Dark and Stormy Knight Page 7

  He looked at her, a single eyebrow raised. “May I insert things into your orifices?”

  Her face colored. “What kind of things?”

  “Plugs, dildos, fingers, and my cock, of course.”

  She swallowed and fingered the indenture at the base of her throat. “Which orifices?”

  “Are any off limits?”

  “I’m not crazy about anal sex, but I’m willing to let you go there if you wear a condom and promise to stop if I don’t like it.”

  “You have my pledge.”

  Her gaze trained on his. “Is this a one-way street or do I get to stick things in your ass, too?”

  He laughed, equally surprised and delighted by her boldness. God, she was lovely. Those liquid eyes of hers, so much like his Clara’s, could easily lay waste to his soul. “When it’s your turn to call the shots, you can do whatever pleases you, as long as you stay in character and don’t get too intimate.”

  She continued fingering the notch at the base of her neck, which was driving him wild with desire. “Define too intimate.”

  “Kissing on the mouth.”

  Her lips pinched and pursed. “I can’t kiss you?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just told you. It’s too personal.”

  Her gaze remained on his face—probably for the best. He was so hard for her his cock hurt, a condition his breeches failed to conceal.

  “How about oral sex? Is that allowed?”

  Lust coiled inside him like an angry rattle snake. “Allowed and encouraged.”

  “Will you do it to me?”

  “Just say the word.”

  He flicked his tongue teasingly against his upper lip. A blush tinted her cheeks, charming him further. She was inexperienced, but had curiosity and courage, two qualities he prized in a sex partner.

  “Do you ever have normal sex?” she asked.

  “Define normal.”

  “No whips, chains, or pseudonyms.”

  “No.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Because it’s too intimate?”

  “Exactly.”

  Sweeping off the chair in a rustle of petticoats, she came to stand before him.

  He stiffened, afraid of what she might do. Or, rather, what he might. Every cell burned with the desire to take her into his arms and kiss that sweet, cherubic mouth of hers. Battling the urge, he turned back to Clara’s portrait.

  She set a hand on his shoulder, rattling the lock on his heart. God, how he longed to know the joy of love again, but, thanks to that bitch’s curse, that could never be. Wishing and hoping only made it harder to accept his miserable lot.

  “You shouldn’t touch me,” he said tartly. “Unless we’re in character.”

  “Fine.” She slipped her arms around his waist and pressed her face against his back, all but undoing him. “I’m Miss Brown, and you’re the sadistic laird.”

  He clenched his jaw and fisted his hands. God help him. There was still dessert to get through before he could gird himself against her charms. How would he ever hold out that long?

  Wait a minute. Maybe, he didn’t have to. A quick cast change might allow him to have his cake and eat it, too.

  “I have another idea,” he announced. “You’re still Miss Brown, but I’m now the footman you’ve been leading on with your wanton ways. And you’ve just come in while I’m clearing the table, hoping to catch me alone, which you’ve done. The butler is due back any moment, so the risk of discovery is great. We must, therefore, be quick about it.”

  Spinning in her embrace, he took hold of her shoulders and turned her toward the table. At arm’s length, he ushered her toward the unset end.

  “You’re seriously going to take me over the table? What if Mr. Brody should come in?”

  “He’ll either stay and watch or turn and go.”

  “I’m not sure how I feel about an audience.”

  “Fine,” he said, bemused. “If he should come in, I’ll shoo him away. Now, bend over, you saucy minx, so I can have my way with you.”

  As she set her elbows on the table, he took hold of her skirts with both hands and flung them over her head. The bounty before him made his erection strain against his breeches.

  With trembling hands, he unfastened his fly. Taking hold of his cock, he rubbed the aching head with his thumb, smearing the dewdrop of pre-ejaculate.

  God, she had a beautiful ass. He docked his glans against her anus, and he removed the French Letter from his waistcoat pocket. After tearing open the stubborn packet with his teeth, he unfurled the latex casing down his length. With a couple of strokes for good measure, he positioned himself at her beckoning entrance. His erection pulsed with impatience, but he held back.

  “Beg me for it,” he instructed huskily. “Tell me how you yearn to feel my big, throbbing cock stretching your wee snatch to its limits.”

  “Take me, claim me, make me yours.”

  His lips compressed. The line lacked the zeal he’d hoped for, but so be it. He’d play the acting coach later. Right now, he burned to be inside her. With a forward thrust, he took the plunge. Pleasure gushed through him as soft, slippery heat swathed his length. His breath caught. Biting his lip, he pushed deeper, burying every millimeter.

  Emitting a breathy moan, she pushed back and rotated her ass. His cock pulsed and his balls clenched, ready to unload.

  “Be still,” he barked, giving her lovely bum a gentle swat.

  She tensed under him, squeezing his length provocatively. “You promised not to hit me.”

  “I promised not to hurt you. And if that mere tap put you off, you’ll be of little use to me.”

  He waited for her to defy him, but she didn’t. Meanwhile, his groin throbbed with erotic agony. Biting his bottom lip for control, he pulled out of her slowly, delighting in the view as her swollen pink sheath fought to hang on.

  “Sweet Mother of God,” he groaned. “Your cunt’s so fucking tight.”

  She tensed again, squeezing him mercilessly.

  “I don’t care for that word.”

  It took him a moment to realize what she meant. “Is there another you prefer?”

  “I don’t know. Pussy, maybe.”

  Smiling at the irony, he pulled back, hovered on the brink of withdrawal, and drove in again. Christ, she felt good. Too fucking good. He wouldn’t last long. Bending lower, he parted her furry lips and wiggled his finger against her clit.

  She circled her hips and pushed back, swallowing him to the hilt. His balls drew up, eager to unload. He bit back the urge as he worked her sweet spot like a madman. Her breathing grew ragged, her body rigid, her grip on his cock as tight as a milkmaid’s.

  “That’s it, lassie. Come for your footman.”

  When she shattered around him, he pounded her with zeal. Within seconds, his seed cannoned forth in ecstatic pulses. When the rush passed, he pulled out of her, patted her bottom, and pulled down her skirts.

  Grimacing, he peeled the condom off his flagging erection and tied a knot in the middle. He cast around for somewhere to dispose of the nasty thing. The fireplace seemed the only viable option.

  Moving toward the mantle, he tossed the condom on the flames and watched the latex disintegrate. Turning back to the table, he started when he found her right in front of him. Stiffening, he met her insistent gaze.

  What was she about?

  The exertion of fucking coupled with the alcohol had left him fuzzy-headed. Before he knew what was happening, she had him by the hair and was pulling his mouth down to hers. When their lips met, he started to kiss her back. Then, recovering his wits, he pulled away.

  “None of that now.”

  She blinked up at him with those beguiling liquid eyes of hers. “But, I like kissing.”

  He turned away, set his fists on the mantle, and looked into the fire. “You wouldn’t if you knew what kissing could cost you.”

  * * * *<
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  Gwyn and Leith were back at the table, eating the actual dessert—a traditional Scottish dish made with raspberries, honey, toasted oats, cream, and soft cheese. Mr. Brody brought the pudding in just after the footman finished having his way with Miss Brown.

  Clearly, Sir Leith’s feelings were as conflicted as hers. She did not relish being used, but neither was she prepared to go back to playing it safe. Faery magic had given her a second chance at life and, now more than ever, she was determined to make the most of it.

  She put a spoonful of the pudding in her mouth. Sweet-tart flavors burst on her tongue, mirroring the disparity in her heart. It was hard to believe the man who refused to kiss her had written The Knight of Cups. The book was so full of feeling. She couldn’t accept its author lacked the capacity for tender emotion.

  “A penny for your thoughts, Miss Morland.”

  “Trust me, you don’t want to know what I’m thinking.”

  He gave her a wink and an adorable crooked grin. “Why am I not surprised?”

  They went back to their desserts. She stole glances at him while he ate. He had such a beautiful mouth. How badly she wanted a taste. The sex had been good. A little detached, perhaps, though he’d given her an orgasm, so she could hardly complain. Still, a little passionate necking would have made the experience that much better.

  “I’m the footman no more.” With a declaratory wave of his hands, he pushed his half-eaten pudding aside. Setting his elbows on the table, he rubbed his hands together as he fixed her with an indomitable stare. “I’m now a messenger sent to escort you to the dungeon, where his lordship waits impatiently to discuss your transgressions. Needless to say, he is most displeased.”

  He rose from his chair, moved behind hers, and pulled it out. As she stood, he grabbed a candlestick off the mantle, clasped her arm, and led her to a dark corner of the room. With his boot, he swiped the Persian carpet aside to reveal a trap door. Letting her go, he handed her the candle and crouched down to pull the hatch open. As the hinges creaked, musty air rushed out.

  Swallowing her uneasiness, she passed the candle over the opening. Steps cut from the bedrock descended into the darkness.

  “You won’t hurt me, right?”

  Smiling wryly, he looked up at her. “There’s a fine line between pleasure and pain, Miss Morland. And we’re going to walk that line together.”

  Dread tightened her stomach. She’d rather not walk that line. Was it too late to back out?

  Taking the candle from her clammy hand, he started down the stairs, his boots heavy on the chiseled treads.

  She followed, despite feeling like the too-stupid-to-live heroine in a slasher movie. Was she really going into the BDSM dungeon of a blood-drinking faery? Yes, she was, albeit with more than a little trepidation. Part of her wanted to run for her life—the old, cowardly part her stepmother used to push around like a mop. Another part, the new seize-the-moment self, told her to have courage. He was her Beast, her enchanted prince, her knight in shining armor. Okay, so his armor was more tarnished than gleaming, but so what? Last time she checked, armor could be scrubbed and polished by the right woman. And she was determined to be the one who restored his shine.

  Chapter 7

  Carpe diem. Carpe diem. Carpe diem.

  All the way down the stairs and through the dark and spooky corridors, Gwyn chanted her new mantra to herself.

  Carpe diem. Carpe diem. Carpe diem.

  She could do this, damn it. And if she couldn’t, she had a safe word. Just, please God, don’t let her first real adventure turn into a disaster she’d regret for the rest of her life.

  Assuming she lived long enough to harbor regrets.

  No, don’t think like that. If you don’t step outside your comfort zone, how will you ever know what you’re made of?

  Yes, she was afraid. She’d have to be crazy not to be. The dungeon was dark, dank, and beyond creepy. She swallowed hard as her mind conjured a picture of her hanging from the ceiling in a dog collar and handcuffs. The air grew danker. The limestone walls closed in. The only sounds were the thud of his boots, the rustle of her skirts, and the echoing clack of her heels.

  The ghost of past abuses rose from her memory. “My stepmother used to beat me,” she told him, not really sure why. “And I didn’t enjoy being beaten in the least.”

  “My father used to take the belt to my backside till I couldn’t sit down,” he returned. “Because he loved me enough to teach me right from wrong.”

  “My stepmother didn’t beat me out of love. She beat me out of jealousy and meanness.”

  “Why did you stay with her?”

  “Because I had no other choice.”

  Farther on, they came to an ornate wrought-iron standing candelabrum. When he stopped, she hoped he might touch her or kiss her or make some other kind of intimate overture to ease her trepidation, but he didn’t. He merely flamed the wicks with the candle he carried, giving her a momentary glimpse of his handsome face.

  Her pulse quickened and her stomach tightened. She stepped back, losing a slipper in the process.

  He must have sensed her unease, because he stepped toward her and, in a low, soothing voice, said, “Don’t be afraid, my wee mouse. The cat won’t hurt you. He only wants to play. If you truly cannot bear the experience, invoke your safe word—and I promise, I will cease whatever I am doing at once.”

  “What if I can’t speak, because there’s something in my mouth?”

  He got down on one knee, picked up her shoe, and wrapped a hand around the ankle of her naked foot. She set a hand on his head for balance as he guided her foot into the shoe. When finished, he ran his big, warm hand up the back of her leg and over her bare buttocks.

  “The only thing I plan to put in your mouth is my cock,” he said with a hint of humor. “Anything else would deny me the joy of hearing you beg me to end your agony and fuck you senseless.”

  Sparks sizzled between her thighs. She imagined herself handcuffed to a headboard while he fucked her mouth. She could do that. She liked sucking cock, liked the feeling of power it gave her. Well, maybe not so much when the guy was on top, but still. She would never know her limits until she tested them. Plus, she’d always been fascinated with the darker shades of desire.

  And carpe diem, right?

  “I wish it could be different,” he whispered, sweeping his fingers between her legs. “Believe me, I do.”

  His touch was as thrilling as his words were bewildering.

  “Why can’t it be? I don’t understand. Why can’t you kiss me? Why can’t you make love to me in a normal way?”

  He swept his hand back down her leg and got to his feet. Taking her face between his hands, he lifted her gaze to his. His eyes were glossy with desire. Her hope spiked. For one breathless moment, she felt sure he would kiss her.

  “Because if I do, you will die.”

  Her mouth fell open. Holy smokes.

  “How? Why?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Because it isn’t going to happen.”

  He let her go and moved on. Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, she followed, her mind turning like the reels on a movie projector. Try as she might, she couldn’t connect the dots, couldn’t see how a kiss could be fatal. He had to be making it up to scare her into doing what he wanted. Or, rather, into not doing what she wanted.

  * * * *

  The clack of heels on the stones told Leith his wee mouse was staying close as they wended their way through the dungeon maze. He didn’t blame her. The passage was as dark as a coalmine and the only source of light was the candle in his hand.

  Were he the man he’d been, he’d be showing her the door instead of leading her into temptation. But he wasn’t that man anymore. He was a shade who’d been condemned to a loveless existence for betraying a queen who’d extracted his fealty against his will.

  Now, he was forced to objectify his lovers to keep from falling for them. Like alway
s, when he grew bored with her, he’d send her back where she came from. In the meantime, he was six million pounds richer and had a willing playmate.“Are you certain about this, Miss Morland?”

  “Certain, no,” she said, her voice pinched. “But I’m willing to at least see what it’s all about.”

  * * * *

  Gwyn’s insides churned with a mixture of anticipation and dread when Leith stopped before a door constructed of heavy wooden planks. Iron strap hinges held the wood to the arched limestone threshold. “What should I call you?”

  “My lord.” He pulled an old key from his sporran and inserted the end into the lock. The latch clicked and the door swung open with a spine-chilling groan. “And you are Betty Brown, the errant abigail who’s thrown herself upon the mercy of her employer, a man with the power to indulge the wickedness that dwells in the hearts of most. Play the part as you see fit, but don’t break character without first invoking the safe word.” He looked at her as he added, “Are you clear on the parameters?”

  “Yes.”

  Moths the size of those in Silence of the Lambs fluttered in her stomach.

  “You have my word.”

  When he stepped across the threshold, she started to follow. Rounding on her abruptly, he held up his hands.

  “Wait here while I set the stage, so to speak.”

  He shut the door on her. Alone in the spooky corridor, fear whispered in her ear: Run, Gwyn. Run as fast as your legs will carry you and never look back.

  Turning a deaf ear, she stayed put and started the inner monologue exercise she’d learned in her acting classes at UCLA. Yes, she was anxious, but she could channel her angst into a deeper understanding of Miss Brown’s motivations.

  Perhaps the poor maid wasn’t the unfeeling nymphomaniac everybody supposed. Perhaps her promiscuity was a misguided search for acceptance and affection. If so, she wouldn’t be the first female in history to mistake desire for love.

  Gwyn knew only too well how easy it was to confuse the two, especially when a girl wanted to be loved so badly she’d believe anything a guy told her. Perhaps Miss Brown hadn’t yet figured out that a man with a hard-on was about as trustworthy as a used car salesman.