he reaches puberty. Hell, I may not be able to give you a baby, sweeting. Did you think
of that?”
She considered his handsome face. A man as sensual and powerful as this one
could not be anything but virile and—she blushed—potent. “If he will be like you in all
else, I think I could live with that. I would love him despite the thing inside him.”
Bevyn’s heart twisted and he gave her a look that he was certain had made her
womb clench for she drew in a tremulous breath.
“That’s a long way off. Let’s not worry about it,” he said, wanting this conversation
finished. “But like I said, if you don’t want to make love with me…”
“I belong to you, Milord Bevyn,” she declared, chin raised defiantly. “Take what
you want.”
For a long moment he stared at her then took a deep breath, pushing all his own
worries aside.
“I will pay for it,” he said. “By the gods, they will make me pay for it, but I can no
more stop making you wholly mine than I can cease to breathe.”
He rose up in the bed and knelt there on his knees, sliding her chemise from her
shoulders and down her upper body, waiting patiently as she arched her hips up so he
could pull it free. She lay there beneath his scrutiny as he swept his gaze over her
nakedness, claiming it for his own.
“You are so beautiful,” he said, holding his hand out to her to help her sit.
She cocked her head to one side, wondering at his motive until he put his hands to
her hair and began to take the pins from the blonde curls, pulling the long locks over
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her shoulders, fingering them, lifting them to his nostrils to inhale the scent of lemons
that clung to the tendrils.
“So beautiful,” he said with a sigh, letting the lock he held fall to her shoulder.
“I am as you see me,” she said. She held no illusions of how she looked. To her, she
was nothing special—simply an ordinary woman with commonplace looks. She had no
way of knowing that to him she was the most beautiful woman to ever walk the face of
the earth.
He wanted—no he needed—to lose himself in her soft, wet folds. He knew it was
wrong, that he should not do it. He knew the consequences but he didn’t care. All of his
life he had been denied what he wanted, had his needs and hopes and longings laughed
at, subjugated, pushed aside, denied.
No more!
He wanted and he would take, penalties be damned.
Lowering his head to her breast, he drew her nipple between his lips, glorying in
the feel of her hands threading through his hair to hold his head. He plied his tongue
across the swollen tip—tasting her, suckling her, drawing strength and courage from
her sweet offering. He laved her, swirled his tongue around her engorged peak, planted
soft kisses along the firm globe he held in his hand.
Shifting until he was atop her, pushing her legs apart with his hips, he settled down
into the sweet valley between her thighs and clasped her other breast, holding it as
lovingly as he did its mate. Alternating his attention from one silken mound to the
other, he licked her nipples, gently nibbled them and raked them softly across his lips
and cheek and chin. All the while, his eyes were on hers—melded, fused, locked.
“You are an incredibly handsome man, milord,” she told him. Her fingers plowed
slowly, sensuously through his dark curls.
“I am as you see me,” he repeated her words back to her. He flicked his tongue over
her nipple then drew it into his mouth.
Lea stared into those beautiful amber eyes with their long, thick lashes and
shivered. His face was flawless without a nick or a cut to mar the flesh. Not one blemish
showed on those fine features except for the dark blue tattoo. She traced the sweep of
one stylized wing with her fingertip.
“What manner of bird is this?” she asked.
“It is the Coure crow,” he replied, his teeth lightly clamped to her nipple. “It
symbolizes good judgment although there are those who would argue I possess such a
trait.”
She smiled. “What trait would you say you possess, milord?” she asked.
He snorted and released her nipple with a loud pop. “Stubbornness perhaps?”
“And are the Coure men known for being stubborn?” she inquired.
“Stubborn and willful, I’m told. The reason the Coure clan has the tattoo is because
of Beldyn Coure, the patriarch of our family. He had it inked on his cheek to denote that
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Charlotte Boyett-Compo
he had fallen prey to the wiles of a designing woman by the name of Justine Crowe. She
all but destroyed the clan before he besieged her keep and took her captive, later
strangling her with his bare hands. To me, the tat symbolizes a man thinking with the
part of his anatomy that is the least wise of his organs.”
“I’ve heard each Reaper has his own facial tattoo,” she said. “What…?”
“Enough talk of other men, wench,” he said, dragging his body up hers, grinding
his hard cock against her pubic mound. “You need only think on one man and that is
the one about to make you a woman.” His amber eyes turned dark gold. “His woman.”
Lea gasped as he plucked at her nipples—first one then the other—with his teeth. It
was a heady sensation that held no hurt within it but sheer, mindful pleasure that sent
chills down her sides and made her belly clench. The sweep of his tongue swirling over
and over, around and around her swollen buds made her slam her hands to the sheets
to keep from brutally grabbing his hair. She grabbed handfuls of the rough cotton and
twisted.
“Ah, wench, that is nothing,” he drawled, and moved down her until he could flick
his tongue into the concavity of her navel. That too brought waves of shivering to her
body.
She could not have stopped him even if she had been of a mind to as he slid lower
still and his hot breath fanned across her nether curls. She raised her head to look down
at him as he buried his face against wiry hair, rubbing his whiskers against it as though
he were a cat marking his scent.
“You like that?” she asked.
“Shush,” he said.
He didn’t want to think. He wanted to act. He didn’t want to consider consequences
or penalties or what it was going to cost him to do what he had set his mind to. He
simply wanted to feel.
Lea Walsh would have been astounded to learn that the man whose hands were
molding her breasts so expertly as his breath mingled with her pubic hair was as much
a virgin as she. Though his staff had been suckled by many a woman, had been handled
by even more as they eased him—and at times jerked him—to pleasure, he had not once
slid that steely cock into a feminine sheath.
“You must never touch your staff except to hold it to relieve your bladder,” the brothers
had warned him when he had taken his vows of poverty, chastity and obedience in that
lifetime before he had been reborn a Reaper. “To spill your seed is a wasteful sin and
punishable by being thrust into the fires of the Abyss.”
“Do not stroke your cock when you are in Reaper form!” Morrigunia had sternly told
him. �
�If you do, you will suffer My displeasure!”
While the Triune Goddess had implied it was all right to relieve his need if he were
in Transition, Bevyn had never once done as he’d seen animals do. He had never licked
that part of him when he was in wolf form. He thought it a disgusting thing and
morally wrong. That, Morrigunia had told him, was what whores were for.
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“But never stick your cock into a female unless you want her as your lifelong mate!” the
goddess had also warned.
With Lea’s warm, spicy scent in his nostrils, he knew this female was his. She had
been born to belong to him. He knew it as surely as he knew his heart was beating in
synchronized rhythm to hers. He needed no permission to take what was—by rights—
his, though there was no doubt in his mind that a price would be exacted.
He stroked his thumbs over her nipples—back and forth, back and forth and smiled
when she arched her hips up against his chin. Trailing his fingers down her chest, over
the sweet indention of her belly, across the soft flange of her hips, he molded his fingers
around her upper thighs, caressing her as he rubbed his chin against her mound.
“You smell so good,” he told her, once more finding her eyes locked on his. “I could
lie here all day.”
“We’d never get anything done like that,” she teased.
He smiled lazily and slid his hands to the insides of her thighs, feeling her shiver
delicately as he touched the sensitive flesh, kneading the smooth muscles. He nudged
her thighs farther apart until he could see the dark pink creases of her sex.
“That,” he said, easing a finger to her softness, “is what I want to devour.”
Lea gasped as he touched a part of her that sent goose bumps prickling all over her
skin. She writhed beneath that contact, feeling to the very marrow of her bones. “WWhat did you do?” she asked.
“This?” he asked, and began a slow, rhythmic circling with his thumb around
whatever it was he was touching.
“Aye!” she said with a hitching breath.
“So soft,” he whispered. “So supple.”
He stroked his thumb between one slick fold and then the other—slowly,
methodically, whisperlike, his nail grazing her flesh, bringing scent and moisture from
between her legs.
“Milord, please,” she said, her head whipping back and forth on the pillow. She
had no notion of what it was he was doing but it was pleasure-pain that was fast
controlling her every breath.
“Lie still, wench,” he ordered, and turned his hand palm up to slowly drag his
index and middle finger upward along the valley of her sex.
She wriggled, arching her hips up, seeking something she did not understand,
wanting something for which she had no name.
He stroked her until she was moaning and undulating her hips, mercilessly
tormenting her with his strong fingers, his well-groomed nails. By the time he put his
mouth to her clit, she was nearly mindless with need.
Her hands plowed through his hair and she held him where he was, her neck
arched back as he lapped at her dewy flesh, tasted her, making soft, smacking sounds
that only added to her arousal. Her heels were digging into the mattress, her legs
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splayed as far apart as her bones would allow, her hips arching up to his seeking
mouth.
She tasted of honey—warm and spicy—and the scent of her reminded him vividly
of peaches fresh from the vine, cut open in the hot sun to seep their juices from the slit.
He spiraled his tongue over and around her clit and nibbled it, pushing the hood back
to gain the very most of that receptive nub. He dragged it over her folds and stabbed
with lightning forays into the creases, keeping well away from that dark, sensuous dell
into which he wished to plunge.
He felt her tugging on his hair and yet it felt good to him. It gave wildness to the
moment that did nothing save spur him on as he flashed the tip of his tongue at her
opening then moved a finger to that creamy entrance where her juices were freely
flowing.
“Bevyn!” she cried out, and he knew that minute touch, that small sortie into her
folds had brought about her first sexual release.
He lifted his head and looked up at her wide eyes as she stared at him with her lips
parted, her tongue sweeping across the full lower flesh to make his loins burn with
need.
“What was that?” she asked, her body quivering as the last spasm faded away.
“The beginning, my love,” he whispered. “Only the beginning.”
He eased his finger deeper inside her until the first joint and then the second
disappeared from view. She tensed around him, her vaginal muscles locking on to him
with fervor.
“Relax,” he said, putting his free hand to her belly and pressing lightly. “Relax and
let your man pleasure you.”
Lea’s heart soared at the name he had called himself. He was indeed her man and
she was without a moment’s hesitation his lady. She was reveling in his touch, was
mesmerized by it, and as his finger moved inside her—circling and slightly
withdrawing, going a bit deeper until she could feel his folded fingers on the entrance
to her opening, she moaned, grazing his scalp with her nails.
“That’s my woman,” he said. “Pull if you want to.”
She could not imagine herself ever hurting him but when he thrust a second finger
inside her, her hand jerked spasmodically in his curls and she heard him grunt then
release a low chuckle.
“Leave some up there, wench,” he teased.
He was slowly rotating his fingers inside her cunt and Lea was lost in a rush of
pleasure so great she could only close her eyes and enjoy it. She felt a third finger join
the other two and wondered if his cock would be as wide, would stretch her as his
fingers did.
“That is what I am doing, wench,” he said as though reading her mind. “I am
preparing you for him.”
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She was slick, her juices coating his fingers. He knew she was but a hair’s breadth
away from another orgasm so pushed his fingers deep and held them there, his other
hand pressing down on her belly to send the blood flooding into her groin.
“Oh god!” she cried out, and the wave of squeezes that clutched at his fingers
nearly made him come. His cock was steel-hard and burning with desire, his balls so
tight he thought they well might burst from their fleshy sacs. He had to tamp down his
building release until he was sure she was primed for his entry.
“Easy, milady,” he said, soothing her as he would a stallion he was readying for the
saddle. “Easy.”
The last tremors faded inside her and yet Lea knew there was something extra for
which he was preparing her, something more that would bring the stars down from the
heavens.
With her eyes on his, he withdrew his fingers from her body—puckering his lips at
her groan of protest as though he were reprimanding her—then opened his mouth to
lick her juices from his flesh.
“Ah Bevyn!” she sighed, shuddering. She was nearly beside herself wanting him t
o
slide his body over hers, to press her down, to capture her. She ached to know what it
felt like to have him inside her, his rigid cock—the cock that pressed so hard against her
thigh—seated deep.
Her taste was unlike anything he had ever known and it felt right. It tasted right. It
was right but he wanted more so he went to the source, journeyed to the well to take his
next sip.
His mouth on her nearly sent Lea up in flames. He was suckling her opening,
drinking from her, slipping his tongue inside, lapping at her folds and then lifting her
hips to flick that wicked muscle around her anus, pressing it into the tiny opening.
Another hard wave of spasms shot through her and she raked her nails across his
shoulders, unable to keep herself from doing so. She trembled as he dragged the broad
plane of his tongue over and over and over her slit as she came, the flood of her juices
coating him.
She was well primed, he thought as her arms fell to her sides, and then he was up
and over her, shifting one hand under her delectable little rump, lifting her for his
penetration. His other hand went to the base of his cock and he positioned himself,
readied his shaft to impale her.
“Look at me, sweeting,” he ordered, and watched her eyelids flutter open. “Watch
my eyes while I take you.”
She knew there would be pain. Mable and the other women had warned her, but
there was no pain when he slid into her, only the most remarkable pleasure, the most
intoxicating gratification she could ever have imagined. He went slowly but firmly into
her and pressed as deep as his large rod would go then he stilled, allowing her body to
adjust around him.
“It didn’t hurt,” she said.
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Charlotte Boyett-Compo
“I would never hurt you, milady,” he said.
He waited until she moved her tight ass before he eased out of her a little then
drove back in slowly. His jaw was clamped tightly shut to control the urge to pound
into her, to relieve the hot ache, the brutal tension that was racking his body.
“I love you,” she said.
It was those three little words—words he had never expected to hear ever said to
him—that were Bevyn Coure’s undoing. He lost all sense of gentleness and what little
restraint he had.
“Put your legs around me,” he grated out between clenched teeth. “Lock your heels
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