To Dare a Dark Prince

by Sasha Byrne

  Her whole body thrummed with awareness. The feel of the cold night air on her feverish skin. The buzzing, rustling sound of the awakening forest as nightfall approached. The sweet floral aroma of the lavender field nearby. The earthy scent of the warm leather beneath her fingertips. Most of all the musky wood scent of the man standing over her prone body.

  Rhys pushed his thumb into the top of the crease between her bottom cheeks. Beatrice trembled as she tried to squeeze her bottom cheeks closed.

  “Don’t.”

  The one-word command was enough. Beatrice unclenched her bottom and bore the indignity of his probing finger as it slid deeper between her cheeks, briefly pressing against her dark, forbidden entrance. To keep from crying out a protest that would only get her punished harder, Beatrice bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.

  Swirling the pad of his thumb against her puckered entrance, Rhys pressed his two middle fingers against the tight confines of her cunny.

  “You’re going to fuck my fingers,” he darkly ordered.

  “Wh… what?” asked a confused Beatrice.

  “I want you to move your hips back. Impale that sweet cunny on my fingers.”

  Beatrice’s face burned with humiliation. This was too much. She started to rise up on her knees, preparing to fight.

  Rhys gave her one resounding spank with his free hand. “You either fuck back on my fingers or I pull out my cock and force you to swallow it deep.”

  Now he was just making up horrible things to scare her, thought Beatrice. She grew up in the countryside. She knew about the ways between a man and woman. She knew what he was saying was not possible. A man’s member did not go in a woman’s mouth, of that she was certain.

  Rhys leaned down close to whisper into her ear, his voice a husky murmur, “Come now. You were the one who wanted to ride a horse astride. To feel the animal pulse and strain between your legs. To control all that sinewed muscle. To revel in its strength. To harness that power for your own. To feel your thighs tighten as the hard leather saddle pressed against your cunny.”

  The raw, seductive power of his words mesmerized her. Her hips moved of their own volition. She found herself rocking back, mimicking the rhythm of riding a horse. With each push back, she felt the press of his fingers. First the tips, then pressure as they slid in further, forcing her body to accept, to stretch, to open for him.

  There was no doubt his intended bride was a virgin. Her tight passage, the barrier pressing against the tips of his fingers proved she was untouched. Rhys felt a surge of pure, primal possessiveness.

  Cupping her throat with his free hand, Rhys forced her head back. The movement caused her to arch her back, emphasizing her small waist and the dimples on her lower back just above her bottom.

  “Faster,” he growled as he applied the smallest amount of pressure to her throat. Just enough for her to know who was in charge.

  Beatrice increased her pace, pushing her body back onto his fingers. Feeling him plunder her cunny. The unfamiliar feeling quickly gave way to a new sensation. The illicit feel of his fingers inside of her. The pressure. The tightness. The twinges of pleasure. Her breathing increased, coming in short gasps. She could feel her heartbeat against his palm where it pressed against her throat. She closed her eyes, giving in to the rioting sensations. The scent of flowers and moss. The warm feel of his hands. The press of his body along her side as he leaned in to whisper dark thoughts into her ear. The harsh sound of her own breath. It all swirled and pulsed around her.

  Till everything melted into one complete moment. Scent became color. Touch became emotion. And sight… sight was only him.

  Her release poured over Rhys. He felt her body tighten and clench around his fingers. He watched the small puffs of air leave her red lips with each exhale. Felt her body tremble with each thrust of her hips. Slowly pulling his fingers free, Rhys shifted to stand in front of her.

  “Kneel up,” he commanded.

  Still lost in a world of sensation, Beatrice did not move.

  Rhys placed a hand under her chin. “Kneel. Up,” he repeated with more force.

  Beatrice raised up on her elbows before sitting back, cringing when the rounded edge of her heels dug into her still sore bottom.

  Once again, Rhys lamented being unable to get a glimpse of her breasts. The riding jacket and corset hid every detail from his hungry gaze. He hoped they were full and luscious. Enough to fill a man’s hands.

  “Open your mouth.”

  Beatrice pressed her lips tight. Even after a demonstration of his power over her both physically and emotionally, she still resisted.

  Rhys’ only response was to raise one eyebrow with a look that promised an even more severe punishment if she continued to disobey.

  Beatrice opened her lips, slightly.

  “Wider.”

  With a mewling sound of displeasure, Beatrice opened her mouth wider.

  Rhys traced her bottom lip with a dew-soaked fingertip before pushing two fingers into her mouth.

  “Suck. I want you to taste your own arousal.”

  Beatrice tried to pull back. Rhys stepped forward and placed a restraining hand on the back of her head, forcing her forward.

  “I said suck,” he ground out.

  Beatrice’s tongue touched the leather clad tip. It tasted sweet and earthy. The smell of the wet leather mixed with her own musk, teasing her nose.

  Rhys pushed the fingers in deeper, causing Beatrice’s throat to close on a choke. He refused to relent.

  “Suck.”

  Beatrice swirled her tongue around his fingers in earnest now. Hollowing her cheeks, she pulled on the leather, tasting herself on him.

  Rhys felt his cock lengthen and swell to even larger proportions as he watched her reaction to being force-fed his cum-soaked fingers. Such a beautiful sight. Her full red lips and pale cheeks stood in stark contrast to the black leather of his gloves. Her large amber eyes were wide with fear and grudging desire.

  “Good girl.”

  He laughed as her eyes filled with malice as they narrowed. Still she obediently sucked.

  Feeling the pull of her mouth on his fingers as her tongue circled the tips, he could not wait to fill her mouth with his cock. It would be a striking sight.

  As much as he could stay in this field for the rest of his life testing her limits, the sun had long ago set, and it was getting cold. He needed to get her back home. Pulling his fingers free, he walked away without a word to retrieve her skirt and riding trousers. Beatrice remained on the hard bench, trying to come to terms with what just transpired between her and the arrogant stranger.

  Beatrice immediately tried to grab her belongings the moment he neared. Rhys held them out of reach. “Not so fast, my little fierce feline.” Reaching down he pulled his knife free from his boot. Beatrice stilled. Flicking the sharp blade open, he took a step closer. Beatrice held her breath. Rhys reached out to capture one perfect, silky curl. Pulling the lock tight, he flicked it with his blade.

  Beatrice cried out as if he had actually struck her. Her hand flew to the offended shorn lock.

  Rhys then cut a ribbon from the bodice of her riding jacket. After tossing her clothes to her, Rhys wrapped the purple ribbon around her lock of hair.

  Beatrice stood before him after quickly donning her skirt, leaving the trousers. They were difficult to step into and she didn’t want to spend another moment bare before his searching gaze.

  “What do you intend to do with that?” she asked scathingly as she looked at the beribboned lock of hair in his grasp. Her tawny hair looked like bright, spun gold lying next to the tanned skin of his hand.

  “It is a memento. It will help me dream about this for years to come,” he said with a salacious wink.

  Beatrice flinched at the word dream. Twisted images of the beast, the forest and the beggar woman’s curse flashed across her mind’s eye.

  Marching over to her horse, which was nuzzling with his stallion nearby, Beatrice tossed over her sho
ulder. “I doubt you will have days to live let alone years after I am done with you.” Her boldness returned in spades now that she was dressed and away from his grasp.

  Rhys stalked towards her with purpose. Grabbing her around the waist, he gave her a bruising kiss meant more to send a message of dominance than seduction. “It would be a mistake to underestimate me.”

  Rhys then lifted her up into the saddle. She was forced to once again ride astride. It was not safe to ride sidesaddle on a forward hunting saddle. Rhys watched the play of emotions cross her face. Pain when her bruised bottom first hit the saddle. Trepidation when she realized she would have to ride astride. Regret the moment her bare cunny felt the cold, smooth leather. She had forsaken her riding trousers, so there was nothing to protect her highly sensitive hidden core from feeling the brush of the leather with every shift of the horse beneath her. With every pound of its hooves she would be reminded of his fingers and her spanking.

  Keeping hold of her reins, Rhys mounted his own stallion. He led both horses back to the main estate.

  The moment they reached the paddock, Beatrice alighted from her horse with no assistance and ran towards the dimly lit house.

  “Dream about me tonight,” Rhys called out to her fast retreating back.

  Beatrice turned with a look of horror before spinning away and disappearing into the darkness.

  Rhys waited till he heard the main door open and the butler, Mr. Watchman’s, shocked greeting followed by her stinging retort before leading both horses into the stable.

  As far as he was concerned, it was an excellent start to their courtship.

  Chapter 5

  Beatrice let out a sigh as she eased herself into the soothing, warm bathwater, having sent her maid whats-her-name away for some privacy. She didn’t appreciate all the curious looks she was receiving for her wrinkled attire and askew hair.

  Inhaling deeply, she allowed the familiar scent of rose oil, her own special blend, to calm her. She used oil pressed from the Damask rose petal, loving the hints of myrrh, green grass and apricot which gave it a signature musky sweet fragrance. The very air was perfumed with its scent.

  If only her thoughts were so easily soothed and calmed.

  She thought back to her scandalous behavior earlier that evening in the lavender fields. It would be effortless to place the entire blame on the handsome stranger. He overpowered her. He forced her. He wouldn’t allow her to escape. Beatrice knew better. She was not some commonplace female, and it had nothing to do with her wealth. She was intelligent and self-sufficient. Although her father would never admit it, she was the reason why the Arbot de Villeneuve perfumery had achieved such an exalted status. Her father was a success to be sure, but it was her perfume recipes that were demanded by the royal courts of Europe. She ran both the estate and the perfumery during his absences of which there were many with increasing length since her mother passed.

  Beatrice felt a pang at the remembrance of her mother’s death. It was the day everything changed.

  Giving herself a mental shake, Beatrice forced herself to focus on the present. There was no point in dwelling on the past; it would change nothing.

  The simple truth was that stranger was able to take such disgraceful advantage because somewhere deep inside, she had wanted it. It was as if some force had risen that would not allow her to resist his mesmerizing pull. She thought again of the haggard beggar woman’s curse.

  You shall only know happiness through pain, will only find love through supplication to the beast.

  Be forced to yield to the hand of your master or face your destiny alone!

  “Stuff and nonsense,” she scoffed out loud to the empty room.

  It wasn’t that ridiculous curse or the beggar woman. If anything, it was her dream of the night before. Yes, that was it. The dream was to be blamed. Between the heated dream and her wild ride across the countryside, her blood was up. She was feeling wild and untamed. The stranger merely took advantage of her heightened state.

  It was no matter. She would see he was dismissed in the morning. He would be gone, only a memory. But, oh what a memory! Beatrice’s cheeks heated as she closed her eyes and recalled the feel of his hand on her throat, the pulsing pain of his spanking, his scent, what he did with his fingers. Her hand closed over one full breast as she tried to imagine what it would have felt like if he had been able touch her there. She realized abashedly that she’d never learned the stranger’s name. It was absurd. Names had never been terribly important to her. The servants and villagers thought it was because she was self-absorbed. The truth was she was just plain rubbish at remembering names, so long ago, she’d stopped trying. Yet somehow, she longed to know his.

  For now, Beast would just have to do, she thought with a secret smile as she sunk deeper into the water.

  “As it so happens, your intended princess is quite a woman.”

  Rhys raised an eyebrow at his faithful valet as he continued to brush down his stallion. He enjoyed the labor, never one to allow servants to bow and scrape and handle his every task. Rhys preferred to do things for himself.

  He loved spending time in the stables. The shaded interior with its quiet hush made the chaotic world outside slip away. The only sounds were the occasional whinny from a horse or the metallic jingle of the tackle. He enjoyed the fresh earth smell of clean hay and green grass. The simple order of things. Man… beast working together.

  Gonsalvus met Rhys’ disapproving look with an unblinking stare of his own.

  “Ahem… as I was saying, with all due respect, I think your father’s spies got a few things wrong,” he continued.

  Rhys was not surprised. It was the very reason why he was here in disguise. He knew better than to rely on his father’s courtiers for such an important decision as to who would be his wife and future queen. For one thing, it was almost certain they would be biased against a merchant’s daughter, even a vastly wealthy one. “Such as?” he asked Gonsalvus.

  “Well, to be sure, her moniker among some of the villagers is Beatrice the Beastly, but I have found that is only among those who are fairly recent to the area. There are a great number of villagers who recall her demeanor before her mother’s death as being sweet and obliging. They remember her as an intelligent girl who was genuinely concerned for the welfare of the people on her father’s estate.”

  “Is that so?”

  “As it so happens, there is proof of her continued patronage throughout the glen. A new library for the school, repaired roofs on many of the homesteads, and one tale of her giving up the coin to replace a farmer’s entire flock when it was lost to a fever last summer. It is generally assumed these are done without her father’s knowledge or approval.”

  “So why the Beastly moniker?” wondered Rhys aloud.

  “Well… according to the kindly man who oversees the library, she is… ahem… considered a beautiful but funny girl… a bit of a peculiar one. She never quite fit into their small provincial life. Always with her nose in a book when she was younger. Only to grow up and essentially take over her father’s business. As it so happens, the men at the perfumery resent her masculine ways. They think she should be more concerned about finding a husband and having children.”

  “So, for that she is called Beastly?”

  “Ahem… well… the moniker is not totally undeserved,” hemmed Gonsalvus.

  “Go on,” urged Rhys.

  “It seems your father’s spies did get something correct. Your intended… ahem… is known for having a… small… tiny… almost insignificant—”

  “Out with it, Gonsalvus,” barked Rhys.

  “Temper!” he burst out with a slightly petulant look at his own employer’s display of the same emotion.

  Rhys brushed his knuckles over the scratches on his cheek. He was well aware of her temper. It was one of the things that drew him to her. A beautiful woman with spirit.

  “If that will be all, Your Highness, I will return to my duties,” offered Gonsalvus
with mock formal civility.

  “By that I can only assume you mean the baker’s pretty daughter?” teased Rhys.

  Gonsalvus gave an unapologetic shrug. “Ah, when duty calls, who am I to question the hows and whys? Plus, she is very free with her tongue.”

  “So, she is your main source of information on Beatrice?”

  “Ahem… sure, that too. Good evening, Your Highness,” said Gonsalvus with a bow before leaving the stable. The sound of Rhys’ laughter rang about him.

  Rhys strolled up the dark lane leading back to the estate. Even a swim in the chilly waters of the river which bordered the property could not quell his heated blood. The prince in him knew it would have been wrong to take his intended earlier that evening. She was his future queen. She deserved better than a fast rutting in a field. The man in him disagreed. The moment he saw the defiant fire in those large amber eyes. The arrogant twist to those full lips. The insolent way she gripped that riding crop as if she was just bold enough to try to use it on him. Something roared to life inside of him that just kept shouting… mine… take… claim. It was all he could do not to release his cock and bury it deep within her, making sure she fully understood who her master was now. Keeping a tight rein on his urges, it had to be enough to discipline her for her risky actions. She would have to learn quickly he would not tolerate such dangerous behavior from this point forward. Granted that lesson would be far easier for her to accept from the prince, her future husband, as opposed to her servant stable master, but he still had no intention of revealing his true identity just yet.

  Gazing up at the large manor house, his eye was drawn to the only light shining through a pair of large glass doors. The slim silhouette of a figure was visible against the candlelight. The gently sloping shoulders. The narrow, tucked-in waist. The generous swell of hip. He would know that form from anywhere. His step faltered as she walked out onto the balcony dressed in a pale blue dressing gown so silky sheer it might as well have been gossamer. Her beautiful locks, brushed to a bright gold, fell in waves down her back. Staring out over the dark valley, she looked like a lioness surveying her domain. Proud. Beautiful.