Hoyt, Elizabeth - The Leopard Prince2.txt

by The Leopard Prince

  didn’t know it was possible to feel so much from such a little touch.

  “I could call you Georgina, but it’s long.” He watched his hand, his

  eyes dark.

  /What?/

  “And then there is Gina, a pet name, but it’s too common for you.” He

  squeezed her nipple, and she felt the jolt all the way to the center of

  her being.

  She moaned helplessly.

  Harry’s gaze flicked up to hers. He no longer smiled. “So, you see, I

  think I’ll have to continue calling you /my/ lady.”

  His head dipped. His mouth was on hers before she could even think.

  Biting, licking, sucking. His kiss—if such a ravenous devouring could be

  called a kiss—overwhelmed her senses. She tunneled her fingers through

  his hair and hung on for dear life. /Oh, thank the Lord!/ She’d begun to

  think she would never taste him again. She suckled his tongue, murmuring

  her enjoyment.

  He made a sound—a growl?—and placed a hand frankly on her bottom and

  pulled her roughly against himself. She would’ve bet her life that the

  hard rod she felt poking into her lower belly was his manhood. Just to

  be sure, she rubbed against it, and his rod now had almost all of her

  attention. He rewarded her daring by shoving a knee between her legs.

  The effect was so exciting that she almost forgot about the rod. He’d

  somehow found /that/ spot, that little place that could bring her so

  much pleasure. He rubbed that spot with his leg while thrusting his

  tongue repeatedly into her mouth.

  She nearly whimpered at the sensation. Did he know? Did all men have a

  secret understanding of that part of a woman’s anatomy? George pulled at

  his hair until Harry’s lips broke away from hers. His knee continued its

  maddening motion. She looked into his eyes, heavy-lidded and burning

  green, and saw devastating knowledge. Harry knew exactly what he was

  doing to her. It wasn’t fair! He would have her lying in a puddle of

  want before she could even discover him.

  “Stop.”

  The word came out more a gasp than a command, but Harry stilled at once.

  “My lady?”

  “I said I wanted to see /you./” George dismounted his knee. That really

  was the only word for it.

  Harry spread his arms wide. “Here I am.”

  /“Naked.”/

  For the first time, there was a trace of unease in his face. “As my lady

  wishes.” But he made no move.

  She saw it in his eyes; she’d have to undress him herself. She bit her

  lip, excited and uncertain at the same time. “Sit there.” She pointed to

  the armchair by the fire.

  He obeyed, lounging back, his legs sprawled.

  She hesitated.

  “I’m yours to do with as you wish, my lady,” he said. The words came out

  a purr, as if a great cat had granted her leave to pet it.

  If she balked now, she’d never find out. She knelt and carefully undid

  the buttons on his shirt. His hands were draped casually over the

  chair’s arms, and he made no move to help. She reached the last button

  and spread the halves of his shirt wide, examining him. The lines of his

  neck tendons ran down into the hills of his shoulders, smooth and taut.

  Below, he had small brown nipples, puckered like her own. She touched

  one with a fingertip and then traced the bumpy ridge of the surrounding

  dark circle.

  He made a sound.

  Her gaze flicked to his. His eyes glowed under lowered lids, and his

  nostrils were flared; otherwise he was still. She looked back to his

  bare chest. In the center grew dark hairs, and she brushed over them to

  feel their texture. They were smooth, damp underneath with his sweat.

  She followed the trail of hair down to his belly where it encircled his

  navel. How strange. And the hair skimmed lower. It must meet up with . .

  . She searched the placket of his trousers for the buttons that closed

  it. His manhood stood up stiffly within the fabric. From the corner of

  her eye, she saw his hands grip the chair arms, but he let her have her

  way. She found the buttons. Her hands trembled and one button popped

  off. She undid the placket and slowly peeled it back while struggling to

  draw breath.

  /It/ stood up all by itself, larger than she’d ever imagined, poking

  through his smallclothes. The statues lied. There was no way this could

  fit beneath those puny fig leaves.

  It was ruddier than the flesh of his belly, and she could see veins

  throbbing along the length. The head was bigger than the rest, shining

  and red. The hair at the base was damp, and when she leaned forward—oh,

  dear Lord— she could smell him. Male musk, heavy and intoxicating.

  George didn’t know the etiquette of the situation, whether it was done

  or not, but she reached out. If she died tomorrow and had to make

  accounting for her eternal soul before the gates of heaven and St. Peter

  himself, she would not regret it: She touched Harry Pye’s cock.

  He groaned and lifted his hips.

  But she was distracted by her discovery. The skin was soft, like the

  finest kid glove, and it moved separately from the muscle beneath. She

  skimmed her palm over the shaft up to the head and found liquid leaking

  from a slit. Was this the seed of life?

  He groaned again. This time he grabbed her and lifted her to his lap,

  obscuring that most interesting part of his body.

  “You’re going to kill me, my lady.” He worked at the hooks at the back

  of her gown. “I promise on my father’s grave that you may look at my

  naked body for hours, or as long as I can stand it, /later./ But right

  now”—her gown gaped forward, and he pulled it and her shift down— “I

  need to see /your/ naked body.”

  She frowned, about to protest, but he had the entire bodice off now, and

  he bent his head and sucked on her nipple. She gazed down at his head,

  shocked; then the sensation caught up with the act and she inhaled. She

  knew men were fascinated with breasts, but she’d no idea.

  /Oh, my, was this usual?/ Perhaps it didn’t matter—he tongued his way to

  her other breast and sucked on that one as well—because it felt so

  erotic. So evocative. Now her hips moved, swiveling of their own accord.

  He chuckled and she felt the vibration through her nipple.

  And then he bit gently.

  “Oh, please.” She was startled at the huskiness of her own voice. She

  didn’t know for what she begged.

  But Harry knew. He shifted and dragged her gown from off her body. He

  pulled off her slippers one at a time and let them drop to the floor.

  She lay across his lap like some odalisque, naked except for her

  stockings and garters, his cock pressed into her hip. She should have

  been embarrassed, she knew. If she were proper at all, she would’ve run

  away, screaming. Which only proved what she’d suspected for some time:

  She’d lost all sense of propriety. For when Harry lifted his head and

  slowly, /very/ slowly, perused her naked body, she actually arched her

  back as if to display herself.

  “You’re so beautiful.” His voice was guttural, deep and rasping.

  “Here”�
��he touched her swollen nipples—“they look like red berries in

  snow. Here”—he smoothed his hand on the curve of her belly—“so soft,

  like down. And here.” His fingers combed into the auburn curls

  surrounding her womanhood. His hand tightened on her mound for a moment.

  His face was carnal in the firelight, the lines in sharp relief, his

  lips drawn back. He slid his long middle finger between her folds.

  She shut her eyes as he touched her there.

  “Do you like it softly?” His finger brushed over her. “Or firmly?” He

  stroked.

  “L-like that,” she sighed. She spread her thighs a little more.

  “Kiss me,” he whispered, and turned his head to brush feather kisses

  across her lips.

  She moaned into his mouth. Her hands tangled in his hair and roamed over

  the warm skin of his shoulders. And all the while his finger stroked

  until the tension built to unbearable levels, and he thrust his tongue

  into her mouth. George arched, feeling her heart beat out of her chest

  and the warmth seeping, spreading, from her middle. She felt shaken, as

  if she’d taken a journey from which there was no return.

  He petted her, gentle and consoling.

  When she began to drift, he lifted her, stood, and walked to his

  bedroom. He lay her down on his narrow bed and stepped back

  deliberately. Harry watched her—for resistance?—as he stripped out of

  his remaining clothes. She lay there limply, anticipating whatever he

  would do next. Then he climbed over her and poised for a moment on all

  fours, a hungry beast about to devour his prey.

  His very willing prey.

  “It may hurt.” He searched her eyes.

  “I don’t care.” She pulled his head down to hers.

  He met her lips and nudged her legs apart with his own. She felt him at

  her entrance. He lifted his head and braced himself on one hand, then

  thrust himself into her. Or at least she thought he did. He drew back a

  little and thrust again, and more flesh entered her. Good Lord, would

  all of him . . .? Another thrust and she gasped. It hurt. It pinched. It

  burned. He glanced at her face, grit his teeth, and thrust powerfully.

  His pelvis met hers.

  She whimpered. She felt full—too full.

  Above her, he was still. A bead of sweat dripped off the side of his

  face and fell on her collarbone. “All right?” It was a grunt.

  /No./ She nodded and hazarded a smile.

  “Brave girl,” he whispered.

  He leaned down to kiss her and slowly moved his hips. He seemed to grind

  against her without actually shifting his manhood. That was quite nice.

  She explored his back, the bunched shoulder muscles, the valley of his

  spine, damp with sweat. She moved lower and felt his buttocks flex as he

  finally moved inside her. It wasn’t painful, but it wasn’t as nice as

  his finger had been before. She concentrated on teasing his tongue with

  her own. And pressing her fingers into the muscles of his bottom because

  they were oddly fascinating to her. She wished she could see his

  backside right now. She felt tender. He pumped. The feel of his manhood

  sliding in and out of her was rather interesting.

  George idly wondered what they must look like.

  Then all thought fled, for he had pressed his hand against her /there./

  And somehow, the combination of his fingers and his thrusting cock was

  really altogether perfect. She gripped his hips and began to move her

  own. Utterly without rhythm, but it didn’t seem to matter. Almost . . .

  /Oh, heavens!/ She actually saw stars. She broke their kiss to arch her

  head into the pillow in a bliss like none she’d ever felt before.

  He was suddenly gone from her body, and she felt warmth splattering onto

  her belly. She opened her eyes in time to see Harry throw his head back

  and shout. The tendons in his neck stood out, and his upper body

  glistened with sweat.

  He was the most magnificent thing she’d ever seen.

  AMAZING, REALLY, HOW SIMPLE it was to kill.

  Silas looked down at the woman lying in the gorse. He’d had to drag her

  here after keeping her locked up for over a day. It’d been important,

  after all, that she die in the proper way, and he’d had to find and

  prepare the poisonous herbs. A rather tedious job. The woman had

  convulsed at the end, and the body was twisted. Before she died, she had

  vomited and lost control of her bowels, shitting quite disgustingly all

  over the place. He curled his lip. The whole process had taken too much

  of his time and had been foul to boot.

  But it had been simple.

  He’d chosen a sheep pasture on his own land. Isolated at night but close

  enough to the road so she’d be found before she rotted entirely away. It

  was important to associate this with the sheep poisonings. These farmers

  were a dull lot, and if the connections weren’t made for them, they

  might not see the obvious.

  He could have tried to get the woman to drink the brew he’d made, but

  it’d been quicker to simply force it down her throat. Then he’d sat back

  and waited. The woman had sworn and cried at his treatment—she had

  already been drunk when he’d found her. Then, after a while, she’d

  clutched her stomach. Vomited. Shat.

  And finally died.

  Silas sighed and stretched, his muscles cramped from sitting so long on

  a damp boulder. He stood up and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket.

  He walked over to the stinking corpse and unwrapped the carved stag.

  Carefully he placed it a few steps from the woman. Close enough to be

  found but far enough away to have been dropped. He looked critically at

  the scene he’d created and found it good.

  He smiled to himself and walked away.

  A WEIGHT LAY ON HIS CHEST. Harry opened his eyes but didn’t move. He saw

  a cloud of ginger hair floating over his chest and right arm.

  She’d stayed the night.

  He glanced at the window and cursed silently. It was dawn already. He

  should’ve been up an hour past, and Lady Georgina should have left well

  before that. But lying here in a too-small bed with his lady was nice.

  He could feel the cushion of her breast against his side. Her breath

  puffed on his shoulder, and her arm was flung across his chest as if she

  had taken possession of him. And maybe she had. Perhaps he was like some

  enchanted prince in one of her tales and now she held the key to his heart.

  The key to his very soul.

  He closed his eyes again. He could smell her scent mingled with his. She

  stirred, her hand moving down over his belly, almost to his morning

  cockstand. He held his breath, but she stopped.

  He needed to piss, and besides, she would be too sore this morning. He

  eased her arm off him. Harry sat up. Lady Georgina’s hair was a tangle

  around her face. He gently pushed it back, and she scrunched her nose in

  her sleep. He smiled. She looked like a wild gypsy lass. He bent, kissed

  her bare tit, and rose. He stoked the fire, then pulled on his trousers

  to take a piss outside. When he returned, he put water on to boil and

  glanced into the little bedroom again. His lady still slept.

/>   He was taking down the teapot when someone started pounding on the

  cottage door. Quickly he shut the bedroom door. He palmed his knife and

  opened the cottage door a crack.

  A gentleman stood outside. Tall, with reddish-brown hair. The stranger

  flicked a riding crop in one bony hand. A horse was tethered behind him.

  “Aye?” Harry braced his right hand above his head. The other hand held

  the knife, hidden on his side of the doorjamb.

  “I’m looking for Lady Georgina Maitland.” The stranger’s voice, clipped

  and upper crust, would have frozen most men.

  Harry raised one eyebrow. “And who might you be?”

  “The Earl of Maitland.”

  “Ah.” He started to close the door.

  Maitland wedged his crop in the doorway to prevent him. “Do you know

  where she is?” There was warning in his voice now.

  “Yes.” Harry stared flatly at Maitland. “She’ll be at the manor soon.”

  Anger sparked in the other man’s eyes. “Within the hour or I’ll kick

  this bloody hovel down around your ears.”

  Harry closed the door.

  When he turned, he saw Lady Georgina peeking from the bedroom. Her hair

  was loose around her shoulders, and she had used a bedsheet as a wrap.

  “Who was it?” Her voice was husky with sleep.

  Harry wished he could pick her up and carry her back to his bed and make