It's Out!

If Wishes Were Horses was released today.

To celebrate here's an excerpt different to the one up at Samhain. If you're under 18 please navigate away.

Copyright (C) 2008 Sarah Leslie

In his hands, the sword trembled. He was an artisan not a soldier. The blade reflected the dying embers of the fire, glowing a dull orange. A fairy weapon forged in steel. He had achieved the impossible, as requested. The burns on his hands—not from the heat, but from the magic infused in the metal itself—would take weeks to heal completely. They would expect him to do this over and over again, until the war was finished. If he were lucky, he wouldn’t be permanently crippled.

In a sudden move, he struck to the right. The sword scythed through the air, humming with power—his finest work.

The sound of clapping had him stumbling backwards and hastily sheathing the weapon.

Lord Valerian lounged in the entrance to Alaric’s workroom at the forge, one foot casually crossed over the other, arms comfortably folded across his chest. His silver hair—usually caught in a tight military braid—fell unrestrained almost to his waist, the points of his ears peeking out provocatively as he moved.

Alaric swallowed. An arrow of heat fired straight to his groin. The two of them had seen each other often over the past few months, each meeting more charged than the last. For all that his skills were valued and needed, he was far below Valerian in rank. Their courtship—if that’s what it was—flouted convention. It had come to the point where Alaric dreaded and yearned for the next encounter with equal fervor.

The lordling pushed off from the doorway and gestured at the sword. “Is that weapon for me?”

Actually, it had been forged at Titania’s request, but since Valerian fought under the newly crowned queen’s banner, Alaric saw no reason to deny him. He unsheathed the blade, laid the hilt across his forearm and offered the sword to Valerian.

The goneril lord stepped into the shabby workroom.

Alaric hardly dared breathe.

Valerian accepted the blade and drew it towards him. The sensation of the metal sliding over his skin—even through the coarse material of his shirt—was an exquisite caress, almost too much to bear. Alaric bit his lip. This visit was an unanticipated pleasure. He hadn’t expected to see Valerian for many weeks.

Valerian tested the weight of the blade and parried an imaginary foe, but his gaze never wavered from Alaric. “It’s a weapon worthy of your skills, Forge Master.”

“Thank you.” Alaric bowed his head so his desire would remain hidden.

Not so easily dismissed, Valerian stepped forward and grasped the leather at Alaric’s waist, slowly returning the blade to its sheath. “Have you missed me?” he whispered in Alaric’s ear.

Alaric remained frozen, unable to believe what was happening. Through the open doorway he could hear the laughter of Valerian’s men. The two of them had never risked discovery before, always taking care to be private. When the lordling then took his hand, stroked his fingers across the most recent scars and entwined their fingers, Alaric stopped breathing. Valerian had obviously become tired of playing games. No more clandestine meetings. No more hiding away. Was he ready for this?

His heart pounded like a hammer. “Yes. I missed you.” Maybe their relationship wasn’t appropriate, but the war had taken so much from them all. Surely society would forgive them? Gonerils didn’t always mate with gonerils, there were exceptions to every rule. He raised his head and the slumberous desire he saw in Valerian’s eyes further enflamed his own. The lordling pulled him closer. The distance between their faces decreased to nothing. Their lips met, the briefest of touches. Alaric closed his eyes. “What is this?” he whispered.

Valerian rubbed his mouth back and forth against Alaric’s parted lips. “Just a kiss.”

Alaric stroked his tongue into Valerian’s mouth, the taste of cinnamon spice heady to his senses. “Are you playing with me?”

The lordling stepped back, brought Alaric’s hand to his lips and crushed his mouth against the scarred knuckles. “I want you for my mate.”

Valerian wasn’t smiling. Alaric swallowed down the teasing remark he’d been about to make. The goneril lord was serious, and in his hand he held a ring.

External sounds faded to nothing. There was only the blood rushing through his veins, the breath soughing in and out of his lungs and the man standing in front of him—the moment pregnant with anticipation.

“Is that a yes or a no?” asked Valerian, his calm demeanor belied by the way his hands trembled.

“Yes!” said Alaric. “Yes.”

A bark of laughter escaped Valerian. “I wasn’t sure… I hoped.” He took hold of Alaric’s left hand, the fingers thickened with scar tissue and in some places still tender from barely healed burns. He closed the ring in his fist. “You can’t wear this. I’m an idiot.”

Alaric grasped Valerian by the back of the neck, brought them close until their foreheads touched. “My idiot,” he murmured. Tilting his head, he brushed his lips against Valerian’s. “I think I have something that will work.” He turned to his workbench and picked up a length of silver chain, then held it up so Valerian could slip the ring onto it. Once the ring was secure he used his magic to seal both ends of the chain together, creating an unbroken circle.
He offered the chain to Valerian and bowed his head.

The chain touched the back of his neck and at the same time Valerian spoke the ritual words. “This ring is a symbol of my commitment to you. Do you accept it?”

Alaric looked up. “I do.”

Valerian smiled. “Then I think we should do something to celebrate.” He slipped his hand underneath the chain where it lay on Alaric’s chest. “I’ve a yearning to see you wear nothing but my ring.”

“There’s a half-broken couch in my office,” suggested Alaric.

Valerian pushed him up against the workbench. “Don’t think I can make it that far.” His hands grasped Alaric’s shirt and pulled it free of his trousers, then up and over his head.

As soon as his head cleared the material, Alaric bent in for a kiss, his teeth nipping at Valerian’s lips. “One of us is overdressed.”

“And I’ll stay that way. You don’t see my back ’til the mating night. Remember?”

Alaric smiled. “Can’t blame a man for trying.”

“No, you’re definitely persistent.” Valerian undid the buttons of his own shirt. “Now where were we?” He crowded Alaric back against the workbench.

Alaric closed his eyes and dropped his head back, reveling in sensation. The warmth of the sun against his face, the rough wood beneath his hands, and Valerian’s knuckles brushing against his flesh as the goneril wrestled with the buttons on Alaric’s trousers. He sank his teeth into his bottom lip, stifling his cries of passion, lest the men outside hear. Valerian may think he was ready for the world to know about them, but thinking and doing were two different things.

Valerian’s hand closed around his cock. There… Ah Gods! His hips surged forward and he thrust against Valerian’s grip. This was what he wanted…what he needed…always.

http://samhainpublishing.com/romance/if-wishes-were-horses