The Wolf's Captive (Erotic Romance) (BDSM Bacchanal)
Page 18
Grimaldi coughed. “So you wanted to talk business, then?”
“We already have, Gaston. Let’s enjoy the Feast,” Cesare said into her neck. Both of his hands were underneath her dress now, gliding over her warming skin, and making it a constant struggle for her to stay silent. Worse, Lucia had an unobstructed view of the stage below them, where there had apparently been a performance in progress throughout Cesare’s toast. Lucia recognized it as The Betrayal of Mellas; the actress with whom she’d switched costumes was begging the god Odek to leave her be. Lucia knew what came next. Involuntarily, she ground her hips into Cesare, just for the feel of his cock pressed against her. Grimaldi raised his eyebrows.
“You seem quite taken with your…accessory, my Lord,” he observed. Cesare laughed, and pinched Lucia’s nipple, forcing a moan from her lips.
“You have no idea,” he said. “She is quite exceptional.”
Some of the revelers at the high table were far enough in their cups that they felt qualified to shout suggestions to the god Odek. The actress playing the washing girl blushed, and bent over suggestively for the crowd. Lucia had always wanted to see The Betrayal of Mellas performed, even the Bacchanalian version, but it was impossible to keep her eyes focused while Cesare’s hands explored every inch of her under Grimaldi’s inquisitive eye.
“I’m sure,” Grimaldi said after a moment. He sounded almost skeptical.
“No, truly, Gaston,” Cesare said, and suddenly he forced his hand between Lucia’s legs, and pushed a finger into her. Lucia squealed in surprise, and Grimaldi laughed. Cesare continued, “Already she is wet, can you believe that?”
“She does not mind your…” Grimaldi seemed to search for the word, and eventually shrugged, “your brutality?”
“On the contrary, she loves it. She would like nothing more than to be taken roughly, right here.”
Lucia gripped at the fabric of Cesare’s trousers, and squeezed down on the finger that moved inside her. He was driving her absolutely mad, and now that was all she could think about. She did want that, more than anything else in the world; she was completely helpless in her desire to be dominated, owned, and used by Lord Cesare Lupin. He knew that. He was tormenting her on purpose.
And just so she knew it, he leaned in and whispered into her ear, “You have been very good tonight. Perhaps I’ll reward you.”
Lucia moaned. Grimaldi chuckled, and poured out the rest of the illicit amberwine with some obvious relief. Lucia saw him watching her over his glass with obvious amusement.
“She comes nicely, then?” he asked. “She looks like she comes quite nicely.”
On the stage below, Odek was manhandling the beautiful washing girl, but as good as they were, they didn’t appear to be having nearly as much fun as Lucia was having with only Cesare’s finger. Cesare, laughing softly, took his finger away from her. Lucia turned in protest, but Cesare held her fast.
“I’ll show you,” he said to Grimaldi. “Stand up, pet. Face the stage.”
Bewildered, still hungry for her climax and missing his finger, Lucia stood in front of Cesare and faced the stage, her back to him. Odek and the washing girl were doing an admirable job, but Lucia’s sudden movement garnered some attention from the jaded audience.
Over the distant cries of the washing girl, Lucia thought she heard the rustling of fabric behind her. Cesare placed his hands on her hips, and wedged his legs between hers, forcing her to straddle his knees. And then, slowly, so slowly, she felt him gather her dress in his large hands and raise it to her waist.
Lucia was standing in full view of the entire Royal Theater, naked from the waist down, straddling Cesare’s lap.
“Sit,” he commanded.
Trembling, Lucia braced her hands on the armrests of Cesare’s chair and began to lower herself onto his lap. She knew what was coming, knew it as he guided her down, but still the point of contact between his massive, hard cock and her wet folds was a quivering shock. She paused, her back arching slightly, and took a deep breath. Cesare was having none of it. With his hands on her hips, he pulled her down and thrust upwards, impaling her on the length of his cock.
Lucia cried out, gasping, unable to help herself. Her voice silenced the performance, and drew all eyes to her.
Cesare pulled her back against him, thrusting up again slightly with his hips. “Now make yourself come for all of these people, pet,” he said into her ear.
Lucia looked out at the crowd. It was so difficult to think with Cesare’s cock filling her up, impossible to form words, thoughts. She only knew that she’d never done this before. She’d never been the one to set the tempo, to control the movement. And she’d never come in front of anyone but Cesare.
From somewhere deep in the dark recesses of the Theater, the beat began. Someone was pounding on a table, an incessant demand for a show. The beat spread like wildfire, until the whole Theater beat their hands against the wood, baying for Lucia’s orgasm.
Uncertainly, she began to rock her hips back and forth, the fear of embarrassment and incompetence outweighed by the pressure of Cesare’s cock throbbing inside of her. The more she rocked, the more her pleasure gathered into a tight, bright ball in her core, and soon it was bright enough for her to follow it wherever it led, like a beacon of glowing joy. She closed her eyes and chased it, her hands gripping the armrests, her legs providing strength she didn’t know she had. Soon she was lifting herself up and down, taking his full length over and over again, and crying out with every stroke.
The crowd kept time with her rhythm, and even with her eyes closed she could tell some of them had joined in, coupling at the lesser tables while she took her pleasure on Cesare’s cock. Cesare reached up and pulled her dress down over her bouncing breasts, giving his hand free rein over her nipples, and soon he was thrusting up into her from below, unable to contain himself.
Lucia came, screaming, amidst the cheers of the crowd, sinking down on Cesare’s swollen cock as though she could keep it inside her forever.
As the last shuddering waves left her, Lucia slumped, unable to hold herself fully up. Cesare kept her upright, and she was only dimly aware of the riotous applause below. She was fully aware, as her mind swam back to the surface, of Cesare’s hardness, still very much insistently inside her.
“Open your eyes,” he said, and she did. All in attendance had become her audience. Thousands of fevered eyes were on her naked, debauched body.
“Keep them open,” he said and stood up suddenly, still inside her. Lucia pitched forward, and had to catch herself on the table to keep from falling over. “For you, my love,” he whispered, and kicked her legs farther apart.
“A toast,” Cesare roared above the crowd. “To Bacchanal!”
He pushed Lucia facedown on the table, just as he had done in the cavern, only this time with an audience, and he took her, roughly, as the best of J’Amel cheered.
~ ~ ~
Lucia came to her senses one by one, as though the different parts of her had all washed up on the shore of consciousness and had to be carefully reassembled. She was cradled in Cesare’s lap, her body still humming with the strength of her second orgasm, and for a while the only sound she cared about was the beating of his heart.
Slowly, she stirred. Slowly, she became aware of other sounds. Many of them, in fact: it was the sounds of hundreds of people fucking in one giant room. Wide-eyed, she looked around. Everywhere, the ruling class of J’Amel was losing itself to Bacchanal with wild abandon. Their previously packed table was mostly empty, though the floor around it seemed crowded. Even for Bacchanal, as far as Lucia knew, this was unusual.
“Look at what you did, Lucia,” Cesare murmured, and stroked her hair. At some point he must have pulled her dress back over her breasts; she was comparatively decent, for Bacchanal.
She giggled. “This is absolutely your fault, my Lord.”
“You stole the show,” he said. “The troupes won’t forgive you until they see their commissions.”
Cesare looked back with a steady, open wonder. She’d never seen his face so tender. He touched her face softly, his rough, large hands capable of such gentleness, and Lucia had never before in her life felt so loved, and she had never before felt so much trust.
“My grandmother,” she said suddenly while the Bacchanal whirled around them, “my grandmother made me promise to use whatever I could to find a man to care for my father. She told me never to trust them, to always hold back. Never to believe that anyone would love me for who I am, because, most likely, they wouldn’t. She made me promise before she died.”
Cesare opened his mouth, but Lucia put a finger to his lips. The words still wanted to tumble from her, and she was afraid that if she stopped, she’d never be able to say them.
“I’ve never told anyone that because I’ve never trusted anyone, and because it seemed so…stupid.” She laughed. “It seems even stupider when I say it out loud, doesn’t it? But it’s not. I am a poor girl with no prospects who is difficult and demanding and who is saddled with debts, and I had no right to expect anyone to love me.”
Lucia blinked. She had not been expecting that from herself. She was mildly amazed at how much she trusted the man known as the Wolf. And at how incredibly forward she’d been with the heir to the Ducal seat.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Do not apologize,” Cesare whispered hoarsely. “Do not…”
Cesare swallowed. It took him a moment to speak again, but when he did, it was exactly what Lucia wanted to hear. “Let’s go home,” he said.
Home. Lucia smiled.
They would have fled the Theater immediately for the comfort of Cesare’s townhouse, where Cesare could have schemed for the release of Lucia’s father and they could have lost themselves in each other for the rest of their lives, if it weren’t for the reappearance of one man.
Captain Rickle.
“My Lord,” he called to Cesare from one of the lesser tables, and Cesare and Lucia looked at each other with the same thought: of course no one would couple with this awful man, not even at Bacchanal. “My Lord, I wish to speak with you,” Rickle demanded again, and began to thread his way through the crowd.
“Go,” Cesare said to Lucia, detaching her leash. “I will join you. Best not to risk it until I can free your father.”
It was the first time Cesare had mentioned her father’s freedom as an eventuality, as a certainty, and the wave of relief and joy and gratitude that washed over Lucia was overwhelming. Impulsively, she kissed Cesare’s cheek.
“Come quickly,” she said, and backed away into the throngs of amorous aristocrats.
And ran straight into a liveried footman with the large star crest of the Grimaldi emblazoned on his chest.
“Pardon me,” Lucia mumbled, unsure of her place, and of how to interact with footmen. She only looked up when the footman seized her arm with white knuckled fingers.
“Lucia,” he hissed.
It was David Clavel.
“David!” Lucia was quite sure she had shrieked in her surprise; whether she was more happy to see him, embarrassed at what he’d likely seen himself, or confused at his sudden appearance in Grimaldi garb, she couldn’t say. She did have enough presence of mind to lead him to a dark, unoccupied couch at the edge of the room, behind the relative privacy of a trio of fire jugglers, where she hugged him tightly.
“David, what are you doing here? What are you wearing?” She looked down and plucked at the Grimaldi crest, thoroughly confused.
“What are you wearing?” he countered with a raised eyebrow. He had a point. Had David any interest in what she looked like naked, this would have been an awkward conversation. “Remy stole this for me so I could sneak in here,” he explained.
Lucia smiled; of course Remy hadn’t let her down. Then she remembered her encounter with Claudio Clavel. “I saw your father here tonight,” she said darkly.
“That’s why I’m here,” David muttered, and for the first time that Lucia could recall, he looked genuinely uncomfortable in her presence. “Part of it, anyway. Dad told me he’d hire a lawyer for your father if I agreed to marry you, only I couldn’t find you to tell you.”
“You’d do that for me, David?” Lucia asked. She knew it was the last thing he wanted.
“Of course, Luce,” he said. “I’d do anything to help.”
“Well, listen, I think my father’s going to be just fine. It’s just a misunderstanding, and I’ve got some help.” Lucia felt quite sly about such a reference to Cesare—‘some’ help, indeed—but mostly she was touched by David’s offer. She grabbed his hand and squeezed tight. “But that’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me. Never thought we’d be in the Royal Theater like this, did you?”
David did not smile. Slowly, he looked around, and then took a long look at Lucia. Finally he said, “Lucia, what is it you think your father’s been accused of?”
Lucia frowned. She felt a little defensive on this point. “I’m not entirely sure, but I think it might have something to do with the Guild taxes? I might have made a mistake—”
David jerked on her arm, pulling her close. “Listen,” he whispered. “It’s treason. Your father’s been accused of treason. He’ll be drawn and quartered after the Finale Feast.”
And all the world slowed to a precarious, frightening stop.
The word ‘treason’ shot through Lucia’s mind like a weight in still water and settled to the bottom with a crunch. The other facts, the other known facts about the world began to reassemble themselves around this one core truth, and only in light of this new truth did they begin to make a dreadful kind of sense. Why else would there have been soldiers? Why else would anyone have cared so much about finding the store of the Duke’s Blend? Why else would her father have been hauled off in chains?
Lucia shook her head. Her father? Her gentle, absent-minded father? A man quite incapable of managing anything outside of a still? Her father was going to die?
And Cesare hadn’t told her?
“No,” she said, shaking her head continuously now, as though that added weight to her denial, “No, that’s some sort of mistake, David.”
David grabbed her by the arms and shook her so hard that she bit the inside of her cheek.
“Lucia, they say he poisoned the Duke’s Blend,” he said. “The Duke’s Blend. You’re wanted for it, because they can’t find any of it. Do you see?”
To her horror, Lucia saw.
On the one hand, the urgency of Rickle’s pursuit and Cesare’s protection began to make some sort of sense. Cesare’s changeable attitudes towards her began to make some sort of sense, as well. That wasn’t entirely true: his suspicion of her began to make sense. Now she was only mystified that he could harbor any affectionate feelings towards her at all, when she was suspected of treason. When her father was actually accused of poisoning the Duke’s Blend.
Cesare’s machinations with the so-called Duke’s Blend earlier that evening made a kind of sense now, too. He’d wanted to see how she’d react. He’d wanted to see how Grimaldi would react.
And they’d both passed his test. She’d passed his faithfulness test, even when he’d been lying to her since that night in the cavern beneath the Dance of the Dead. Was that all she was to him, all along? Some means to an end, to get at the nature of a traitorous plot?
She’d trusted him.
“Lucia, are you all right?” David’s voice dragged her back to the present. The horrible, fra
ctured present. “You really didn’t know, did you?”
But Lucia was no longer listening. She didn’t feel capable of any more thought, any more feeling, any more being in this scarred city that would soon see her and her father dead. She’d been used, betrayed, and deceived, and all this time, all this time, she’d been playing at some sort of perverse pretension to love with the man who had lied to her about her father’s fate. All this time, while her father rotted in the Basiglia, wondering where she was, if she were safe, if she were coming for him.
All this time.
Her legs gave out from under her. David caught her, held her as best he could. Her world had shrunk down to this one infinitesimal point of despair, of loss compounded and folded in upon itself until it was too thick, too dense, too heavy for her to bear. She might have screamed; she might have simply curled into a ball; she might have run out into the city, delirious with the desire to find her father. She would never know, because instead she looked up and saw the shade of terror pass over David’s face.
He was looking over her shoulder.
Lucia turned. It felt very slow, like everything in the world—David, the fire jugglers, even the flaming batons, hanging in the air like ripe fruit—everything moved so slowly, just to give her time to decide what to do. Because when she turned, she saw Lord Cesare Lupin, separated from them only by the three fire jugglers, descending upon them with a look of murderous rage.
In an instant, it was clear to her how this looked: she was huddled in a dark corner, hiding, in counsel with a Grimaldi agent. It looked like conspiracy. Lucia could, theoretically, explain.
She did not want to.
Instead, she plucked one of those flaming batons from the air and set fire to everything within reach, spilling an oil lamp over the floor, lighting the fine drapery in a quick-spreading flame. It proved enough of a distraction to allow a Severille slave and a lowly Grimaldi footman to escape through the Player’s entrance.