by Jaye Peaches
“Don’t you want it?” He eased the grip on the backs of her knees. His cock was close, hovering between her thighs, the tip of it poised to enter her.
“Yes,” she said in a murmur of confusion.
“Yes, what?” He nudged forward, touching her slit with it, the physical embodiment of his vitality.
“Please. Yes, please. My lord.” She panted the words, stuttering over their formation.
“How much do you want it?” He seemed intent on teasing her, breaking every last bastion of dignity.
She stared at his eyes, the blue enamel irises that circled the bottomless pits of blackness. Two opaque dishes and in them, she witnessed something indescribable, primitive and inhuman, but not deadly. She wanted to know more.
“As much as you do. Sir.” She licked her lips.
His lips twitched. He appreciated some wit. “Ha.” He settled back on his haunches, the grip loosening further. “It is true, I do want you more than words can say.” His gaze roved, from her dainty toes dangling in the air, down her long legs and crooked knees, into the flat of her belly, over the generous curvature of her breasts and finally, he focused on her throat. She tensed—he’d parted his lips and revealed his sharp teeth.
Tales had been told for eons; enduring legends handed from household to household. Things that nursemaids fed their young charges to make them fearful, to ensure they did not wander too far from the nest of home and venture into dangerous places. Tilda recalled them now, lying beneath the man with a long past boyhood, who had probably forgotten such stories, and she wondered, fleetingly, if they weren’t fairy tales, but real. Monsters that tore apart their foes or ate them whole. Fire-breathing dragons with razor talons. Men who turned into wolves... She had seen so little of life.
He loomed over her, casting a shadow that blocked out his face and features.
“You’re so small,” he said softly.
She was typical in stature, hardly tiny.
“Fragile.” He lowered his face down toward her neck. “I hunger for it, the virgin with no virginity. The maid who sacrificed her sex for one so undeserving. The woman I punished for weakening when she should resist such pathetic predators. I am your true huntsman. Do you know that is what you are to me? My perfect prey.”
He spoke so quietly, she thought that he had not meant for her to hear the words. By the time he’d finished speaking, his lips were grazing the vein in her neck. She closed her eyes and waited for him to unfurl some cruel purpose, skewer her below while his teeth devoured her... and she would moan beneath him... yearn for completion.
The kiss was purposeful and firm, his lips sucked and drew in the softer parts of her skin, but she felt no sharp teeth. She opened her eyes and stared over the crown of his head at the flickering candles on the other side of the room. He trailed more kisses along her collarbone and down between her breasts, he circled her erect nipples with a flurry of tiny ones, and she tingled from scalp to toe with each.
There was nothing unnatural in the caresses of his lips. Even when he sucked one of her buoyant nipples into his mouth and toyed with the pebble using his tongue, she felt no discomfort. The angst she’d created faded away. Whatever he had planned, and maybe his intention had been less gentle, he had changed his mind. The fairy tales were just that and she should have trusted him.
She lifted her heavy arms from where they lay useless and draped them across his broad shoulders. While he explored her with his mouth and hands, she skated her fingers up and down his back, noting the puckered scars, the thickened muscles, the narrow waist.
The lack of haste and mellow tone continued until the tapers were burnt out and the wicks gone. Only the fire provided illumination in the form of dancing shadows and amber glows. She sighed, enjoying the touch of his skin moving over hers, the kindness of his hands as they skirted around her poor bottom and down the backs of her legs. She was in this state of unsuspecting surrender, when without a word, he thrust his cock forward and penetrated her channel in one swing of his hips.
The entire length of his shaft disappeared inside her. She gaped, speechless, unable to cry out or even breathe. He planted his hands on either side of her head, tipped back his head and released a long groan of delight.
She might not have been a virgin, but the volume of him combined with the weight of his manhood filling her was substantial, and nothing the priest had done to her was comparable.
He held himself there, offering her no relief from the tight pinch. Her arms fell away, unable to keep a grip on his back as he arched higher, then ground forward, sinking deeper inside her. She held her shaking legs, clutching them, aware that if he grasped them, she would be pinned down under his body and helpless.
“Wait,” he said sombrely. “Relax.”
A hard task, for every inch of her was tightly coiled around his point of entry. But the strictures were fast diminishing. Something was released, a pulse, a beat of her heart. It was the prelude to sudden arousal, one that allowed her at last to stretch and accommodate his mighty intrusion.
“There.” He’d sensed it too. He shifted over her, using his arms to hold his body off her, and without withdrawing, he straightened his legs and laid them flat behind him. He was a long dart between her thighs, his elbows tucked next to her ears and his chin nearly resting on her forehead.
He kissed her hair, a final act of preparation, one that signalled he was ready. He lifted his hips up, retrieving his cock from inside her pussy, and hovering there for a minute pause, he stared down and curled his lips.
“Now.”
He plunged himself to the hilt of his cock and she absorbed the impact of him ramming into her upturned bottom with a silent scream of shock. Her lungs refused to expel the air within them, leaving her dizzy and soft-focused. He repeated the upward and downward swing of his pelvis, re-entering accurately and firmly. The stroke of his inward approach was glazed with friction, the kind that rubbed painlessly. The retreat merely reminded her of her wetness, which spilt out with him.
He picked up the pace of his thrusts and exerted himself with quiet pants and the occasional leisurely groan.
And what of her, his newly betrothed, lying under him? She was melting, and not with the heat of his energetic body, but with the pulverising assault of his flesh striking her clitoris. The angle he’d chosen was perfect for rubbing it. He knew what he was doing. This was no accident of design, for as much as his cock hammered her, the excitement of her clitoris was taking all of her attention.
“My lord!” She clawed restlessly at the bedcovers, her hair, his bulging biceps, and anywhere that her fingers might try to anchor themselves. She failed to grip or hang onto anything. The tingling in her fingers was the first sign she was close to a climax. She clenched his cock, hoping to slow him, bide her time, and not erupt into a premature moment of selfish pleasure.
“Wait,” he commanded. “I feel it.”
She was uncertain of his intentions. Could he sense her readiness, or was he going to bring about his own fulfilment?
Abruptly, he stopped. His cock half in, his breathing exasperated. He laughed, chuckling away, then shook his head.
“You’re surprisingly good at lying still.” He brushed a lock of her hair away from her eyes.
She blinked, wondering if he’d found fault with her timorous responses.
He kissed her hot cheek. “I like it. For now. We’ll work on how you can move and use what little provocation I shall allow you to practise. I’m minded to let you work harder.”
He rotated, taking her with him, and left her on top, her legs astride, her hair tumbling onto his chest. He settled back, found a pillow for his head and shoulders, and grasped her hips.
“Up. Come, come. This is no great feat. You’re a competent rider.”
His cock was erect, rising up in front of her belly. With ease, he lifted her, and pressed her onto the smooth, wet bulb.
“No,” she said, not meaning for him to stop, only to allow her the mean
s to wriggle down. Before she could ask, she was lowered, inched into position, and left there, impaled. The length of his member was obvious; she felt it strike a barrier, something that caused her to cry out.
“You’d best rise up, then. Give yourself the joy of riding it. Go on.” He jiggled her hips.
She stared at his sky-blue eyes; he wanted her to lead? With her hands pressed onto his chest, her bottom rounded and kissing his balls, she crouched over him, rose up onto the balls of her feet and smacked her body back down.
He produced a crooked smile. “Move, sweetheart, for I have the endurance of a lion waiting to eat.”
Her mane of hair danced in time with her gyrations, the bucking of her hips, the crush of her pelvis around his cock and the precarious balancing act when she lifted her weight up onto her feet. Her knees bore the burden of the straddle. Gervais offered no support, only guiding her back into position when she swayed from side to side.
She grunted; it sounded terrible to her ears, but he appeared not to mind the crude noises. She thought it would only take a few minutes to satisfy him. The way her breasts bounced in front of his face had to please him. What she wasn’t expecting was the broad end of his thumb on her clitoris and the pressure he applied. He rubbed it aggressively, commandeering her exposed protrusion and taking her to the brink once more.
She shied away and failed. It was impossible to fuck him while keeping his hand away from there, where her tender spot was struggling to contain itself. He had the advantage, and there was nothing she could do but surrender. She arched backwards, jutted her breasts forward and her pelvis, too.
He had full access to her mound, the rough hairs and clitoris. He took advantage, as she leaned back on her hands, to continue his teasing flicks and rubs.
“That’s it, don’t stop. Keep fucking me,” he cajoled.
“I can’t. My legs...” She ached. Her limits were about to be breached. A collapse was imminent.
She came, though, in the midst of the frantic movements, and he forced her through it with his hands on her waist, ensuring she maintained the beat. Her orgasm swept on, painfully, and glorious in its conquest of her senses. She was subjected to the spirals, the waves of spasms and cramps, the pulse that reached her throat. She slumped forward, as predicted, and he caught her in his arms, easing her off and to one side, where she lay in a heap of breathlessness.
He arranged her feeble body on its side, and she half-noticed him in her dazed state. He lifted one of her legs and propped it on his shoulder, then straddled the other with his knees. Probing, he pitched forward, and entered her scissored legs. The sideways approach woke her up with a start. The reason for it quickly became apparent.
He tapped her lower lip with his thumb; she opened her mouth to receive two fingers.
“Suck on them,” he said.
It was a game, she realised, to tantalise him. There was no reason to excite his digits, other than in a pretence. What took her by surprise was when he slipped his other hand between her arse cheeks and inserted a finger into her tight hole. Penetrated in all ways possible, he had her at his mercy. Her wits were lost to him. She was unable to resist the thrusts of his cock, or the agitation of his finger in her bottom. What she had left was his taste in her mouth, an agreeable sensation that calmed her. The more she sucked and licked, the less the humiliation of his penetrations. It seemed to relax him to, the thrusts were not taxing on her, and he supported her limbs with his body.
“Good, nice,” he said soothingly.
The final switch of pace was when he retrieved his hands, pulled her bottom up onto his lap and hugged her to his chest. Two sharp thrusts and he stilled; his lower jaw dropped soundlessly. The heat rose up inside her, a spurt that brought merely a light moan to his lips. He withdrew, easing her off him, and the spillage followed after and down onto her thighs. The dense milk, creamy and elastic, was copious and sticky. Her thighs glued together. Had he meant to lose so much of it—wasn’t it supposed to remain inside? She knew so little about the function of coupling, how it created another life within her.
He left her on the bed in a mess of knotted hair, crumpled limbs, and fused fluids. He returned with a bowl of cool water. She shivered and wished she was not so bashful at the thought of him bathing her.
“My lord, I can—”
“You’ll bathe me.” He held out the bowl.
“Oh.”
He lay on the bed and she picked up the cloth, wrung it out, and swabbed his dwindling cock until it settled upon his belly.
“Go to the fire, bathe yourself, then bring back the blanket.” He waved her away with closed eyes.
She was happy to tidy herself and swiftly removed the residues. She stoked the fire, bringing it back to life and gifting the room extra light. Wrapping the blanket around her shoulders, she approached the bed. Gervais seemed to be asleep, but when she eased onto the bed next to him, he stirred.
“You can return to your own room, Matilda. I sleep alone.” He tucked his hands behind his head.
“Why?” she asked, unable to hide her disappointment. He was rejecting her so soon. What had she done wrong?
He sat, leaned over, and tipped up her chin. He planted a quick kiss on her dry lips. “This is for your sake, not mine. I don’t think I could resist you in the night, and you need sleep and rest. I’ll bring you here again tomorrow, and the next day, have no fear. You’ll be glad of the respite.” He patted her bottom.
She slunk out the door, along the corridors lit by torches, until she reached her chamber. Sara was asleep on the floor by the hearth. Matilda tiptoed around her, climbed onto her high bed, and piled more blankets on her naked body. It took time to sleep properly; at first she was plagued by dreams, some so fantastical, she thought she was going mad. Then, as the night progressed, she found peace. The cause of it was her imagination. Instead of allowing dark thoughts into her mind, wicked memories of past mistakes, she pictured Gervais, her lord, his majestic form lying in her bed, his hand upon her thigh and his nose in her hair inhaling her sweet scent.
She woke at dawn to find Sara gone and in bed next to her, the man she thought wasn’t interested in nightly visits. He was lying on his side, dressed in his leather tunic and hose, his face alert and brightly lit by the morning sun.
“Finally. I sent Sara for food. You’ll bathe again, I think, properly this time from hair to toe, then eat. While you expend your energy on making yourself pretty, I shall hunt.”
He skipped onto his feet and adjusted his belt. He was so sprightly, she was envious. “And then?”
“Why not explore my castle. It will be your home,” he said confidently. “The inhabitants need to see you about. There’s no need to feel ashamed. A betrothal brings with it status and you must ensure those that serve us, and my serfs, recognise you as mine.” He walked to the door and opened it. Ivan bounded in and licked his boots.
“We’ll meet at supper.” He clicked his fingers and the dog followed him out of the room.
Matilda blinked. It seemed what they did last night was nothing extraordinary. He’d not capped the evening with words of love or comfort, he’d done what he believed was necessary to both punish her and have her surrender her full virginity, and now, he was hunting. He was exactly what she might expect from a lord: self-serving and indulgent of his needs.
She sagged into the bed and remained there until Sara encouraged her to rise and wash.
Chapter Thirteen
Away from the sanctuary of the inner ward, the keep—and private garden—was a teeming workforce going about their daily activities. Walking beyond the inner gates, Tilda entered the outer court and recognised the familiar buildings of a smithy, still room, the extensive stables, armoury and tanner. She smelt each one too, from the sweet scents of herbs to the nose-wrinkling stench of manure.
It was a relief to see that Gervais was no different from any other lord; she had started to wonder otherwise. The small population who lived either within the bailey or th
e hamlet on the hilltop greeted her with bows and curtsies, and called her my lady. If disparaging rumours were floating around the castle, they were not reaching Tilda’s ears. Gervais had either scuppered them swiftly, or his loyal people held him in sufficient esteem not to judge or comment on the sudden arrival of a strange woman, whom he called his bride.
She visited the brewery, bakery, and buttery, and in the latter, she tasted mellow cheese. The women there were polite and said little, other than to explain that the butter came from milk brought into the castle, since there was little grazing land around the steep hills, rocky outcrops and forests.
“We’ve meat aplenty, my lady, and wood, but grain is bought at market.”
Tilda had paid scant attention to her father’s castle, the business of keeping people alive and fed, and she regretted her ignorance. The servants knew more than her, and she had frittered away time at the convent learning Latin psalms and long prayers, daydreaming about Geoffrey or some other handsome knight. Her education should have been practical, she realised.
Her circuit completed, she returned to the solar, the communal chamber for herself and Gervais. Except he was absent. Still hunting, according to the steward, Jacob, who watched her with beady eyes.
Tilda sewed by an oriel window. There were two oriel windows—one in the Great Hall, the other above it on the next storey—and they signified wealth beyond even her father’s. The cloth she was embroidering was a nightshirt for her father. She had started it weeks ago, and showed little enthusiasm for finishing, but now with only Sara for company, she needed occupation. Waiting was proving agonising.
By mid-afternoon, she was stiff, her fingers sore and her legs restless. Sara had brought her food, but Tilda had touched little of it.
“I’m going for a ride,” she announced.
“My lady,” Jacob said warily. “You should not ride alone.”
