by Page, Sharon
He ruthlessly pushed his hard prick down and struggled with his trousers until he fastened them over the bulge. “Let me take you to your bedroom and tuck you into your bed.”
She erupted into giggles again. “How can you say that—offer to tuck me into bed so sweetly—after you were going to spank my bottom?” But she finished her laughter with a yawn, which set her giggling again.
He held out the paddle for her, so she could grasp the handle. Pulling on it, he whisked her to her feet. She swayed on her slender legs, obviously exhausted. Yawning again, she put her hand over her mouth.
Not caring about the pain that went through him, Raven lifted her into his arms and carried sleepy Lady Ophelia to her bed. There he helped her undo her dress, and gave her privacy to slip on a nightgown he had acquired for her. He had gotten it from a madam who ran a brothel for vampires.
As he drew the covers over Ophelia, she gave him a smile that speared his heart. Her smile was so adorable it touched him. She glowed like a woman in love.
He was supposed to win her love. Why should it feel like he’d been kicked in the gut?
Returning to his room, Raven noticed the cobwebs at the ceiling, the coldness of the room since he never needed a fire, and the sense of emptiness in it even though it was filled with furniture. It was as if the room had no soul either.
He pulled on his shirt, swiftly fastened it at the collar, and shoved its tails into the waistband of his trousers. He had no time to worry about the lonely feeling of his room. He could not go back to Ophelia and watch her sleep. He couldn’t stay with her.
Another wave of hunger hit him, so fast and hard he had to grab the bedpost. His fingers gouged into the wood. Inside, he seethed with hunger and lust.
He wanted her neck. Wanted to sink his fangs into it. Wanted it now.
Cursing, Raven ran down the corridor, passing the door to Ophelia’s room. He forced his legs to keep moving. Launching over the banister, he jumped off the stairs and landed on the tiled ground floor at the foot of the staircase.
Raven pulled on a cape, grasped a silver-tipped walking stick, and headed out the door, locking it behind him. His destination was the docks. He would reach them just before the first glow of daylight touched the sky. Many people would be out, beginning their working day. He had little time until full daylight came, and he ran the risk of being burned to ash by the sun’s rays.
He had to satisfy his hunger as quickly as he could.
Ophelia couldn’t sleep. Snuggled beneath her soft sheets and warm counterpane, in a new silk nightgown that Ravenhunt had given her, she felt utterly exhausted. Truly, she couldn’t even keep her eyes open. But even when her lids dropped and shut tight, she couldn’t fall into sleep. Her wits whirled.
She had spanked Ravenhunt’s bare bottom. She could still hear the soft thwacks in her head and the hoarse, rough rasp of his groans. His aroused groans would stay with her forever. She’d never heard a man sound like that—
Well, she had, at that naughty club or brothel, or whatever it was.
She had never made a man sound like that. Moaning, groaning, with excitement. She had never made a man feel pleasure. When Raven had climaxed, with his face showing such agony and his hand gripping his erection hard as his hips jerked . . .
Oooh. It had been a stunning sight.
She had made this beautiful, strong, sensual man come, as he had called it. She had made him laugh with delight, and when he’d done so, he was breathtakingly handsome. Deep lines had ringed his wide mouth, and crinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes, and his laugh had been throaty and masculine.
She’d giggled in earnest, soft helpless giggles, until she was consumed with mirth, with a warm happiness in her heart.
She was laughing with joy. Those moments of sexual play had given her true joy. She’d forgotten that he’d kidnapped her; forgotten she was required to do something against her upbringing and her breeding: give up her innocence to a man she would not marry.
Though, in a way, she already had given up her innocence. She still had her maidenhead—but she was hardly naïve and unknowing anymore.
As he’d tucked her into bed—such a sweet thing to do—she’d asked, “How can I make love to you without killing you?”
“You don’t have to worry,” he’d answered. “You will be free.”
But how could she not worry when she hurt him each time she touched him—?
Ophelia’s eyes suddenly opened wide in her shadowy bedchamber. She sat up, her covers tumbling down. Ravenhunt didn’t say he wouldn’t die. Heavens, surely he wasn’t willing to sacrifice his life to save her?
That would be insane. He barely knew her. It wasn’t as if he could actually care about her. How could he? Love was something that built. That took time to grow.
Why would Ravenhunt be willing to give his life for hers, when he barely knew her? What sort of man did that?
A hero. A noble knight of old.
He had saved her life once already. He had been struck with two pistol balls for her. As amazing and strange and improbable as it sounded, the man who had kidnapped her had become a hero to her. More of a champion for her than anyone had ever been.
The glowing coals in her fireplace gave the room a soft glow. Ophelia was groggy with the need to sleep, but her mind would not stop. Why could she not stop questioning him and simply give her body to him and believe him when he said she would be freed?
But could she do it if the price was to kill him?
She had to know—
The door creaked softly. That must have been responsible for the breeze, for her windows were shut tight.
A shadow moved, filling the doorway with darkness. Just as on the first night, it was Ravenhunt. He leaned against the frame with his arms crossed. His broad shoulders stretched across the opening’s expanse, his eyes lost to the shadow. Only the prominent lines of his face were revealed by the fire’s glow—his high cheekbones, his blade of a nose. But this time instead of being filled with fear, she sat up. She pushed off the covers. The instant after she did, she knew what she was doing. She was welcoming him.
She wasn’t afraid of him. Not anymore. But she was afraid for him. “Is taking my power going to kill you?”
“Always blunt and direct, aren’t you?” he countered from the shadows.
“Why do you never answer my questions?”
A deep laugh came out. “We both throw questions at each other and never answer them.”
“Are you risking your life to save me? Why?”
“I’m not. Neither of us will die.” There was the soft creak of the door frame as he straightened. He prowled into the room. “You should be sleeping. I came to make sure you were.”
“Shouldn’t you be asleep? Aren’t you tired, too?”
“Not yet. As I told you, I often stay up all night, and go to sleep at dawn, then I sleep away the day, and wake at twilight.”
He sat on the edge of the bed.
Questions collided in her head, and she was definitely dazed with tiredness. Why did he want to take away her power? What would he do with it?
Oh God, did he want to use it?
Why hadn’t she pushed him for answers? It seemed, since he had captured her, her brain had ceased to function. When she’d been a prisoner at Mrs. Darkwell’s, all she’d had was time to think, but with Ravenhunt it was as if she were finally pulling cobwebs off her brain.
She wanted to put questions into words, but he came to the edge of the bed. “Sleep,” he said softly.
Deep and soft, his voice flowed into her thoughts. She wanted to obey. Ophelia fell back, her head landing on the pillow. Her hair fanned out around her—she’d forgotten to braid it for sleep. It would be tangled, but she was too tired to care.
So tired. But something nagged at her thoughts. Something she couldn’t quite grasp but that wouldn’t let her sleep. “I still don’t think I can sleep.”
“What you need is to be exhausted—to have your body wor
n out and your mind thoroughly tired, too. Too tired to think but satiated and happy.”
Heavens, she had never felt more exhausted in her life, but that did not help her sleep. “How could I do that? My head is spinning. I’m so tired, yet I cannot sleep.”
“I have the perfect solution.”
Ravenhunt came to the bed, and brought his hand forward. He reached into a pocket, drew something else out. A snap of his wrist made it uncoil. It was a length of black rope.
“Close your eyes,” he murmured. “Concentrate only on what you feel.”
“A—are you going to tie me up?”
“Not yet. I want to show you how enticing a rope can feel.” His voice flowed like rich, amber honey. “Think of nothing else but what you feel.”
She did as he asked. She fought to think only of the soft touch of one end of the rope over her cheeks. He drew soft circles that tickled. The rope was not scratchy and rough, but soft, as if made from velvet.
The end of the rope slid across her upper lip.
Ophelia gasped. Little bolts of lightning seemed to sizzle on her lip. He traced the shape of her mouth slowly with the dangling rope.
He was just touching her lip with the velvet length, but it made her throb and ache between her thighs. Heat flared there. Moisture pooled. She wriggled her hips.
“Lift your nightdress.”
She couldn’t resist the hoarse, dark command of his voice. Almost as if they were acting on their own, her hands clutched the skirt of her nightgown and she tugged it up. Her eyes were still closed, but cooler air brushed her thighs. The curls at her pubis were exposed.
The rope touched her inner right thigh. Up it went, and she sighed, almost sobbed, as she felt the caress on her skin.
She felt like marble coming to life—as if she’d been cold stone for her whole existence, and finally she was beginning to feel.
He possessed a master’s touch. Smooth and soft, the rope stroked around the intense, tingling place between her legs, first in agonizingly slow caresses that made her shiver, then in faster slaps that made sensation streak though every inch of her. Ravenhunt tapped the top of the aching nub and she cried out. Her achy, throaty squeal flew up to the dark ceiling.
Something built in her. Her hips jerked with the sensations. She arched up, trying to lift her hips to tease her throbbing, demanding nub with the rope.
Ophelia opened her eyes. Between his large hands, Ravenhunt had drawn the rope tight. He sawed it gently over her throbbing, yearning quim and that magical place that felt such pleasure when it was touched.
Heavens, yes.
He lightened the caress, so it barely touched her, and she whimpered. “More . . . please,” she whispered.
“Of course.”
But Ravenhunt played a maddening game with her. He stroked harder until she moaned with agony, then slowed the passes of the rope until she rocked and bucked desperately for stimulation.
“Please,” she begged, when the pressure and ache and tension built hard once more, yet he took the rope away. “Please don’t stop.” She felt as if she would go mad. She felt like a half-formed statue, ready to take shape only to have the artist put down his tools and walk away.
Ravenhunt gave a slow smile that seemed to say he had a secret she could not begin to guess. How handsome he became when he smiled. He lost the hard, grizzled look to his face, the cold austerity that made him look like an assassin. His eyes softened, and appealing lines bracketed his mouth. He became . . . beautiful.
“I wish I could touch you.” Deep and growling, his voice echoed in her thoughts, as if he could speak directly to them. “I’d love to do this with my tongue.”
That brought an immediate, shocking picture in her head.
She imagined having her legs spread wide, her private parts bared. His body would lie between her legs, his head at her most intimate place, and his tongue would slick over her throbbing nub—
All her tension coiled and snapped, like a cracked whip. “Ravenhunt!” she cried, in desperate agony.
But this wasn’t pain. It was as if a cold, unbreakable shell around her had cracked, and pure fire was pouring out. Her body arched as all her muscles tightened in exquisite glory.
It was so good. Pleasure swamped her, pleasure like she had never known. She cried, laughed, sobbed, knowing nothing but pleasure.
He watched her though the journey, through each happy, lovely twitch of her body. It eased, and she relaxed, limp and boneless, into the bed.
“Now, you’ll sleep. I promise,” he said.
Just as she was about to fall hazily into sleep, she whispered, “I didn’t know a rope could do that—could feel so wonderful rubbed against me.”
“You have to trust me, Ophelia. In this type of sexual game, I’m an expert. I always use ropes in sex. No matter how I do it, I want to build your excitement. I want you to dream of me stroking you with ropes. Or spanking you. I want you to anticipate each teasing touch against your round, voluptuous bottom. Each stroke will make your cunny clench, and will send throbbing pleasure right to your clitoris, my dear. I believe I can make you come just by spanking your bottom.”
Heavens, heavens. Her heart thudded, even as she floated in delicious pleasure, even as her lashes drifted shut.
The bed creaked as he stood. Softly he said, “I will return to you when I wake, but it will be late in the day. You should rest until then. Go to sleep.”
Satiated and tired, Ophelia knew she would finally sleep, but she could not wait until tomorrow.
I told you having an orgasm would give you a good sleep. I’ve left something for you in the kitchens. I’ll be up when it is evening. Remember, you haven’t been spanked yet.
—Ravenhunt
Sitting on the edge of her bed, in the robe Ravenhunt had left for her, Ophelia shivered—that was nerves. Then quivered. That was desire.
Heavens, what was she thinking? She didn’t want a spanking. But then she imagined him standing in front of her, almost naked, sporting a huge erection and carrying a paddle.
She squirmed on the bed. Actually, she did rather want a spanking. She wasn’t afraid of it anymore.
Ravenhunt’s strong, slanted handwriting flowed over beautiful notepaper, which was the color of thick cream and just as smooth. Why did he want her to go to the kitchens? They were in the basement.
Basements in ancient houses held dungeons. And those had iron shackles—
Ridiculous. Ravenhunt had specifically written kitchens, not dungeons.
She knew it was already afternoon. The mantel clock and sunlight peeking around the drapes told her. She had slept for hours.
It had been years since she’d spent a whole night in wonderful, undisturbed slumber. It never happened at Mrs. Darkwell’s. She’d always woken in the grip of a nightmare.
Ravenhunt had acquired slippers for her, too. Delicate satin ones and they sat on the floor by the bed. She slipped her feet into them, then padded downstairs.
Curtains had been drawn back throughout his house to let in light. Last night, when they had come back in from the brothel, everything had been closed up, dark and forlorn.
That was how he lived—cut off from the world in a darkened fortress.
He behaved like a prisoner. Just like she had been.
The house was brighter with daylight coming in, but it was still quiet, so eerily so that it made her shiver. A house of this size was never silent. There was always noise, even just the patter of footsteps or the hushed chatter of family or servants. The sense of being almost completely alone gave her a creepy feeling, as if she were the only person alive in London.
She wasn’t, of course. Ravenhunt was sleeping upstairs.
Ophelia made her way down stone steps to the basement. The ceiling was low, the walls formed of large, thick stones. Large wood beams crossed over her head, and she made her way to an open door through which light spilled. Wonderful smells poured out from there—a sweet aroma that must be the fresh fruit, alon
g with the rich scent of roasted meat, and a yeasty tickle to her nose that promised bread.
She hurried into the preparation area of the kitchen.
An enormous feast waited for her, spread out on a wood worktable.
She found baskets of fresh breads, pastry on plates, a cold roast beef sliced for her, and bowls filled with grapes, oranges, and one incongruous-looking pineapple, complete with its spiky skin and leaves. A piece of paper was held in place with an uncut, exotic yellow lemon.
My apologies. The meals today will have to be cold. I hope it is adequate.
Adequate? It smelled spectacular, and with all the color, it was like a lush painting. There were no servants; Ravenhunt had prepared all of this himself. For her.
Sex made a woman hungry, too. She was thoroughly ravenous. Planting her bottom on a stool with a worn seat, Ophelia drew a plate toward her. She took one of the buns, tore it, and ate it in great chunks. Gooey, delicious fresh bread was her absolute favorite.
For days, she had been too nervous, apprehensive, and afraid to do more than nibble when he brought her food. With a feast in front of her now, she ate like a madwoman.
Then she frowned. When had she ever seen him eat?
Not once, actually. She’d just assumed he ate food before bringing it to her.
What if he didn’t? There were beings—creatures or demons—who did not eat. She knew that from Mrs. Darkwell’s house. Some demons survived on blood. Some survived on souls.
He had told her he had special powers to heal. He was not normal, just as she wasn’t.
Squirt. She’d pushed through the peel of an exotic, delicious orange, and shot herself in the eye with juice.
She’d been incredibly dense. Not about the orange—about Ravenhunt.
He was going to take her power by making love to her. He had to know witchcraft, or he was a wizard, or a demon with magical powers. From her time at Mrs. Darkwell’s she knew such creatures existed.
Could she make love to him without knowing who he really was?
Men could make love to a lady without any questions. They could do it without love, affection, or thought. But she wasn’t like that.