by Page, Sharon
“You—oh.” Her sentence dropped to a moan as he lightly strummed her right nipple. “But you look so unhappy—oooh!”
He slid the whip down, rubbing it between her thighs, rubbing her clit.
“Goodness—the only time—”
She was still fighting to talk. The way to silence her would be to dive between her legs and lick her senseless. Or thrust his aching cock in her to the hilt. He’d been sporting an erection for hours, and his ballocks were in pain.
“The only time I’ve seen you smile is when we do . . . lovemaking things,” she gasped.
So demure and sweet. He owed her something, but not enough that he frightened her away. Stroking her clit, he murmured, “I cannot stop hunting vampires, love. It’s too late for me. But yes, carnal games with you make me very happy.”
He’d found her erotic triggers when he’d painted images for her of sex slaves and multiple partners. Raven withdrew the whip handle from the soft, damp cleft between her legs. “Get on your knees on the bed.”
Ophelia did so obediently.
“Bend forward and rest your cheek on the bed. Keep your bottom up in the air.”
“Oh yes. Tie me up again,” she said boldly. “I want more.”
9
A Delectable Neck
“Put your hands behind you, crossed at the wrists.”
Ravenhunt’s dark voice sent a tumble of shivers down her spine. On her knees on the bed, Ophelia stuck her naked derriere up in the air. Vulnerable, true, but she felt so erotic.
She squirmed. She’d never ached so much between her legs. Desperately, she wanted to touch herself there. It was an insistent hunger, a screaming need to be stroked.
Ravenhunt eased the whip between her legs. She sighed in relief as the leather-wrapped rod ran along her nether lips. “Oh yes,” she whispered.
But relief was short-lived. He took the whip handle away, and something scratchy ran around her ankles. She squeaked in surprise, sat up, and turned to look, which meant she was no longer in the scandalous, naughty position that had thrilled her so much.
Rough, hemp rope was wrapped around her ankles. Humming casually, Ravenhunt tied a knot, securing her legs together at her feet.
She loved the pressure of the rope. Even the scratchiness—such a contrast to the silkiness of the sheets beneath her.
“Hands behind you,” he instructed. Clipped. Curt. Demanding.
She returned to the position he had commanded, her hands clasped and resting against the swell of her bottom.
He slid the rope around her wrists. Her hips wriggled, which worked the rope at her ankles. Excitement spiked through her, rushing from her tied-up ankles, up her legs. Exploding between her legs.
“Oh!” she cried out. Not quite a climax, but she felt a rush of wetness.
Ravenhunt pulled the rope encircling her wrist tight. “Being tied up makes you free,” he murmured. “For I am doing this to you, and you have to do as I want. Whatever I want.”
“Yes,” she whispered. Panting so hard she could barely speak.
“Now this.” He took a strip of black silk and twisted it, turning it into a column of wound silk. He pressed it to her lips, and when she lifted her head, gasping in surprise, he gagged her. It took him moments.
“Not too tight.” His deep, smooth tones were filled with satisfaction.
Ophelia let her cheek sink back against the bed. Another strip of silk was quickly fastened around her eyes.
She was gagged, blindfolded, and bound for him. But this was a game, and she wasn’t scared. She liked it. She remembered the sort of fantasies she used to have—about being taken by a forceful, dark man, one who was immune to her power, and who would haul her roughly into his embrace and press his hard, strong body against hers.
She shouldn’t want such things in reality. But this—
“This is fun, harmless pleasure, Ophelia.”
She couldn’t see him, but his voice was soft and close. Her nape tingled—she was sure he whispered by her ear. “Many women dream of this. You did so because you wanted to be taken by a strong man. It’s natural, my angel, because you believed you couldn’t accept a man’s touch. Many women who know they cannot be naughty dream of having pleasure forced on them. It’s exciting to be out of control and subjected to enticing, erotic acts.”
The whip stroked along her spine and she quivered. It caressed the cheeks of her bottom.
Was she really quite ready to be utterly out of control? Would he whip her there? She couldn’t ask, for she had the gag between her lips.
Then shockingly he slid the firm, long handle between her cheeks, so it glided horizontally in the valley of her rear. He left it there, stuck between the globes of her bottom.
“Now for your clit, angel.”
Rough rope sawed between her thighs. She squawked in protest, but the gag muffled it. His hands firmly rubbed it until it seated beneath her nether lips, lightly abrading them with each fierce breath she took. When she moved, the rope did, too, sliding over her clit.
Oh! She saw sparks shooting in front of her closed eyes.
“There’s more. Would you like more?”
He was tempting her to take a bite of wanton pleasure and she couldn’t resist. She couldn’t speak for the gag. She nodded and she accidentally jiggled the rope against her oh-so-sensitive clit. She cried out into the silk strip.
“Warmed oil,” Ravenhunt said softly. A soft drizzle hit the base of her spine and she jolted. Something massaged it gently downward, coating the valley of her rump. Pain stabbed her quickly and the soft stroking stopped.
“I won’t hurt you. I’ll use a wand instead. Coated in oil.”
There was a pause and then something warm and firm tapped her bottom.
For one thrilling moment she thought: It must be his erection. Then she felt the rigidness of it, pressed against her botto m.
No, the wand he’d used on her before. Gently, he traced along the valley of her derriere. Until he reached the entrance there.
She tried to jerk away, but he slid a rope around her waist and held it so she could not roll or wriggle in escape.
Lightly he traced around that place, that forbidden place.
“You are sensitive in there, too.”
Ophelia shook her head. How could she be? This wasn’t . . . well, proper.
“I will show you.”
The wand, slick with oil, penetrated her bottom. Just a bit. Her muscles clenched in refusal. He eased it back, but when she took a deep breath, relaxing, he pushed it forward again. Over and over he did this, and it stopped hurting, stopped making her tense. Her bottom was slick with oil. Her muscles no longer clenched.
She actually—
Wanted it inside.
Now, when he put it in just a bit, she moaned. She began to rock backward. Each light push on the wand seemed to make her clit tighten. She was tense everywhere—the tension before pleasure burst.
Oh God. It went in deeply, and she gasped. It felt good. She’d had no idea her bottom could be aroused.
Slowly, he began to thrust it. “It’s all the way in now.” His voice was gruff, strained. “Right to the hilt.”
Oh yes.
“Now we know how much your sweet, plump ass can take. All of it.”
He withdrew it all the way and she thrust back, wanting it in again. He obliged, the thickness of it pressing against the ring of her entrance. It went in with a pop and a sweet sense of fullness. He took his time, slowly pushing it in, withdrawing, then pushing more. Goodness, it filled her so much.
“It is stuffed deep up your arse,” he growled.
Naughty words, and she almost melted in boneless splendor as he began pumping the wand into her. She moaned into the gag. Her rump was completely stuffed. She played with that word in her head. Stuffed. So scandalous, yet so delicious.
His thrusts were long, slow, gentle, but taking her to the brink.
“Rub your clit against the rope,” he commanded. “Come
for me.”
She twitched and moved until she made the rope saw against her. Three swift jerks of her body and—
Oh God!
The orgasm took her swiftly, claiming her. Goodness, it was so good. Her body seemed to coil up, then stretch out, her every muscle twitching with the fierce sensation.
Fireworks streaked before her blindfolded eyes, and she screamed with delight into the gag. When it was over, he swiftly cut the ropes at her hands and feet. His capable hands undid the blindfold and gag, and she was free. She blinked, still dazed.
He stood at the end of the bed, his cock straight, thick, engorged. It looked so large she was certain her hand could not encompass it. Like a cutlass, it curved upward, tilting toward his rock-hard stomach.
His hand wrapped around it, and her eyes went wide as saucers. A large, strong male hand gripping an even larger cock. Heavens.
The way he held his shaft surprised her. Almost without mercy. His grip was hard, his face contorted in agony.
Then he stroked, his hand drawing along the thick shaft until he reached the underside of the acorn-shaped end. Beautiful and intriguing, his straight, thick cock seemed to grow out of a nest of black curls. His ballocks hung beneath the curve of that marvelous sceptre, though they seemed to have tightened up and pulled close to his body.
The top of his erection was adorable. Smooth and rounded, like a head looking upward.
His strokes went faster and Ophelia caught her breath. He jerked his cock harshly. Roughly. Almost beating it.
His eyes shut and he drew in a sharp breath. His hand fastened around the rigid length, just below the head. His other hand gripped his balls.
A jet of white fluid spurted out of the top of his cock. It arced like a fountain, spattering his hand, his leg.
He ducked his head, breathing hard.
Then Ravenhunt lifted his head, and the candlelight seemed to glow at her where it reflected on his eyes. He made a sound like an animal’s growl.
His muscles still jerked with his climax, and his hand was sticky with his semen, but all Raven could think about was blood. The rich, teasing scent of it filled his nostrils. He jerked his head to the side as pain shot through his jaw. His fangs lengthened, scraping his lip, but Lady Ophelia had not seen it happen.
He heard her blood rush through her veins. Each pump of her heart pounded in his ears like a drumbeat.
She was so beautiful. And she would taste so good.
He released his cock and lunged for the bed. Startled, Ophelia fell back, sprawling on the white sheets. Her skin was flushed pink with her blood. So much blood—
The curve of her slender neck gleamed like pearl in the light. His fangs brushed her skin. Incredible pleasure shot through him, more powerful than any orgasm. His throbbing cock jerked and went hard instantly.
He wanted more. Needed more. Her blood. All of it.
His fangs scraped, easily gouging tiny holes in her delicate flesh. Two droplets of crimson blood—perfect, round, shining—dribbled out.
“Ow,” she gasped.
The blood drop ran down and touched his lower lip.
Her blood was ambrosia to a vampire like him.
Another welling drop released the luscious scent of her blood to him. He stuck out his tongue and lapped it up.
“What are you doing?” Ophelia protested, and she pushed at his shoulders. Then she squealed and jerked her hands from him. Pain shot through him, but Raven didn’t give a damn. His jaw ached and throbbed, and his head was filled with her smell.
More.
No.
But he couldn’t stop. God, he wanted her blood. She tried to wriggle out from beneath him. He gripped her arms, and dimly he heard her cry out, beg him to let her go. He bent to her neck. His teeth hovered over her skin. One quick plunge, and he could have it all—
He shoved her away from him. She fell to the bed, and her pale, white hand clamped to the wound on her neck.
This was what he was. A killer.
His muscles shook and screamed as he fought the yearning to leap on her and drain her dry. He roared with the agony.
No longer did he care about hiding the truth. She was going to find out he was a vampire. He leaned over her, and she stared up, her pretty mouth open in shock, her blue eyes wide and confused.
“Ravenhunt?”
It was all over.
His mouth was an inch from her neck and he was shaking so hard he thought his body would rip apart.
Damn it, no.
“Sorry,” he whispered in her ear. His muscles cramped, then extended, and pain shot through him. His clothes dropped off. His body changed, twisting and pulsing, as his bones reshaped, his muscles pulled and lengthened, and his back began to spread, until his wings grew and expanded. He rose in the air, spread his wings, and spiraled over her bed. With a harsh beat of his wings, Raven flew out through her door opening, seeking the place in the roof where he could quickly fly out.
He had to feed.
10
From Frying Pan to Fire
He’d bitten her.
Shocked, Ophelia pushed herself up on the bed on arms that still burned with the pain of touching him. Her heart pounded in her chest, loud as the hooves of a frightened horse. Her wits spun, and she couldn’t quite believe what she’d seen.
She shut her eyes and opened them again, but there was no Ravenhunt. Only his clothing lay in a pile on the floor.
It had truly happened. She wasn’t losing her mind.
A minute ago, Ravenhunt had lunged over her and pinned her to the bed. He truly did have sharp, curved fangs instead of teeth—fangs he had pushed into the skin of her neck. Pain had hit her, and she’d felt blood spill from the wound. Horror had gripped her. She’d tried to push him off, but he was too strong—
He’d pulled back from her, roaring like a beast. In front of her, he had jerked and thrashed as if in a seizure. Then he’d disappeared and his clothes had dropped to the floor in a disordered puddle, after which an enormous creature, like a bat or a gargoyle, had flown out of the bedroom.
Ravenhunt had been that gargoyle. He had transformed into a winged creature.
Ophelia jumped off the bed, landing on unsteady legs—legs that propelled her to the bedchamber doorway faster than she could think. She should not be chasing him. It was insane to do it. But she had to know what was going on. Gathering her courage, she leaned out the doorway and peered down the hall.
After having firelight in the room, she couldn’t see a thing. The hall was a stretch of dark, but she heard movement, then her eyes registered the faintest glow of moonlight spilling into the hall from another room.
The small shaft of silvery light reflected on Ravenhunt’s wings.
Her heart skipped a dozen beats as she drew back into the room.
He was flying away from her, leaving her, and it didn’t appear he was going to come back and attack again. Though she couldn’t be sure.
Her fingers went to her neck. Sticky droplets of drying blood perched on top of the wound.
She stared at the red smear on her fingers. Rubbed them together, but that did not make the blood disappear. He had fangs, he had tried to drink her blood, and he could change into a bat.
She had even wondered if he could be a vampire and she’d dismissed the idea. She had been so trusting, so naïve, so utterly foolish. Why had she not listened to her instincts? He’d offered freedom and she had grasped at it, desperately and pitiably, trusting everything he’d told her.
For most of her life, she had been held prisoner by people who had lied to her. Even her parents had done so. They had tried to make her believe she would change and would one day be free. Even Mrs. Darkwell had lied—pretending that there was no way Ophelia could escape her power.
Ravenhunt had lied by omission. He certainly had not told the truth and revealed he was a vampire.
It was time she took charge of her life. But what exactly was she going to do? She was trapped in a vampire’s house.
Ophelia leaned on the door frame, trying to think. Why had he spared her? Why had he changed into a bat and flown away?
That she could answer. He couldn’t kill her yet. He wanted her power. That was all she was worth to him—her horrible power that she’d been cursed with. He must have planned, after he’d taken her power away, to feast on her blood for his dinner.
The warty, evil wretch. The slimy, scummy vulture. The—the monster.
Cold fury rushed through her, filling her with determination. Every horrible word she called him gave her strength.
He had gone upstairs. He’d told her the house was a fortress that she could not escape, so where was he going?
Sorry, he had whispered. Could it be an apology? Could it mean he hadn’t wanted to hurt her? He was flying away—a vampire’s version of fleeing—to protect her. She knew it was because he couldn’t feed from her yet, but it meant he was flying to somewhere. Where?
Fired by anger, by the determination to beat him and get away, Ophelia stepped out into the eerie darkness. Running her hand along the wall to guide her, she made her way down the wide corridor.
Perhaps she was heading into danger, but logic told her he intended to fly to somewhere that wasn’t in his house. If he was escaping her, it meant he was leaving her.
When he had gone to rescue her, he’d done it without any clothes. Now she knew why—when he changed shape, his clothes fell off him. That meant he had flown out of his house to find her.
There must be a way out of his house. She had to find it.
At the end of the corridor, the door to the servants’ stairs stood open. The narrow steps disappeared into darkness.
She would go up.
The stairs creaked beneath Ophelia’s feet. When she reached the top, a cold draft leaked out of a doorway, brushing her bare arms. Something was open to let the outside night air inside.
Here, grayish moonlight streamed in through a few dirty windows. It gave enough light to reveal there was no winged Ravenhunt above her. Unless he could perch, curled up, the way ordinary bats did, and he could hide in the rafters.