Esme bit down on her lip and bucked her hips again, jerking—seeking more contact. She was going to come again and he’d just have to follow through with his threat. She wanted him to.
Frost shoved his mirror image back down between her thighs and he licked the witch dutifully. She kept her eyes on Frost.
“Suck him,” he directed, moving to stand beside the other doppelganger.
She turned her face and opened her mouth obediently for the other’s cock, but kept her eyes solely on the real Frost. It wouldn’t have mattered if the other men were projections of him or not. She was too focused on Nicodemus to notice.
He liked watching the mirror image of his own cock slipping in and out of her mouth, glistening with her saliva, her cheek ballooning from the press of his cock and her mouth so full of him.
Frost tightened his control. He wouldn’t come at her pleasure. This was to torment her, to train her, not for his release. He’d do well to remember that. For as long as he could, anyway.
He guided the other two with his mind and bared only his cock to the witch. He was still wearing the cassock she seemed to like so much. Frost drizzled lube over the length of his cock, sliding his big hand up and down the length so she could see.
Then he positioned himself behind the doppelganger still laving her pussy and, anchoring his fingers around the man’s hips, pushed his way inside his ass.
The doppelganger didn’t react, didn’t move because he wasn’t real, his only consciousness belonging to Nicodemus himself.
At his first thrust, Esmerelda locked a white-knuckled grip on the edge of the rack and screamed as her body surrendered to the climax exploding inside her.
She disappeared, fleeing the plane and Frost.
He let her go. The first round obviously belonged to him.
If she’d thought he’d be turned off or frightened by any of her fantasies or anything she could imagine, she was sadly mistaken. He’d fuck himself a million times, let any image she could conjure fuck him, it didn’t matter. All he cared about was making her use her magick to bring Galatea back from the dead.
It had been too soon. Galatea was far too young to die for some cause—too young to be an Amazon. She’d been his protégé, and he still had so many things to teach her. He wanted her alive, and Nicodemus Frost was a man who was used to getting what he wanted.
He abandoned the plane as well, slipping back into the world and the reality of his aching cock. Nicodemus fucked his fist, varying the tempo and speed, pushing himself ever closer to the edge. His body tightened, his sac drawing up, and that heat deep in his gut ignited a flame that threatened to consume him. A few more strokes and he’d be spilling hot and sticky over his own hand—so he stopped.
He released his cock with a frustrated and anguished growl and shoved it into the Fleshlight that he’d filled with ice. The synthetic sex toy was supposed to mimic the sensation of a pussy, but the frozen glove sheathed his cock and wrapped him in an agony that he endured without a sound.
The heat fled his body and Nicodemus Frost remained what he was—cold, frozen and in control.
Chapter Four
As she puttered in her garden, Esmerelda decided she officially hated her pussy.
And Nicodemus Frost.
Esme had changed her mind about running. With their bond in place through the curse, there was nowhere she could run that he wouldn’t find her. He’d know where she was every minute of every day. So she might as well stay in the house that she loved and live the days given to her. That didn’t mean she wasn’t going to fight for every breath, but she was going to enjoy each one as well.
Even with all the muscles in her body screaming in protest, it felt good to have her fingers buried in the earth of her garden. The green and growing things responding to her touch, her magick. A rainbow of roses always bloomed in her yard and inside her house. Her favorites were what they called fire-tipped. They were a happy yellow with bright red tips. They made her think of cherry lemonade—sweet and tart. Much like herself, given the right circumstances.
She sighed. Nicodemus fucking Frost.
Fuck, even his name made her shiver and her slit clench with the aftershocks of what he’d done to her. She’d obviously underestimated him, something she’d be certain never to do again.
He hated witches. And the hatred ran soul deep, so she’d been sure that by flooding his mind with fantasies so foreign to everything she’d assumed about him, he’d retreat. Esme had obviously underestimated his feelings for Galatea. Frost had never struck her as the type to love, to value sentiment.
For a brief moment, she wondered what it would feel like to be the focus of such devotion. Of his devotion. Esme supposed that, in a way, she was. He’d hunted her for centuries. He’d gone to untold lengths to catch her. She’d lived in him during that time the same as he’d lived in her—always a breath away in each other’s thoughts.
That was pretty fucked up if she thought about it too long.
By Circe, he had a strong mind. She supposed he’d have to, considering how long he’d been alive. To have such control over his body… She shivered again and her pussy throbbed. The mere idea of breaking that control almost broke her. Esme cried out and flexed her thighs as arousal flared. She’d never come so much and still she couldn’t get the Witchfinder out of her head, no matter how much she wanted to.
It was hard to think about anything but—
Hard.
There was that word again. Thinking about it in relationship to him…all of that cock, just for her. Then he’d “threatened” to make her take all three? Only in her most secret fantasies.
Esme blushed. He knew things about her now. Not just sexual things. If he wanted to reach through the web of her memories, he’d be able to see anything he chose because of the Black Eros.
She pushed that thought out of her head. What was done was done. There was no replay, no changing it. If he dug up every thorn that ever pricked her, every lie that ever burned her tongue and every night she’d spent crying in the dark, well…fuck him. He had secrets too, and she could dig around in his brain as well if he wanted to be that nasty and cruel.
She’d rather think about his control—and how she was going to break it. Esme knew he hadn’t come. If they reached out through the connection, every time either of them felt any sort of sexual stimulation the other would know. His restraint made her wonder if he had ice water in his veins instead of blood. Esme had gloried in that connection, hoping to feel his climax, to feel that surrender, but there had been nothing. He was frozen.
That was okay too. Ice water tasted good going down; the colder it was, the better she could feel it hydrating her cells, filling her.
“Why is it every time I see you, you have your ass in the air?”
The raspy voice grated down her spine. Fuck. This was all she needed.
Esme popped to her feet, not bothering to wipe the dirt from her hands. The dark earth would make her magick more potent if she had to fight.
“I don’t know, Scar. Why is it every time I see you, I wish it was your ass in the air instead of your face?” Esme took the easy dig at Scar’s face. Once upon a time, her name had been Scarlett and she’d been Esme’s closest friend, practically a sister.
“Cheap shot, Payne-In-My-Ass,” she snarled.
“Oh, I could think of something worse,” she sneered, going with her gut feeling. “The Black Eros? Real fucking cute.”
A self-satisfied grin curved the side of her face that could hold expression. “Like that, do you? I thought you would.”
“Tell me, did the Witchfinder ask you to raise the dead before he asked for the Black Eros?”
“No.” Her eyes narrowed to slits.
“Interesting,” Esme remarked with a satisfied grin.
“So that’s what he wants from you? As if you’re that powerful,” Scar snorted.
Esme didn’t need to talk shit. She knew what her powers were and what she could and couldn’t do with
them. Whether Scar believed Esme could raise the dead or not didn’t matter one bit.
“Even if you could raise the dead, you won’t be coming back through that veil on your own and neither will Nicodemus Frost. Thanks to the Black Eros. And yeah, I did just come by to gloat.”
“Gloat all you like. While you can.”
“While I can? Is that some subtle threat?”
“There’s nothing subtle about it. Did you really think the Witchfinder was going to go down with the ship? After he kills me, he’s going to kill you to break the Black Eros. Since you’re the one who gave him the magick.”
“I have something else in my cauldron yet, Esme. I’ll be the one getting out of this alive.”
“What’s to stop me from killing you right now to end the Black Eros myself?”
Scar laughed, a sound like the creaking of a rusty hinge. “I know you too well. You want to see what it will take to break him, don’t you? He’s chased you for so long, you can’t help but wonder what it will be like when he catches you. You want to know the answer to that more than you fear the Black Eros.”
“You’re pretty confident. Enough to stake your life on it?”
“You’ve forgotten all our games as children. Nights spent bundled together in front of the fire while the wolves howled at the door. I know that after seeing him in the marketplace, you wondered what his kiss would feel like. Do you remember confessing, Esmerelda?”
“Oh, so now it’s time for remembering? Let’s have a refresher on how you betrayed me. Your betrothed holding me down, trying to steal my magick. You were my best friend, my coven sister. You saw what he did with your own eyes and rather than believe me and your own senses, you chose him and his lies.”
“He didn’t want your magick, you silly bitch! He wanted a piece of your ass, and you were more than willing to give it to him, weren’t you? Then you cried foul when you got caught. He was just a dumb animal, Esme. He knew nothing of magick or witches. Talk about betrayal? You stole my betrothed and my face.”
Scar had been so enraged at finding her fiancé and Esme together, her magick had bubbled over and she’d wrought something deep and dark from the pits of Hell. It had risen up and burned her as it exploded into the world, taking with it her renowned beauty, leaving metaphysical scars so deep, no glamour in the world could hide them. The dark magick had stained her, marked her.
Esme had her own scars. They just weren’t as obvious.
Scar was right—Esme wouldn’t kill her. She was her coven sister. No matter what they did to each other, how they punished each other, Esme could never bring herself to kill the woman. There was no one in the world who would ever understand Esme like Scar had and no one who would ever understand Scar the way Esme did—despite their cruelty to each other.
But she’d never tell the bitch that.
“It’s a sad thing that a man has come between us for two hundred years. He’s been dead nearly that long.”
“Are you asking for my forgiveness, Esme?” Scar sneered.
“Not a fucking chance.”
“If you’re so powerful you can bring back the dead, why don’t you bring back Sebastian and he can tell us what happened that day?”
“And give him a break from the three-headed dog that rips his heart out every day? No. I don’t want answers that badly.”
“You’re still such a fucking liar. He was a good man who didn’t deserve Hell.”
Esme smiled. “Being in service to Athena had its benefits. I’ve seen his Hell, Scar. I’ve watched his suffering—and he deserves every minute of it. He wasn’t a good man. He was a liar, a cheat and a thief.”
The pain evident on Scar’s face didn’t give Esme the satisfaction she thought she’d feel. It was hollow, and Esme just felt sorry for her that Scar had loved him all these years. The feeling was sticky and uncomfortable. Seemed like she’d started a fucking trend with Marcus. Saying sorry was a gateway drug.
Esme wondered if maybe she was just getting too old to hold a grudge. That made her sad. She’d always liked engineering what she’d thought was someone’s just desserts. Maybe it was time for the Witchfinder to do his job if she couldn’t even muster some halfway decent hatred for Scar. Melancholy was a bitch.
“You’re getting weak, Esme. Ennui been hanging around? I know a banishing spell.” Scar looked genuinely concerned for a moment.
“That makes is sound like you’d miss me.”
“Besting you because you got lazy is no victory, Esmerelda.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Scar eyed her hard for another moment before speaking again. “You were my coven sister. If you’d wanted Sebastian, I would have given him to you. Had you asked, rather than tried to take him from me.”
The other witch didn’t wait for Esme’s answer, just turned and walked away.
That was the longest conversation sans hexes they’d had in years, but it cut Esme the deepest. She had never wanted Sebastian. If Scar had been serious about just giving her the man, Esme didn’t understand why her ex-friend wouldn’t believe her. Not that it mattered.
But what if it did? What if she could bring Sebastian back? Prove to Scar what he’d done?
She didn’t want to look too closely at her own motivations because it sounded as if she were looking for forgiveness or closure, or some other word that she despised and didn’t need. Esme was a wicked witch, her heart dark and cold—barren. There was no room for softer feelings. Only the magick.
Or that’s what she’d been told, and it was what she’d strived to become—clearly unsuccessfully. That’s why her magick wasn’t strong enough to fight the Witchfinder. If she’d become everything she’d wanted to be, if she’d managed to be as cold and ruthless as Frost, then she’d be strong enough to beat him.
Fuck, I shouldn’t have thought about him again!
Esme’s surroundings began to shimmer and she knew Frost was pulling her into the Eros plane. She ran into the house and managed to turn the lock on the door just as she was lost. It wouldn’t do for any of her other enemies to catch her in a trance on her front lawn.
Frost waited for her in a grand 19th century ballroom, an orchestra playing while people milled about, dancing, drinking and gossiping. She’d only ever seen one ball, and it had been from upstairs in the house where she’d been a maid.
Esme had been the lord’s lover and she’d always dreamed of descending those stairs to walk among them, to be one of them. She’d imagined if she got rid of his lady wife, he’d marry her. After all, he’d told her that he would. When the woman died in childbirth, Esme had thought all her dreams were about to come true. Until Scar had given the lord proof Esme was a witch and she’d been hunted again, run off the grounds and dogs turned on her as if she were some kind of beast. That was back when she’d still tried to make some kind of normal life for herself.
“Interesting choice of venue,” she commented.
“It’s not mine. I plucked this right out of your head.” He offered his arm.
She looked at it as if it was a snake that would bite her and knew the comparison wasn’t too far off. “This wasn’t a place I’d care to revisit.”
“No? You don’t want to waltz with the fine lord while the rest of the ton looks on in equal parts fear and jealousy?”
“Perhaps, but you’re no fine lord, are you?” Esmerelda took his arm finally and allowed him to lead her to the dance floor.
“And you’re nothing but the upstairs maid, but who’s keeping score?” he asked, his voice soft and kind but his words precisely aimed daggers.
“You are,” she replied, refusing to let the barb hit home.
“For the record, Esmerelda, among my people, I was a lord. You could even say a prince.” He moved through the steps of the waltz gracefully, his hand a brand on her lower back.
The touch of his body to hers was like a match to kindling, the heat of him burning through their clothes.
“And who are your people, Frost?
”
“It doesn’t matter. They’re lost to the sands of time like so many others.”
“So you’re the last?” There was a certain desolate nobility in that, she thought as she relaxed against him, surrendering to the pull of his body. “What happened to them?”
“A witch,” he answered, still guiding her around the floor.
The scenery changed, flashing bright and crystalline. Ice crusted like diamonds on the tips of her lashes and she saw Nicodemus’ memory as it manifested around them. Everything is the ballroom was ice and snow, the lights filled with the greens, blues and pinks of the aurora borealis. The people around them became tall and strong, silver and cold—all but one woman on a dais, sitting next to a man in an icicle crown. She had long hair the color of a raven’s wing, pale skin and dark eyes that reflected nothing. A crown of holly berries stood out stark and crimson in her mass of hair.
She could have been Esme’s twin.
“She looks like me.”
“She is you.”
“So that’s why you’re willing to do anything to punish me, even destroy yourself? You think that’s me?”
“I know it is, witch. I can smell her on you.” He dragged his lightly stubbled cheek against hers and buried his face in her hair, inhaling deeply to prove his point.
“If it was me, that was over a millennia ago.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’d been waiting for your rebirth. The only reason I exist is to see you pay for your crime against the Frost people.”
“And why did I supposedly destroy your people?” Goddess, that’s why he’d been in her village, in the market square. He’d been looking for her.
“Why have you ever done anything? For your pursuit of dark magick.”
“What if I hadn’t become a witch in this life?”
“I still would have killed you,” he replied flatly.
“Don’t you think my soul has already paid for whatever I did?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t be breathing.” His laugh was bitter and sour.
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