by Nina Mason
“My knight,” she whispered, indulging her own fantasy. “Wouldst thou kill me?”
He let go of her breast. She opened her eyes, meeting his, now inflamed with desire. “Nay, my lady. I would lay down my life for thine.”
His willingness to follow her lead heightened her pleasure. He moved over her, his weight crushing. He looked at her for a long, highly charged moment, saying nothing, then brought his mouth down on hers. The kiss was hungry, demanding, exquisite. His tongue tasted of her blood. She engaged fervently, giving herself over. He came into her with a rumbling groan.
She rocked her hips to take him deeper, squeezing around his length as she did. He shuddered, groaned again, and broke free of her mouth. “God’s teeth, Gwyneth. You feel amazing.”
She shivered at the sound of her name on his lips. He’d fallen out of character, and she was glad of it.
As he began to move, she wrapped her legs around his hips, reveling in the feeling of him as he pushed in, pulled back, and circled. In, out, and around. Languid and methodical. Deep and satisfying. She worked her hips and legs, drawing in his full length with each measured thrust. He’d said this was all he could give her, but this was a lot. Yes, there could be more. He could untie her hands, for example, or unbutton his waistcoat. But at least they were face-to-face so she could kiss him and hold him with her legs.
His thrusting grew more ardent. She met him inch for inch and pound for pound. The world fell away. Time stood still. There was only his key winding her up, only the building tension in her spring, only the hammer preparing to strike her chimes.
“Gwyneth. Oh, Jesus. Oh, God.”
His breathless exultations catapulted her into a shattering orgasm. As her sex began to pulse around his, he kissed her, stifling her ecstatic cries as he slammed into her again and again until he, too, exploded. He released her mouth just as a strangled cry flew out of his.
He rose off her and, straddling her on his knees, untied her hands. He wouldn’t meet her gaze, which cut her to the core.
“This can never happen again.”
“Which part?”
“All of it.” He came down beside her on his back, crossed his arms, and stared up at the ceiling.
Her heart withered. A suffocating heaviness settled over her body, as if she’d been buried alive. Blinking back her tears, she took in his profile, feeling worthless, used, and embittered.
He was just like all the other men she’d chosen. None of them had wanted her, either.
“I’ve got business to discuss with Tom,” he announced as he rose and straightened his kilt. “I trust you can find your own way out?”
He didn’t wait for her answer before stalking out the door.
* * * *
Leith emerged from the trap door into the dining room and began to pace the length of the room, raking his hair as he contemplated his unruly heart. Not only was the organ incomprehensively wicked, it also was infuriatingly capricious. To its own bloody peril. His heart wanted what it wanted and to the devil with reason. Clearly, despite the dangers, its sights were set on Gwyneth Morland. And yet, he could not, would not, add her to the company of ghosts already haunting his conscience.
He must, therefore, send her away at once and pray he’d acted in time. He stopped pacing as regret and self-loathing swallowed him whole. Lifting his eyes to the ceiling, he gritted out through clenched teeth, “Please let it not be true that absence makes the heart grow fonder!”
He shot a glance at the portrait of Clara over the fireplace. He’d have to be blind not to see the resemblance. They had the same ethereal beauty; the same wide-set eyes with that mysterious light that warmed the darkest corners of his soul; the same small, square face and delicate chin; the same sweet mouth that seemed made for his; and the same irresistible blend of strength and fragility.
He ripped his gaze away from the painting, redoubling his resolve. Miss Morland must go, damn it. Without delay. There was nothing else to be done.
Just as he started out of the room, she came up from the dungeon, looking miffed. He stood there a moment, eyes on the tense line where her sweet mouth used to be—the sweet mouth he’d just kissed so perilously. His cock stirred beneath his kilt as he recalled what she’d done with that mouth the day before while he’d been handcuffed and blindfolded. How he’d longed to watch as those lips slid up and down his aching shaft while that wee pink tongue danced so delightfully around his—
Good God, man. Get a hold of yourself!
He clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth together. He could not allow what just happened to happen again. He must strengthen his resolve. No more dungeon assignations. No more contact, period. From now on, he’d keep his distance. He held out little hope the curse could be broken and, even if it could, she would still be mortal. One way or another, he would lose her too soon.
Now determined to have nothing more to do with her, he turned on his heel and left her standing there.
Chapter 12
That night, Leith retired early to avoid having dinner with Gwyneth. He wasn’t hungry, and she had Tom to keep her company. He lay awake a long while, staring at the ceiling as he warred within himself. He didn’t love her. He couldn’t possibly as he’d only just met her. Besides, she’d seemed perfectly robust in the dungeon that afternoon, so there was his proof.
After he finally dozed off, he dreamed of being locked in the highest room of a very tall tower. There was one small window and down below, Miss Morland was calling up to him, “Leith, Leith, let down your hair, so I can climb up and rescue you.”
His hair, impossibly long, was coiled around the tower’s interior in a rope-like braid. He wanted very much to drop his hair out the window and pull her up, but was too afraid the dragon on the roof would burn her alive with its fiery breath. As he struggled with his dilemma, a door groaned open. His eyes shot to the tower’s only door. It remained closed. Even as he stared at the inert door, he heard it shut.
He came awake, naked under the covers of his own king-sized bed. Honeysuckle hit his nose a moment before cool air washed over his posterior. The sheets sighed and the mattress trembled.
God’s teeth. The wee mouse was crawling into the cat’s bed. He was cornered, trapped. He laid there, frozen, heart racing, breath held, wondering what to do. She pressed her front to his back, crushing her breasts against his shoulder blades. Her bush was a soft nest in the curve of his ass. She nuzzled his scalp and kissed his nape. A hand came around and brushed across his belly.
His cock throbbed with approval. So did his heart. He closed his eyes and clamped his jaw against the overwhelming urge to turn.
“Leith, are you awake?” Her humid breath caressed his ear as her fingertips swept the length of his swelling cock. “Please wake up.”
He remained as still as a corpse and summoned his resolve. Her tongue traced the folds of his ear, unleashing a torrent of sweet tingles. The fingers on his cock were calling “Here, kitty, kitty” in a way he couldn’t ignore.
Need bubbled up from his core like a hot springs. It had been so bloody long and, God help him, he missed this degree of closeness so much the feeling was tearing him in two. He would restore his shields tomorrow, but, please, please, for tonight, let him have this for a wee while.
Leith, Leith. Let down your hair.
Oh, bloody hell. He wasn’t a saint; he was a man with passions he’d denied for a hundred years at great cost to his own wellbeing. He was miserable, lonely, destitute, desperate, and dried up. He needed replenishment, nourishment, and the salve of a tender touch. His body might not be human any longer, but his heart still was.
Leith, Leith. Let down your hair.
He rolled to face her. His preternatural night vision showed him eyes as deep and liquid as the sea, parted lips begging to be kissed, and a tousled mass of wavy hair he longed to touch.
“How may I be of service, Miss Morland?”
“Call me Gwyneth.” Her breath
smelled of whisky. “I want to hear how it sounds in your voice.”
“All right then. Gwyneth, how may I be of service?”
Her fingertips brushed him from bollocks to piercing before dancing over his glans. Erogenous pulsations spread outward from her caress like ripples on a pond.
“Do I have to draw you a picture?”
She pushed the hair off his brow, tucked the wayward strands behind his ear, and ran her fingers down the side of his face. The tenderness of the gesture melted his battlements. He yearned to touch her with every cell of his being, but couldn’t seem to move.
“You’re very handsome.”
“Am I?”
She nodded, holding his gaze. “You have beautiful eyes and a mouth that gives me wicked ideas.”
He liked where this was going as much as he didn’t.
“What kind of wicked ideas?”
“Can’t you guess?”
A smile tugged on his mouth. “Do they involve bridles and riding crops?”
“Some of them.” She ran her forefinger over his lips. “And some involve your teeth.”
He coughed in surprise. “My teeth?”
She nodded. “Maybe I should have said your fangs.”
“Is that why you’ve crept into my bed? To see the big, bad wolf’s fangs?”
“I like that you have hair on your chest.” She gave him a bewitching smile as she twirled her fingers in it. “It’s so masculine. Back in L.A., everybody waxes off all their body hair. I can deal with no chest hair, but no pubic hair gives me the creeps. They look like plucked chickens; or worse, little boys. You, though, well, you’ve got just the right amount of manly body hair.”
Swallowing, he fought to curtail the urge to flip her over and fuck the daylights out of her. She didn’t wax, which pleased him. Call him old-fashioned, but he liked his women the way nature intended. He also liked that she didn’t follow trends.
“I’m glad you think so.”
He lowered his gaze to her breasts. His fingers twitched with the urge to feel them. He fisted his hands against the desire, squeezing until his fingernails dug into his palms. If he didn’t touch her, he still might be able to escape from the web of seduction she was spinning around him.
The dream flashed behind his eyes. The locked tower; the fire-breathing dragon; her calling up to him. He didn’t need a psychiatrist to analyze the dream’s meaning.
“You’re playing with fire, Gwyneth. And likely to get burned.”
“I’ll do whatever it takes to help you,” she whispered. “I want to be with you, Leith. Forever and ever. You’re my knight in shining armor.”
Maybe once, but no more. “My armor’s a wee bit worse for the wear, I’m afraid.”
“Once we break the curse, it’ll shine up again. I’m sure of it.”
Say something. Tell her the truth. Tell her you’ve decided to send her packing. It’s the honorable thing to do.
“Gwyneth, I—” He hesitated, torn. If only there was a way to have her and still be noble. But there wasn’t. No way he could see, anyway. And the stakes were too high to take a chance on the druids, making a trip to Brocaliande an imprudent gambit.
He cleared his throat and began again. “Gwyneth, I’ve decided to take you to Inverness tomorrow.”
“Have you? Why?”
“Because if I don’t, our fate will be sealed.”
She brought her face within two inches of his. “Our fate’s already sealed, my knight. And has been since the first time I read your book.”
Leith, Leith, throw down your hair so I can climb up and rescue you.
God, give him strength. How badly he yearned to take her in his arms, to claim her as his, to make love to her and mean it. He clenched his fists against the overpowering desire.
“Go back to your room, Gwyneth.” His throat was tight, his voice strained. “Before we do something we’ll regret.”
“I won’t regret it.”
He arched an incredulous eyebrow. “Even if you die?”
“I won’t.” Her whisky-scented breath was intoxicating. “And even if I should, I won’t be sorry. I’d much rather have a few short weeks of happiness than years and years of wondering what might have been if only we’d seized the moment.”
He couldn’t argue with that. He was the king of regret and wouldn’t wish his crown on anyone.
“Are you absolutely sure?”
“Yes.”
God help them both, but he couldn’t deny his passions any longer. He pressed his mouth against hers. Her lips, at once submissive and demanding, parted to invite him to deepen the kiss. She welcomed his tongue with a tantalizing swipe of her own. He was dimly aware of her hands in his hair, twisting and tugging, sealing his mouth more firmly on hers. His arms had magically found their way around her, and his hands were busy kneading her bonny wee bottom. Pleasure rumbled in his throat. He felt her shiver, felt her hand sweep down his arm and push between their bodies.
Eager fingers caught in his pubic hair, pulling painfully. As he winced, a small, warm hand closed around his cockstand. Pleasure sparked from the point of contact. He groaned and flexed his hips, pushing deeper into her grasp. She squeezed and began to pump like one of the masturbatory devices he kept in the playroom.
Breaking out of the kiss, he stopped her hand with his own. “Slow down, my love. We have the whole night.”
What was left of the night, anyway. Judging from the dove-gray light peeking through the crack in the draperies, dawn was breaking. He crawled out of bed, padded over, and threw the curtains open. Sudden silver light blinded him. Blinking to clear his vision, he returned to the bed and jerked back the bedclothes.
She looked so small and defenseless in his king-sized bed. She also looked like a goddess. With hungry eyes, he devoured every curve and swell of her flawless figure.
She blinked up at him. “What are you doing?”
“Drinking in your beauty.”
“You think I’m beautiful?”
“It isn’t a matter of opinion,” he said. “You’re a goddess, an angel, a work of divine inspiration. No one could look at you and find anything wanting.”
She reached for him. “Then come worship me.”
He got on the bed on all fours, crawled beside her, and lay on his side.
Rising on one elbow, she placed her hand on his chest, pushing a little. “Lie back. I want to admire you, too.”
He did as requested, struck by a modesty he hadn’t felt since Clara. Both had been virgins when they married, and they’d spent half their wedding night exploring each other’s anatomical differences.
She drew her finger down the dark trail leading from his chest to his pubic hair. Desire surged as her fingers jumped to the head of his erection. Her stimulating touch moved down his length, over his balls, and back up again, leaving particles of heaven in its wake.
“Did you enjoy the blow job I gave you?”
“Aye,” he said, eyes locked on her pleasuring fingers, “but would have enjoyed it even more without the blindfold.”
She met his gaze with a coy smile. “You like to watch?”
He snorted. “Show me a man who doesn’t.”
“I might like to watch, too,” she said with a sigh.
“Might?”
The hand on his cock stilled. “Believe it or not, until the dining room, I’d never gotten off with a man.”
His gut tightened. Bloody hell.
“Please tell me I wasn’t your first.”
“Of course you weren’t,” she said with a small laugh. “I’m twenty-seven and live in Californication.”
Relief washed through him. He’d been a brute. If she’d confessed to being an innocent, he’d never forgive himself for ravaging her so indelicately.
He moved his nearest hand to her pubic region, parted her labia, and flicked his middle finger against her clitoris. “Are you squeamish about a man kissing you here?�
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Some women were. God knew why, but they were. So were a few men, about giving and receiving, which made no sense to him. If a man didn’t enjoy orally pleasuring a woman, he was either far too uptight or far too selfish. Such hang-ups mystified him.
“Not at all,” she said. “It was them, not me.”
That was all he needed to hear. He moved down the bed, grabbed her by the ankles, flipped her on her back, and pulled her legs apart. As he situated himself between them, he met her gaze and offered her a hungry, fang-revealing grin. “Prepare to be eaten, Red Riding Hood.”
She laughed. “Are you the big, bad wolf?”
“No, my love. I’m Rapunzel in the tower, and you’ve just climbed up to save me.”
He moved between her thighs and partook of the aromatic flesh of her feminine folds. She moaned and arched her back, tightening his coil. He licked, flicked, and circled until her body grew tense and her breathing thready. Then, he pushed his tongue into her, straining for depth, and wiggled the tip against her g-spot.
She rolled her hips and moaned, shooting a searing bolt of lust straight to his cock. He returned to her clit, took the tender bud between his lips, and gently suckled.
Gasping with pleasure, she arched her back and twined her fingers in his hair.
His mind jumped back to the dream. Even if he let her climb up, they still had to climb back down without falling to their deaths or being burned alive by the dragon. The full moon was a long way off. She might die before then or be too weak to make the trip to Brocaliande. So much could go wrong. So bloody much.
Her body trembled and writhed under his mouth. He’d suckled her to the brink of climax and then stopped, wanting to feel her shatter around his hard cock.
He lifted his head. “Gwyneth, do you have multiple orgasms?”