
    Prisma crystal shattered into a million jagged jewels. Hot, sharp, glittering rain showered down over Sariana. She gave a choked cry as the sensation poured through her. She heard an answering, guttural shout as Gryph sank himself to the hilt within her small, velvet channel. Sariana’s body convulsed around him. Small, delicate muscles clenched in a resistance that was too little, too late.
    Some discomfort, Sariana remembered Gryph had said. I have heard there is some discomfort. She nearly screamed in rage and pain.
    He had lied to her. All the books she had ever read on the subject had lied. Everyone had lied.
    This was not the small, momentary discomfort she had been expecting. This was agony. Something was wildly, incredibly wrong. Her whole body was in chaos.
    The pain came not just from the soft, tender, bruised flesh between her thighs, though that was bad enough, it also came from her shoulder.
    Her shoulder. No. It was impossible. Sariana was stunned by the dull, throbbing ache that was suddenly and inexplicably occupying that portion of her anatomy. But that wasn’t the worst of it.
    The worst part was the white, burning sensation in her hand where Gryph held her fingers to the prisma lock of his weapon kit.
    But even that was not the end of it. On top of everything else, her body felt hot and feverish.
    Sariana’s eyes flashed open in bewildered accusation. Her body stiffened in reaction to the trauma. She found Gryph staring down at her, the lines of his hard face drawn taut in an agony that clearly matched her own.
    “Gryph, stop. Something’s wrong. Something is wrong.”
    “Hang onto me, Sariana. It will pass. Just hold on to me.”
    She heard the words, but she could have sworn he hadn’t spoken aloud. She couldn’t be sure of that, however. Everything seemed to be spinning chaotically around her. Nothing was real or stable or solid except Gryph. He was the source of all this pain and agony, but she sensed he was also her only salvation.
    And then, in a blinding flash of intuition, she knew beyond a doubt that he was feeling everything she was feeling, including the pain he had caused her by his sensual intrusion into her body. Sariana wondered dazedly how such a distinctly feminine anguish was being translated by his own masculine nerve endings.
    Perhaps in the same way her uninjured shoulder was throbbing with the ache of an unclosed blade wound.
    Perhaps in the same way both of them felt the prisma burning an invisible brand into their palms.
    Perhaps, just perhaps, in the same way she was painfully, violently aware of his blazing masculine need. None of that fierce desire was