Jill Noelle - The Dark Count (Ellora's Cave)

by james

  “Oh, milord, it’s huge!” She shifted to look over his shoulder, and he released his breath, only to catch it again when her thighs pressed against the back of his legs. Why did her slightest touch cause him to quiver like a green boy?

  “My father came here in exile before I was born. The castle belonged to my mother’s family.”

  “Where is your mother?” Bridgett laid her chin on his shoulder and her voice came softly in his ear.

  “She died when I was a boy.” He kept his answer purposely short. This was not something he wished to discuss in any detail. “My father died just this past year.”

  “You live here alone?” She sounded incredulous.

  “If you don’t include the twenty members of my staff and my sister, then yes, I live alone.”

  “Twenty servants? You must be as rich as a king!” She tightened her hold about his waist. “I am curious, milord. What will be my position within your household?”

  “You are my personal servant, Bridgett. That is all anyone needs to know.”

  Tempest whinnied and Vincent loosened his hold on the reins, allowing the horse to break into a canter. For once, Vincent was as anxious to be home as his mount.

  Bridgett eyed the tall butler, intimidated by both his size and his bearing. He looked down at her and scowled, his eyes narrowing as he studied her. The Count had left her here, in the entry hall, and disappeared into a side room with an elderly woman, whom Bridgett assumed was the housekeeper.

  She squared her shoulders and stared him down. She would not be cowed by such a rude man, giant or no. “I would like to lie down, if you please. Could you call someone to show me to my room?”

  The butler frowned at her. “Your room, miss? You’ll be staying, then?”

  “Of course I’ll be staying.” She tossed her head with impatience. “I am to be the Count’s personal servant.”

  He sneered at her and she took a step back.

  “My Lord Renault already has a valet.”

  Bridgett’s cheeks grew warm as she realized her mistake. For the first time, she grew truly angry with the Count. He’d left her to fend for herself before this colossal oaf, forced to explain the unexplainable.

  “Thomas, who’s there?”

  Bridgett looked up to see a young woman staring down at them from an upper balcony.

  “Someone who claims to be Lord Renault’s personal servant, miss.” The butler’s tone suddenly grew subservient, almost worshipful. Whoever the lady was, she commanded his respect.

  “My brother is home then?”

  Bridgett watched the girl run down an upper walkway towards the stairs. Within moments, she had joined them in the entry, panting from exertion.

  “Where is he, Thomas? Where is Vincent?” She looked about, as if she expected her brother to materialize from thin air.

  “The Count is in there.” Bridgett pointed toward a closed door at the far end of the hall. “With a woman.”

  “A woman?”

  “My Lord is consulting with Helen, Miss.” Thomas shot Bridgett a look of irritation.

  “Oh.” The Count’s sister suddenly turned her full attention to Bridgett. “And who might you be?”

  Bridgett curtseyed. “Bridgett Celeste Alexandria Morton, ma’am.”

  The other girl extended her hand, her expression solemn. “Such a big name for such a tiny lady. I am Lady Maria Renault, but you may call me Marie.”

  Thomas snorted, earning a slight frown from his mistress.

  “You are to be our guest?” Marie sounded pleased at the notion.

  “I…yes, in a manner of speaking.” She shifted uneasily beneath Lady Renault’s steady gaze.

  “Bridgett is a servant, Marie. She will be directly under my supervision.” The Count joined them, followed by a squat, silver-haired woman.

  “Vincent! I’m so happy you’re home!” Marie launched herself into his arms and he hugged her tight.

  “You act as if I’ve been gone for months.” The Count chuckled and set her on her feet, but held onto her hand to keep her by his side.

  “Twenty-three days, but who’s counting.”

  Bridgett watched the interaction between brother and sister with a sense of sadness. Had she ever loved, or been loved, to such a degree? A shadowy memory of her mother’s face flashed through her mind, but that had been so long ago, she was no longer sure what was real and what was imagined.

  “Helen, I imagine that Bridgett is tired. We’ve had a long journey. Please take her up to the suite that adjoins my room.”

  Marie gasped. “Vincent!”

  “This doesn’t concern you, my dear.” He smiled down at his sister. “It’s nothing for you to worry about, believe me.”

  Lady Renault’s brows drew together in a frown, and she glanced between Bridgett and her brother. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “I do.” The Count turned to address the housekeeper. “Helen, take Bridgett to her room now.”

  The old woman nodded and motioned for Bridgett to follow her. Bridgett hesitated, taking in Lady Renault’s look of uncertainty, but at a nod from the Count she turned and rushed off to catch up with the housekeeper.

  The room to which she was shown was nearly decadent in its luxury. Silks, satins, velvets and gold adorned the walls, the furniture, the bed. A fireplace large enough to step into, framed by a black marble mantel, took up nearly an entire wall. Bridgett spent the first five minutes of solitude roaming about, running her hands over each beautiful item, marveling at what it must have cost to decorate such a room. Eventually, she was drawn to the bed, both by its inviting softness and her undeniable weariness. She stripped off her gown and placed it carefully on a nearby chair, then crawled beneath the plush quilts with a sigh.

  She did not know how long she slept, but when she awoke it was full dark and she was not alone. The Count sat in a chair beside the bed; apparently he’d been watching her while she slept. She eyed him cautiously, her heart beating frantically. Merely looking at him made her tremble and stumble over her thoughts.

  “Are you hungry?”

  She sat up to lean against the headboard. “I wasn’t, until you mentioned it.”

  Her stomach growled and she gave an embarrassed laugh. “I suppose I’m famished.”

  “There is a tray there.” He motioned toward a table near the fire. “I believe the food is still warm.”

  “I’m not…” She shook her head, knowing that he would scoff if she told him she wore only her shift. He had seen much more of her the prior night. There was no place for modesty when it came to her Count.

  Her Count. She smiled at the thought, sliding from the bed to pad across the thick rug, crinkling her nose with delight at the savory smells coming from the table.

  She sank into a chair and placed a napkin on her lap. “Will you join me?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve already eaten.”

  Bridgett shrugged and lifted the lids from the silver plates of

  food, her mouth watering. After two days of eating nothing but biscuits and jerky, this was a veritable feast.

  She lifted a bite of pork to her mouth and chewed slowly, aware that he still stared at her. Nerves made her throat constrict when she tried to swallow. Choking, she grabbed for the glass and took a long drink. Too long. The wine was strong and bitter, burning its way down, making her cough even more.

  “There is water in the other.”

  He sounded amused, and Bridgett glared at him over the rim of the mug. The cool liquid soothed her fiery throat, but her arms and legs felt warm and tingly and she grew a bit light-headed.

  She pushed back her tray, no longer interested in the food, and stood on shaky legs.

  “I believe I should lie down.”

  She started for the bed, but when she passed his chair, the Count reached out and pulled her onto his lap. She fell against him, uttering a startled cry.

  “You did not like the wine?”

  “It’s only that I am not u
sed to it, milord,” Bridgett lied. In truth, it was the most awful thing she’d ever tasted.

  “Here, try some of mine.” He retrieved a cup from a table near the chair and handed it to her. “It is not as strong, and is sweeter.”

  Bridgett wanted to refuse, but her desire to please him won out. She took the cup and brought it slowly to her lips. Closing her eyes, she held her breath and took a small sip.

  “It is delicious!” She smiled with relief and took another drink. “It tastes of honey.”

  “Hmm…let me taste.”

  Before she knew what he was about, he pulled her down and kissed her, gently at first, then becoming more demanding as his tongue slipped past her lips. Bridgett sighed and he stole her breath, sucking gently on her tongue. Her wine-hazed mind vaguely registered the touch of his hand at her breast, and her nipple tingled and tightened in response to his caress.

  He lifted his head, breaking the kiss, and she groaned her frustration.

  “Are you ready for your next lesson, little one?”

  Ready? She turned away, afraid he would see her excitement. Ready did not describe her emotions. Want? Need? Neither seemed to accurately depict how she felt when she was near him like this.

  He untied the laces at the top of her chemise and slipped the light material down over her breasts.

  “Look at me.” He fingered her nipple, and she trembled in his arms.

  She met his eyes, trying to still her quaking limbs. “Yes, milord?”

  “Give me the cup.” He took it from her numb fingers and placed it back on the table. “Now, lift up a moment.”

  She raised her hips and her breathing became ragged when he reached to unhook his breeches. She stared, fascinated by his masculine beauty. Her fingers itched to touch him, to stroke him as he stroked himself, his hand sliding from base to tip, his thumb caressing the bulbous cap.

  He pulled her back to sit on his lap, lifting her breast to capture her nipple between his teeth, biting gently, before drawing it into his mouth and sucking it deep, torturing her with his tongue.

  Bridgett tossed her head back and cried out, an animalistic sound of ecstasy that mere words could not convey. When he pulled away, she thought she would die of the loss.

  “Tonight, I will teach you to pleasure me with your mouth.” He whispered against her neck. “With your tongue, your lips, your teeth.”

  Bridgett, thinking he meant to kiss her again, sighed with anticipation.

  “Yes, milord.”

  “Stand up.”

  The order came so abruptly, she could only stare at him in surprise.

  “I want you on your knees, here, between my legs.”

  Unsure of his intentions, but unwilling to question his purpose, Bridgett slipped to the floor and moved to kneel between his thighs. He lifted his hips and slid his breeches down, exposing tanned, muscular legs covered with a fine sprinkling of coarse dark hair.

  Her gaze was drawn to the space between, to his erection. Heat spread throughout her body and made her dizzy. Want. Need.

  The Count sat back in the chair. “Touch me, bella mia. Take my cock in your hand.”

  Bridgett’s heart began to pound and her mouth grew dry. She reached to take him in her fist, closing her eyes against his smoldering stare and concentrating only on her sense of touch. Silky smooth, yet hard as stone. Hot and pulsing. She moved her hand up and down its length as he’d taught her to do, and heard him groan. The sound gave her a new sense of power, that she could elicit such a response from such a strong man.

  “Take it into your mouth, as you did my tongue when we kissed.”

  Bridgett’s eyes grew wide. This was not a tongue. He was long, longer than the width of two of her hands, and quite thick.

  “It is not necessary for you to take in the entire length, merely a few inches. It is the head of a man’s cock that is the most sensitive.”

  When she continued to hesitate, he grabbed her hand and brought it to his lips. “Like this.”

  He took one of her fingers into his mouth and sucked it lingeringly, swirling his tongue down its length. Bridgett caught her breath and a tight ache grew in the pit of her stomach.

  The Count released her hand. “Do it. Now.”

  She lowered her head until her lips met the soft, purple-red tip. Tentatively, she licked the tiny slit, drawing a drop of pearly-white liquid into her mouth. She felt his sharp intake of breath, sensed that her actions gave him pleasure, and grew bolder.

  She dipped lower, drawing him in, caressing him with her tongue as he’d done to her finger.

  “Ah, yes, amore mia, like that.” He grabbed her head, pushing her lower and raising his hips from the chair. “Now move as you did when you used your hand.”

  She raised up, sucking him tight, then sank back down, the pressure of his hands in her hair forcing her lower and lower, still.

  “That’s it, suck me hard, little one. Milk my cock with your hot mouth.”

  He bucked against her and she moved with him, matching his rhythm, thrust for thrust. She felt him tense and started to pull away, but he held her tight.

  Bridgett burned. Her entire body felt aflame, and the hottest embers seemed to be centered between her legs. She moaned against him, sucking him faster and deeper in a vain attempt to cool the fire of her desire.

  “Oh, God!” He gave one final thrust, burying himself deep, nearly choking her. Bridgett felt his release, tasted it, a warm saltiness that she swallowed hungrily, using her tongue to draw in every drop.

  His hands fell away, leaving her with an empty feeling, a sense of abandonment after what they’d just shared, and she released him to sit back on her heels.

  The Count opened his mouth to speak, but then shook his head and began rearranging his clothing. Bridgett raised the bodice of her chemise and tied the laces, all the while watching him from the corner of her eye.

  He did not speak to her until he reached the door that led to his adjoining chamber.

  “That was very good, bella mia.” He sounded as if she’d just served him a particularly tasty meal. “Tomorrow night we will try something completely different.”

  The click of the door behind him seemed to echo throughout the chamber. Bridgett stared at the dark expanse of wood for several moments, fighting tears of anger, frustration, and humiliation. Her entire body vibrated, and she covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a sob.

  Vincent placed his forehead against the wall and took a ragged breath, resisting the desire that raged through his body and tormented his soul. It had nearly been impossible for him to leave her that way. He pictured how she’d looked, flushed from exertion, her hair flowing about her shoulders in wild abandon, her full lips red and glistening. He’d longed to pull her into his arms and kiss her, to hold and caress her and tell her how beautiful she was. And he’d wanted to make love to her, to give her what he knew she desired, what he’d meant for her to desire, what she must even now be struggling to understand.

  He punched the wall, then shook his fist as pain sliced up his arm. He could not give her that kind of control. He would not. He had been a slave to women’s lascivious needs for too many years, and he refused to go back.

  Chapter Six

  “What are you doing?”

  Bridgett jerked her hand from the door latch and uttered a small cry of surprise. She turned and faced the Count, feeling a little like an errant child. “Pardon me, milord. I grew tired of sitting alone in my chamber all morning.”

  Her nerves still raw from the night before, she did not try to hide her irritation. “Surely you do not mean to keep me confined during the day?”

  His dark eyes narrowed and he studied her in silence.

  Bridgett’s heart began the rapid thump that his gaze never failed to evoke.

  “I do not mean to keep you confined at all, bella mia.” He ran his index finger over the swell of flesh that her low-cut gown did not cover.

  She closed her eyes. Lost. That’s how she felt eac
h time he touched her like this. Each time he spoke to her in that husky, intimate way that made her forget to breathe.

  “Do you know, Bridgett, that every time I am near you I grow instantly hard?”

  He dipped his finger beneath her neckline and brushed her nipple. “You pleased me quite well last night. I believe we’ll have to attempt a repeat performance.”

  He continued to stroke and tease her, and she could not reply. Her breast seemed to swell at his touch and she leaned into him.

  “You would like that, would you not? To take me in your mouth? To taste my essence?”

  Bridgett shook her head, wanting to deny it, wanting to tell him that she had no desire to repeat the experience of heartbreak and emptiness she’d felt when he’d left her last night. But a part of her, a part that would not be denied, wanted to take what he offered.

  “Tell me, bella mia,” he whispered. “Say it.”

  She would not open her eyes and allow him to see the longing, but she gave him his answer. “Yes.”

  He pressed against her, forcing her back to the wall. “Yes, what? Tell me what you want.”

  “I want…”

  “Look at me.”

  She did. She could feel the hard length of him through her dress, pressing against the sensitive flesh of her stomach.

  “Now tell me.”

  “I cannot.” She looked away.

  He moved against her, rhythmically, making her tremble. “You can. You will. Say it, bella mia. I want to hear the words.”

  She struggled for air, struggled for control, but could not fight him. Turning to face him, staring into his eyes that were dark as the night sky, yet burned her as the sun’s warmest rays, she spoke.

  “I want you,” she whispered. “I want to take you in my mouth. I want to taste you.”

  He moved away so suddenly that she nearly fell to her knees.

  “You may explore at will, with one exception.” He nodded toward the locked door that he had caught her trying to enter. “You are never to go into that area of the castle.”