by Ines Johnson
I’ve never taken a woman against her will. That’s not my style or my taste. I like to hold them still while I find every way imaginable to elicit pleasure from them. Most women struggle for one orgasm. With ease, I help them to find multiple releases until they are so sated from riding my fingers, my mouth, or my lash that they pass out. When they’re out cold is when I like to take my due, feeding on their sweet blood from a vein in their thigh.
I already know that Marechal’s blood will be the sweetest I’ve had in a long time. There’s something about a human who was raised in a vineyard. Their very essence takes on the sweetness of the berries. Tack that on to the rush of breaking this strong, proud woman, and I need to shut my mouth before she sees just how much she makes my fangs ache.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
The crack in her voice gives away the desire she denies in herself. The flare of her nostrils let me know she wants it, even if the set of her jaw warns me that she will never ask. Fuck, I can’t wait to make her beg for it.
I pull my hands away and hold them up so that she sees they are empty. “You asked for my help. I’m helping you.”
She doesn’t relax. Good. I don’t want her to. I like her on edge. I like Marechal Durand uncertain and out of control.
I want to ruck up her skirts until I can see what she covers that sweet treasure with. Will her panties be cloth or lace? I want to tug even more strands of her hair free and set the locks loose about her shoulders. I want her back to arch as I make her come more times than either of us can count.
“Do you want me to free you, Ms. Durand?”
Marechal gulps and then nods.
Again, I reach for her. She holds still. She is stiff as a board when my fingers touch her.
I unwind the rope from her shoe and my breath catches. The rope has made a light red mark on her skin. Part of me is angry that the rope belonged to Hadrian. I want only my marks on her.
I take my time untangling her. The pattern is exquisite on her flesh. I would’ve thought that her honey-brown skin wouldn’t mark so easily. Thank the Fates, I’m wrong. My thumb wipes over the indentations left on her flesh, and I have to bite my own lip.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“I’m setting you free.”
I deliberately rub the rope over her calf as I unwind the knot. Her lower lip trembles. Her eyelids flutter.
So, Ms. Marechal Durand has some kink in her tightly coiled person. It’s always the quiet women. The ones who are the boss bitches. Put them in front of a truly dominant man, and they will open their pretty little mouths and spout the filthiest demands. Put a hand in their hundred dollar hairdo and tug, and they will drop to their knees in submission.
“You said you wanted me to help you. That’s what I’m doing, Marechal. That’s what you want.”
“I…”
Her foot is free of the rope. She could pull away. If she wanted to.
Her eyes are wide as they stare at my hands. My fingers creep up her bared calf. If she asks, I’ll say I’m checking for injury.
She doesn’t ask.
My fingers make it past her knees, both of our gazes holding fast to their journey. The darkness up her skirt is allowing in a ray of moonlight. Soon, she will allow in my fingers. Then my tongue. Then I’ll turn her over and make a beautiful pattern on her ass with my flogger.
“Mr. Serrano…”
I prefer women to call me Sir, Master. But the way she uses my surname makes my balls tighten. Role play usually isn’t my thing, but I will happily be a naughty schoolboy to her disapproving teacher.
“Yes, Ms. Durand?”
“You can stop that now.”
“Stop what? I’m freeing you from what was holding you back.”
She gulps. Her throat works as one hand squeezes her calf and the other treks up her knee. The rope bruised her ankle, and there is a spot of blood there.
My mouth waters for it. I’m hundreds of years old, so I don’t pounce on the wound. But, futuo, I want to sip it. This woman has me so randy, I’m swearing in ancient tongues.
“I…”
Before Marechal can get anything else out, a snarl sounds in the air, followed by a yelp, as though the one who tried to scream has been stifled by a hand over her mouth
“Is that Cari?” Marechal snatches her leg from my hold and is on her feet.
She’d fallen just outside the converted barn. The converted barn where Hadrian stores all of his favorite toys. The toy shed where he takes his new bride each night for some good ole fashioned, medieval sex play.
I’m guessing they're in there now, and Carignan has scented her sister's blood. I can’t let the two see each other. If Marechal learned of her sister’s dark fate, we’d have to wipe her mind. Mind wiping is a nasty business, and Marechal could forget she ever knew her sister at all. That wouldn’t even be the worst outcome.
Carignan is a newly turned vampire, barely a week old. Newly turned vampires don’t have complete control of themselves. If Cari hurt her sister, neither would live through it. Marechal would lose her life, and Cari could no longer live with herself.
6
Marechal
Even though Gaius has slipped my foot and ankle free from the rope, I do not feel free. I can still feel the imprint of his warm palm as it pressed into my calf. The trail his fingers made as they crept over my kneecap still burns where he touched me.
His touch was light. But it weighed me down. I didn’t feel trapped. I felt free.
All the weight that has been piled up on my shoulders from the year without my father, from the woes of worrying over my brother, from caring for my baby sister all these years—all of it rose from my person and dissipated into the night air. I had never felt so light as I had in the darkness.
I’d had the absurd notion to snuggle into Gaius’s warm chest. To allow my knees to go slack and give him entrance. My entire body ached to go limp and allow him to carry me someplace, any place, where I no longer had a care in the world.
Until I heard the scream.
“Is that Cari?”
The sharp cry pulls me out of the insanity into which I was descending. Yanking my leg away from Gaius’s hold, I rise on my own. I tug my skirt down until it covers my kneecaps and I straighten my spine.
It is Cari’s voice. I know it for certain. I’ve heard her crying since the first night she was born, through her terrible toddler years, on into her rebellious teenage phase, up to the night our father died beside her in the car crash.
I know my sister’s voice better than I know my own. I know her shouts of joy. I know her cries of displeasure. What I’d just heard sounded like one of her indignant demands.
As her caretaker when I was just a teen myself, I’d heard those tantrums many a time when we were in a grocery store trapped in an aisle where all of the candies were eye level with small children. She would ask for a treat. I would say no. She’d pitch a fit. Most parents would’ve given in. I wasn’t most parents. I was her older sister and my will was stronger than hers, only barely. Nine times out of ten, we got out of the line and the candy stayed behind.
I hear that same teeth-clenching, migraine-inducing, patience-snatching sound now. It’s coming from the structure beside the house. The stone cottage looks like a wine cellar.
I take a step towards the path. As I do, the weight returns to my shoulders. The worry reforms on my brow. The responsibility that has clung to me all of my life settles back into its place at the bottom of my heart.
Rolling my head and allowing the tendons in my neck to crackle and pop, I let the pressure fall back into place. Once it does, I pick up my pace. I need to get to my sister.
“Your sister isn’t here.” Gaius is at my ear, barely breaking a sweat as his long strides match my quick steps.
“You’re lying to me. I heard her.”
I’m at the entrance to the wine cellar. I tug at the door, but it does not budge. I turn to face Gaius, giving him my sternes
t glare. This is the glare that had seven-year-old Cari getting out of bed for school in the morning. It is also the glare that had her climbing into bed at night after being told multiple times to go.
“Open the door,” I demand.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
My gaze narrows on him. My shoulders are square. My chin lifted. I’m giving him my full-on boss bitch stare down.
He doesn’t blink. He holds my glare, gazing down at me with a look I’ve seen in many men’s eyes: desire.
That’s new. Most men back away with their balls tucked high in their scrotum. Gaius Serrano bites his lip as he leans against the doorframe, backing me into the cool stone.
“Won’t,” he finally answers.
“Because you’re holding my sister against her will in there?”
“No.” He leans into me, his voice lowered to a whisper. “Rest assured that neither I nor either of my brothers does anything to a woman that she doesn’t beg us to do.”
He bites his lip again. The lower one this time. Even in the darkness with only starlight to see, I can see the redness of his plump lip. His mouth tugs into a smirk as he gazes down at me.
The man is seriously handsome. The word beautiful could be used to describe him. He has the chiseled Mediterranean looks of my ancestors. The high cheekbones and rounded chin of the ancient Gauls. His eyes are the darkest brown, but there’s a light that shines from within. It’s almost hypnotic. Luckily for me, I’ve never been a woman prone to fall under any man’s spell.
“I think you’re lying to me,” I say.
“Non, minou.”
“Did you just call me a kitten?”
“Non.” But he smiles as though I’m missing the punchline of a joke.
“Just tell me where she is?”
“I don’t know where my brother and your sister are right now. But it’s not in there.”
“Prove it,” I say. “Open the door.”
“Are you sure?”
“Do it,” I command.
Any other man would flinch. Gaius Serrano simply smiles wider, looking every bit the French version of the Cheshire Cat. He slips a key from his pocket and unlocks the door.
The door creaks open on uncoiled hinges. It is the soundtrack that starts every horror scene when the dingbat damsel runs for the shed instead of the running car. His dark gaze is a challenge.
I accept.
Turning on my heel, I walk into the door and stop in my tracks.
It’s dark inside, with only a few lights. That small bit of illumination casts the space in a sepia hue. But it’s enough light to see what goes on in here.
Barrels line the walls. The pleasant smell of cherry and vanilla oak is what reminds me to stop holding my breath and inhale deeply after I get over my shock. Though I doubt I will ever recover from what I’m seeing.
My brain struggles to comprehend what I’m seeing. So, I don’t say anything immediately. I could be mistaken. If I am, and I say the wrong thing, I would be too embarrassed to ever show my face in polite society ever again.
Because maybe I am wrong about the contents of this room. I know the Serrano wine enterprise is ancient. It dates back to the 1600s. Perhaps they’re still using medieval devices to make their wines?
But what use would they have for a Saint Andrew's Cross which takes center stage in the room? Or a guillotine with leather padding? And I’ve never seen a flogger being used to stomp or strain grapes.
No, this room is definitely what I think it is. A sex dungeon. I know because I’ve seen one before.
Not in real life. On the porn sites I checked out long ago. The only ones that ever seemed somewhat real to me were the ones where the submissive was tied up on apparatus like these, and a Dominant was taking her to task.
My breath catches. I press my thighs together. At my lower calves, I feel the spot where the rope has left a mark on my leg.
On the walls, I see a similar rope hanging loose. The memory of the free-floating I felt when trapped while Gaius loomed over me returns. Another glance at the placards of the cross, and I feel a tingle run up my spine. A peek at the flogger's tails, and the whisper of a burn on my ass flares and dies in the span of a second.
I feel a tendril of hair escape my bun and coil around my neck. My fingers tremble as I smooth the hair back into place. I run my hands down my skirt, straightening the already composed fabric.
I remember watching that video and my entire body heating. I’d only watched it the once and then deleted my browser history. It had made me feel so out of control, but I’d never forgotten the sight.
My feet are backpedaling. I need to get out of this room. When I back up, it’s into a wall of solid, male warmth.
Gaius has me in his arms. His hands are a cuff around my forearms. His lips are at my ear. I can’t help myself; I tremble in his hold.
7
Gaius
I smell the arousal running off Marechal in waves. It’s all I can do to only keep my hands on her, and not sink my teeth right into her neck. Unlike Cari, I’m centuries old and have perfect control over my hunger. But for the second time tonight, my fangs beg to quarrel with maturity.
Apparently, my dick wants a word too. It’s rare that I get hard for a woman—a human, no less. I haven’t fucked a warm cunt in years. I prefer to deepthroat a woman’s mouth after I’ve rendered her cunt numb from the pleasure of my flogger. Or to get off between her breasts, after her eyes are rolling back in her head from the countless orgasms I’ve given her.
Marechal Durand is on her feet and in possession of all her faculties. And a human. Not my type at all. But ever since the day I met her and she extolled her belief that the female orgasm was a myth, I couldn’t get the woman out of my mind.
Now I have her in my clutches, in a sex dungeon.
“What exactly kind of wine cellar is this?” she says.
As if she doesn’t know. I didn’t miss the recognition in her gaze as her eyes landed on the Saint Andrew’s Cross in the center of the room. Or the shimmy of her ass when her attention turned to the flogger Hadrian left out.
Luckily, my stalling tactics worked, giving Hadrian and Carignan enough time to slip out of the dungeons using the caverns that ran beneath the structure. Those tunnels lead out to the vineyard, where they could resurface and head back to the house, or away into the night until Marechal is gone.
With my brother and my new sister-in-law out of the picture, I could take a moment and strip the elder Durand down. Perhaps I could soften her up to the idea that her sister has taken on a new life. And while I am softening up Marechal, I could prove just how wrong she is about the female orgasm.
“It’s not for wine,” I say in answer to her question. “This is where my brothers and I like to extract a far more precious nectar.”
Marechal turns in my arms. Her chest is heaving. Her plum grape eyes are wide. She tries to compose herself, but she has no idea that my predatory scent has already pinned her for an evening treat.
“This is a sex dungeon,” she says.
“Yes,” I agree, seeing no reason to deny it. I’m thrilled that she knows something about what is done here, and eager to gauge what she’ll let me do to her here. “Would you like me to show you the process, Marechal?”
I lower my voice to a hypnotic tone that humans are receptive to. Marechal’s nostrils flare, but she glares at me. She has a strong will, for a human. I don’t want to enthrall her. I want her consciously begging me for it.
I want her to pull the pins from her perfect bun and let those thick tresses unravel. I want her to shimmy out of her confining skirt and open her legs to me. I want her to part those knees that are always pressed together when she walks, and beseech me to lick her dry.
“Have you brought home a treat, brother?”
I turn to find Virius standing in the doorway of the cellar. Tonight, he is dressed in a purple sari wrapped around his bare chest and a pair o
f red sweat pants with Adidas stripes running down each side. On his feet are a pair of my Italian loafers. I bite my lip instead of yelling at him to keep his hands off my stuff, because I need him to keep his fangs off our guest.
I put myself between Marechal and Viri. Virius is a picky eater. As far as I know, he hasn’t drunk straight from the tap, as it were, in decades. Possibly centuries.
“She smells sweet,” says Virius. His gaze flashes in the dim lighting. “She smells like Cari.”
I hadn’t noticed Cari’s smell before. Not since the night I’d gotten a whiff of Marechal. She smells strong, succulent, and yes, sweet. There is adrenaline coursing through her veins. Her sweet blood is primed for my bite, and mine alone.
I snarl at my brother, my lip curling up as I flash my fangs. The message is clear: I will not be sharing.
Viri holds up his hands. “Fine, don’t share. But keep your hands off my stash of bags in the fridge.”
I wait until he is out the door before I relax my shoulders. I prepare myself to answer Marechal’s questions about Viri and his strangeness. It’s always hard to explain away my brother’s oddness.
I had once thought that our Domitia had scarred Hadrian the most. I realized soon after we thought she was dead that I was wrong. Hadrian has recovered. I fear Viri never will.
When I turn to Marechal, she is not looking after Virius. She is glaring at me. The determined set to her chin is back.
“I am done playing around with you, Gaius Serrano. You are going to tell me where my sister is. And you’re going to tell me what you are about, buying up the controlling shares to Durand Vineyard.”
I am caught off guard. It is a rare feat. That is not at all what I was expecting her to say.
“My patience is wearing thin,” she says.
The woman is magnificent. She might’ve given Domitia a run for her money. As soon as the thought arises, I bury it. I don’t want that demon anywhere near this avenging angel.