At Her Service (Swords of Passion)

by DeLand, Cerise

  “Your wet chat is a hungry animal.” He kissed her nose as he rhythmically stroked her core. “She wants my fingers.”

  Elise caught his gaze with one demand. “She wants your rod.”

  His eyes narrowed, and the silver light in them shown like lightning. “She’ll have it, too. But first,” he rose high, caught her under the waist and flipped her over to her stomach, her ass in the air, “we will see if she can make cream for me this way.”

  “I liked what you did there. Fill me again and stop this!”

  He covered her with his hot body then reached around her stomach, plunging his splayed fingers into her bush and rubbing her swollen labia with a dexterous roll. “Nay, my lady. You had but a small piece of me. And this silky little chat of yours might not take my full sword unless I pet her in new ways.”

  And at that, from between her legs, he sent two fingers of his other hand up into her cunt.

  “Ah,” she moaned and arched like the cat he compared her to. “How big can your manhood be if you seek to amuse me with only frail fingers?”

  Her insult had him flipping her on her back and yanking her thighs apart. “You torment me?”

  One corner of her mouth lifted in mirth. “You delay for a reason, my lord?”

  He seized her and sent a hand to the back of her neck. “You think I play with you?”

  “Oh, Simon,” she whispered, ravenous for his possession. “No more delays.”

  And with a wicked smile, he drove himself up inside her and held them both in silent suspension.

  She could not speak. Could not move. Aye, she had felt his possession minutes ago, but this, this glory, this mating, this fulfilment of her yearnings was far more than she had felt before. His iron rod once more stretched her, but now he claimed her to the hilt. He lingered to pump his hips to hers in a ritual she’d thought she’d known, but never had. The need she knew was base but undeniable, and she ground herself into him, never daring to let go. He drove her to the bed, his loins joined to hers, his rhythm as fierce and steady as the ocean’s beating surf. And to her surprise, they strained towards some heaven together, their bodies perspiring, blending, pounding. As the frenzy mounted, he feasted on her breasts and spoke in some wordless wonder as she gripped him and spun with him to some new and oh so daring plane.

  She rose up, her head flung back, her body given to the rapture of a hot and hard release. And as she floated down into her linens, she knew new truths.

  The name of this was ecstasy. With Alphonse, she had never glimpsed it. She had known Alphonse only to push at her and grind his hips on her. She had known him to take long minutes to get hard and finally inject her with his seed. But she had never known the dance of a long, slow, molten mating. And the joy that built within her as Simon sent his length inside her, over and over again, drove her up and made her pound once more. This time, she met his lunges with a fervent clasp of her legs and groaned in madness as he pumped his engorged staff into her. He pressed his fingers to her pearl and brought her to a pounding precipice with a loud and lengthy scream.

  Simon’s groans of consummation tumbled out a moment later, the room at once so silent. He rolled to one side and pushed her hair back from her brow and cheek. Elise stared into her lover’s half-lidded eyes as he placed a finger to his own lips and turned his head to listen. In the solemn quiet, they heard Alphonse loudly snoring, and Simon smiled, sweet succour to her fear that their passion had been overheard and thus sullied by the man who had arranged it.

  And for all the beauty of the past few minutes’ ardour, Elise felt an arrow of truth hit her sore heart. She rose, a hand out to Simon to waylay him from another caress, another kiss, another moment of bliss.

  For all her longings these past years for passion like she’d just known, she had to admit her own responsibility for it. Lust had brought her to accept this night, this act. Lust for money, security, a home. Lust for a man who should have been hers, by God’s justice, years ago. But lust for Simon’s body had been just as much a beacon to her madness on this bed as was the bargain that Simon de la Poer had made with her husband. To bed her. To possess her. To sire a son by her. And claim it was her husband’s.

  To admit that, she had become a more mature woman. Hopefully wiser.

  Her problem now was what to do with her maturity and her responsibility for her choice. Surely, she would take Simon de la Poer to her bed again and again to ensure she begot a child. But could she do that, over and over again, and not take him once more to her heart?

  Simon rolled from Elise and planted his feet on the cold stones. Cold as her heart. And could he blame her?

  Nay, she has been a victim of her station. But by Christ, after I right this wrong, no more shall abuse her.

  He rose to cross the room and felt beneath his feet the deep nap of her Abyssinian carpet, noted the damask cushion of her gilded chair and acknowledged how rich the Countess of Atherton was—and how far she would go to keep her wool and silk and gold. He could fault her for her love of wealth, but then he must do the same for himself. After all, he had accepted the terms of this scheme, had he not?

  He approached the hearth, grabbed the poker and stirred the logs in the same way he could stir her, raging fire or smouldering ember. He knew now that with sure ease, he could take her in bed, on the floor, up against a wall and in the mating, she would leave behind her morals for a spell. In her supple little body, her big pouting nipples, her syrupy cunt, she panted for him. Creamed for him. Cried for him with juicy welcome to his rod.

  He glanced down at that long, lax tool that now hung at rest. He snorted. The manhood that was legendary for its length and girth had finally invaded that one precious chat that should have been his. His only. He had loved her since he was sixteen when, in all innocence, he had kissed her lovely mouth before he’d been sent away to Richard, eternal war and wandering. Aye, this woman should have been given to him in flesh as he felt God had given him her in spirit. Yet, poor knight that he was, no others in this earthly realm would have vouched he had any right to the only daughter of the wealthy Lord Cordelier.

  But he did now. Only he had the right to bed her. Alphonse had promised him no other man would ever touch her to plant his seed. Simon had demanded that stated in their written agreement, and he would live and die to see the clause observed. Henceforth, from the day Alphonse had committed to this, only Simon could mate her. Only he, in the taking of her and the claiming of her pretty cunt, could make her life inviolate. Make her powerful.

  Christ in his grave. At the mere idea of laying her down, his rod was rising to claim her again. The very thought of her engorged him like a bull. For twelve years, he had thirsted to suck her nipples, taste her milky chat on his tongue and treat her to a night divine buried in her body. It mattered not what woman he viewed, what woman he was given, what woman he took, the one woman he claimed was Elise Cordelier. Now, the woman he had vowed he would have one day by any means, fair or foul, the noble and renowned Elise Dumond, the Countess of Atherton, was his to tutor in the arts of love. For her education, he had stored up a treasure trove of tender nuances he would teach her.

  He ran a hand through his hair and turned his back on the fire to enflame again the one woman he wanted. Now.

  And this time, the coupling would be his way. His way. He had never forgotten how she loved to kiss. Now, he would reawaken those lessons and teach her how to please herself—and how to entice him in the bargain. Poor pretty girl, he could see that she had forgotten many of his kissing lessons. And as for pleasuring a man or herself, she knew nothing. Her lack of inspirational company was the fault, and he rejoiced in that. And to celebrate, his penis stood up higher with the knowledge that she was his to initiate.

  He smiled like a fiend. She lay on her side facing him as she rustled beneath her martin fur and silks. Slowly, she opened one eye, then another. To alert her and, true, to enjoy himself, he palmed himself up and squeezed the tip of his rod. Drops of his seed came forth to ac
claim his prowess. He would give them to her. To both their advantages.

  She licked her lips. He’d teach her how to use them on him.

  She spread out her arms. He’d show her how to welcome him into more than one embrace.

  On cat’s feet, he padded across her little carpet and knelt on the bed. It rolled beneath his weight. Yet, she lay there quietly, waiting for his lead. His shaft stirred. He had never been so painfully hard. He had to sink himself inside her soon again or die of her lack. With a flick of his wrist, he peeled away the fur. The pale ivory of her skin had him pausing, fighting down a compliment to the beauty before him. He did it mutely, quickly, running his palm over her shoulder, her shapely arm, her long fingers, the indentation of her waist and the swell of her hip to the curve of her calf and the delicacy of her toes. Ah. He would begin with those.

  He shifted to the foot of the bed—and with his move, he detected she gave a shiver of expectation. He had fine plans in store.

  With one giant hand to her left foot, he wrapped his hand around her arch and bent to suck her little toe. She jerked in surprise, but he was ready for her and held her to the ticking. She froze. He smiled in triumph and set his tongue along the ridge of her other toes. In objection or delight or mayhap both, she rolled to her back. The glory of the Countess Atherton was spread before him once more, and this time, he had the patience and the presence of mind to absorb the sight of her perfection. Fingering her big toe on one foot, he grasped the other ankle and held her to the bed. For conquest’s sake, for his own delight, he forced her feet apart to view at his leisure now that most vital place that was solely his to lick and suck, to savour and to claim.

  Her cheeks grew pink. She grunted and tried to loose her feet from him, but years of training in the lists and scores of battles in the East, had built strength his delicate Elise could never match. Still, she tried to kick him off. To no avail. She sat up to pummel him. He yanked her ankles with such force, she fell back on the mattress with a yelp, the bedclothes and her glorious breasts bouncing in the effort.

  He slid his hands up her calves. The skin was so soft he almost wept. Her knees so rounded, he kissed their flawlessness. Her thighs, so plump but firmly muscled, he squeezed the indentations in admiration for the way she must have held her horse as she rode the beast. The way she would now ride the beast in him.

  His hands reached her bush. The wealth of hair that had covered her mount of Venus when he’d glimpsed her in the pond years ago as they’d swum together had blossomed like a forest in these twelve years. Her cunny hair was a whiter hue than the gilding of the hair on her head. But this—he splayed one set of fingers into her froth of curls—this was his to tease and please, to part and claim.

  He fingered her labia apart. She moaned but did not thrash, her duty to let him have her converging with her old and new desires for him. Her glistening cunny lips were drenched in rosy colour that made him narrow his eyes. The smell of her—the meld of her liquid spice and her delicate soap—flared his nostrils. And he bent to spread her fruit and feast on the meal spread before him. He had always enjoyed eating a woman, but Elise was his one true love. The brew she created intoxicated him better than the finest wine. He could feast on her forever and never grow tired of her sugary fare.

  In one long swath, his tongue laved her from her cream-covered core to her tiny pearl of love. His fingers holding her open for him, he kissed her jewel, and with the tip of his tongue, he circled her and gave her tiny little licks of love that drove her to a mute keen. She arched in delight, but he ran one hand up to her stomach to gentle her.

  “I give you more than any man, Elise,” he soothed and caressed her skin down to her groin then plunged a finger inside her liquid walls. “I always have.” He pulled her heavy lips open with one hand while he stroked inside her with the other. But he could tell one finger was not enough to abrade her and so he shot another inside her. And in approval, she growled deep in her throat. He returned to her rosy, hard button to kiss it, lick it and press loud little sucks against it and make her whimper with delight.

  He grinned as she ground out, “Have me, Simon. End this torture.”

  But for the desolate years that he had dreamed of this, her plea coupled with these two brief bouts of love was small recompense. Torture, she called it, torture, she deigned it. She had not one inkling of the meaning. He would show her. He would make her acknowledge him. He’d make her talk to him sweetly. He’d make her linger with him for hours. Before he lifted a finger from her fabulous form, he’d make her sing in mad delight and beg to keep him inside her cunt forever.

  So he ran his hands up to her ass cheeks, nuzzled her curly little mound once more, licked her navel and with one swift move, lifted her and flipped her over in the bed. The air left her lungs as she fell face down. She moaned in protest, but he hovered over her, giving her no time to rise, as he scooped her up under her waist, pressed her buttocks to his groin and reached down to invade her thick lips once more with determined and demanding fingers.

  “You think you know torture? This is it, Elise.” He swirled his fingers over her tight, dew-soaked nub and swept down into her flesh to gather more of her love liquid and bathe her lips and cunny hair with it. “This is what torture is, my countess. To want. To need. To need one special one, but to have none. To be caressed.” He demonstrated with deft fingerings. “To be rolled and petted into a frenzy and to yearn for the only hand that can give it you—but to find no relief.” He pulled away his hand.

  “No! Simon!” She panted, trying to grab his retreating hand.

  He eluded her.

  Instead, he forced her hips back against him while he inserted his rod between her ass cheeks and shifted to get himself up higher near her flowing molten core. Then, as he had her where he wished, he stroked her slit with his long, aching member.

  He groaned. The need to have her hot little walls surround him and squeeze him dry made him shudder. The night was long, was it not? And he was just beginning.

  But to seize her face-to-face again when her mind was still so far from him roiled him. And he growled in his own frustration and ran a hand up her back to press her down. He bent and licked the perfect plump ass cheek that rose to greet him then claimed the other with a wet lashing of his tongue. She gave a small cry and tried to turn. But he wrapped a hand around one thigh, hoisted her higher and, with one open palm, tapped her slit. The yelp she made died into a cry of delight. Smiling at her joy in his wicked ways of love, he promised himself to spank her harder and longer another time. For now, he sent two fingers inside her channel to draw forth a thick coating of her white cream. She moaned, likely thinking he would further caress her there. Instead, he withdrew and slid one finger inside her tiny nether hole. And she froze.

  “There is more to a night of love than you’ve learnt, my lady.” He began to massage her little asshole with tender swirls.

  She hummed in lewd approval then threw back her head in her pleasure.

  He preened. With one lift of her hips, he pressed his mouth again to one curvaceous ass cheek and bit her there where he gambled no man had ever claimed her, marked her or tamed her.

  “Mine,” he growled and bit the other cheek. “This beauty,” he whispered, thrusting his finger in and out of her tight little ass, “is mine.” And to prove his largesse, he kissed her atop his love bite.

  “Simon, Simon,” she crooned as her hips pulsed in helpless tiny moves against his groin. “More, oh do give me more.”

  He could have screamed down the castle in joy. “Aye, my lady. There is even more than this. For your big nipples and your juicy cunt and tight ass. But for tonight, I have stretched you wide enough. And for reward, I give us both this.” At that, he hauled her up, tilted her hips so that he revelled in the sight of her taut little asshole exposed to him and below it, her pouting lips, red and glistening in the candlelight, weeping for him and welcoming him. He fingered her succulent folds. “Pretty and sweet and all for me.” Then h
e rose to his knees once more and in one ram, he possessed her hot, creamy core.

  She shot forward, but he caught her. Forced her back to him as he twisted up inside her, braced himself with two hands to her hips and gave her the pounding fury of twelve years of want. With long, deft strokes that hit the top of her womb, he stroked her and primed her, plundered and seized her with a precision that gratified him for its force and deft execution. And this time, as he spurted freely into her lush flesh, he felt his seed give her what she needed and what he craved. He jerked her back against him, as her relentless muscles milked him dry. He smiled, his lips resting on her nape. His hands melding to her hips, he cupped himself over her perspiring body and clutched her close as the two of them shuddered in completion.

  Surely, odds said, they could have already made a child tonight. If not, tomorrow. The next day. As long as Alphonse still breathed and sanctioned this unholy mating.

  Simon prayed now, once more fervently as he held this woman impaled on his shaft, that her husband lived long enough that Simon might avail himself of every sensual talent he’d learned in the Orient. Seven years as Richard’s loyal man, three years as a Templar’s mercenary, plus one for the Order of St. John meant Simon knew sexual tricks and had objects to incite this woman to beg him for his iron rod and finally, for his love.

  He fell sideways to the bed and took Elise down with him, both of them panting and sweating, wrapped together still in their ardour. He stroked her hair, kissed her shoulder, knowing he had the skills and the fortitude to make her cry and plead for him. Knowing he could make her ache for him, even abandon reason for him. He prayed her husband remained alive for days, weeks, aye months, so that he had the lee to make Elise his devoted slave of love. And for the granting of that wish, he would rot in hell.