Free The Warlock's Daughter by Jennifer Blake

force of his movements against her and felt her heart expand. Strong, vital, she thrust upward, needing, wanting his jolting power. He gave it, and more.
    Turning with her, he drew her above him, allowing, following her pace. She sank upon him, taking him deep, deep, absorbing him even as she dipped and swung to her own throbbing rhythm. Her hair flailed him, stroked him, shielding them in silver-gold glory. And her strength, her endurance, was without end. Beyond fear.
    Immortal, they strove, assaulting in concert the constrictions of time and space. Surmounting them. Sweeping with windblown fury toward violent surcease, supreme victory.
    It burst over them, a thunderous cementing of mind and soul, the ultimate immortality. And they took it as a gift, and gave it as a benediction, each to the other. Sealed in rapture, immutable, they held each other with aching tightness, and did not let go. Even afterward, when the grandeur passed and the rapture faded to a sweet and sensual memory.
    “Did I tell you,” he said long moments later, “that I love you desperately, forever and without end.”
    She shifted a little, burying her face deeper in the strong curve of his neck. “I think so; I can't remember.”
    “I will, or will again, then,” he said on a low laugh, “when I catch my breath.”
    “Would you like me to say the same?”
    “No,” he answered, lifting a strand of her hair and letting it fall, glittering, back onto his chest. “I can hear it in my heart.”
    “That isn't possible,” she objected, though merely for form.
    “Listen,” he said, and gathered her even nearer, physically and mentally, merging his being with hers.
    Nothing moved for some time then. The fountain played, the flowers waited, pale in the moonlight, breathing perfume. A soft breeze meandered over the mosaic floor and, finding them, cooled their skin, swung the tassels of their cushion, and departed.
    Then a wide square of light was flung toward them and across their entwined forms, as the doors to the house opened. The gray cat stepped out and padded softly to the steps. It sat down, observing them with unblinking concern.
    The cat's shadow moved, stretched, elongated. In the next instant, the animal was gone and in its place was a distinguished gray-haired gentleman in evening clothes. He regarded the pair on the cushion with relaxed complacency.
    “I knew,” he said in deep and cultured tones, “that you two were suited, and would find it out if thrown together.”
    Renfrey made a quick, sweeping gesture and a white silk sheet billowed above them, settling to cover their nakedness. Carita clutched it as she sat up.
    “Father!”
    “My love,” the older gentleman said, inclining his head. “Are you well—but no, don't answer. I can see you are blooming.”
    “You—you've been watching us,” she said.
    He held up a strong, yet elegant hand in negation. “Acquit me, if you please, of anything so depraved. I was merely keeping an eye on your welfare from a discreet distance.”
    Renfrey , supporting himself on his elbow, spoke then. His voice carried a hint of menace. “And are you satisfied now that she will come to no harm?”
    The elder warlock smiled. “Quite. Though you will admit I have, or had, reason for concern. The two of you have turned my hair quite white.”
    “I'm surprised you didn't feel compelled to intervene.”
    “How do you know,” Carita's father said gently, “that I didn't?”
    She leaned forward to say in low tones, “Did you? Really?”
    His gaze was benign as he shook his head. “No, but I would have if there had been the need. You are very dear to me, my Carita .”
    She hesitated, then said, because there might never be another chance, “My mother—”
    “Your mother was a woman of rare bravery. Her heart was strong in spirit but weak in fiber, something we did not discover until it was too late. I loved her. The rest,” he said quietly, “is none of your affair. But you need never