Charlotte

by Mima

  Completely limp in his hold, stunned, breath rasping, she stared at him. “What?” When did he say to stop?

  He stroked her clit, then returned his hands to her hips as if fighting gravity. “Stop it, Foxfire. You might be able to drag any other wolf to drown, but not me.”

  She blinked. He was really into this wolf thing. She didn’t know the first thing about role playing during sex. Her neck felt damp and raw. He’d used his teeth on her . . . “What would you like me to stop? Because I just want you to keep going.”

  He threw his head back, hair fluttering in the warm breeze. His laugh vibrated up her belly into her lungs and down into her thighs. “I want to feast with you among my pack. I want to dance and touch you beneath everyone else’s eyes.” His hands cupped her face. “I want to watch you drag the men you want to your feet, and then—then I’ll bring you back to this railing and fuck you after I’ve fought them all to win you.” His thumbs rubbing up and down her cheekbones made her clit ache.

  Holy hell. She’d never have believed it a minute ago, but his “want” was better than hers. “That sounds nice.”

  He laughed again, which was kind because it was such a lame thing to say. “Are you ready to go to the ball? It would delight me to introduce you.”

  They entered the elaborately carved golden doors before she understood they were walking. Leaving the fresh air for the chill of the air-conditioning further tormented her nipples. It was all she could do not to cup her own breasts and tweak the stiff nubs. He swept her around a corner into a short hallway full of the lush sounds of live classical music. Several couples lounged on the chaises lining the hall. Every single one of the women was gorgeous, dressed in artistic and obviously handmade haute couture.

  Charlotte slowed, her brain kicking free from its lust-fog.

  He tightened his elbow against his side, keeping her from sliding her hand free of his arm. “What is it? Don’t be nervous. You’re spectacular.”

  “Is this a real ball? I’m hardly dressed appropriately.” Her fist clutched the flounces of her tiered peasant skirt, simple cotton, fawn-brown.

  “Well, it’s The Annual Gathering of Fantastical Singles, so I’m not sure if it could ever be defined as real.” He smiled at her for the first time. His blue eyes shone vivid with a sexy crinkle at the edges, his muscled shoulders shrugged, and his teeth accented his incredible mouth. “Besides, you look . . . pure. Which is way better than glamorous.”

  By the time her brain restarted, he had walked them through an elaborately carved cinnabar arch. Her passing thought to stop and admire it vanished as hundreds of faces swiveled to stare at them. Did she have a Wannabe sparkler shining over her head? She froze. The live classical music poured over her. He paused, which was good in that she didn’t get dragged across the mosaic floor like a dog toy. “This is Charlotte, a foxfire,” he murmured to a young girl in a really high-quality Renaissance faire dress.

  The girl climbed up the circular stairs of a large marble pulpit and sang out, “The Wolf Ivor introduces the Foxfire Charlotte.”

  The people turned away, and the rumble of voices once again rose to match the lively music. Apparently Ivor was enough of an invitation.

  Ivor steered her into the crowd surrounding scattered tables full of hors d’oeuvres. He took up a stick threaded with meat and continued on to a table full of goblets and flutes. “Will you drink?”

  His offer sounded vaguely like a challenge. The banquet table was full of delicate desserts and appetizers, but her gaze kept returning to the gorgeous glasses. Each appeared to be unique, the work of an artisan. They were so lovely, and the jewel tones of the liquids hinted that the drinks weren’t wine, as there were blue, green, purple, and even a pure black.

  The ruby and the amber-orange drew her gaze. The latter was the exact color of her hair and in a delicate crystal flute with a gold rim, but the red was in a heavy earthenware goblet, stamped with leaves.

  Which would she choose? The red goblet or the amber flute?

  “My knowledge of shower sex is limited to the rain kiss in Spider-Man.”

  “You are endlessly amusing to me. I rarely laugh like this.” His tone was mellow, but the smile that stretched toothily across his face could only be called wolfish.

  “I just hope you aren’t laughing at me.”

  Settling his groin back against hers, he clasped her ass and lifted her. She held on to his neck with ease that now felt like second nature. He carried her into the bathroom. “You are sweet, with a direct innocence that makes me feel strong.”

  Rolling her palms around on his shoulders, she made a face. “I think you kinda are strong.”

  He stepped into a shower that was larger than the one in her cabin but still not roomy enough for two. “This is me laughing with you again.”

  “That was more of a huff than a laugh. Wasn’t even a chuckle really.” She slid down the front of his body to stand on shaky legs.

  “Wolves are supposed to huff. That is in your American pig story.” He turned on the water.

  She yelped and clung to his warmth. The cool temp finally moderated. He pumped some soft soap into his hand from a chic container, one that was obviously handmade. The scent of a masculine cologne permeated the moist air.

  “Mmm. Smells delicious.”

  “It does not smell as perfect as my sex leaking from your body. One moment, before it is gone . . .” He knelt.

  Charlotte collapsed against the shower wall. His hands kneaded her ass, the soapy touch sliding with a slow, sinuous circling. The nozzle was wide and directly over him, the setting on a pounding, needle-like stream. His nose nuzzled her belly, the water beating down on his head, stinging her breasts. Watching him kneeling at her feet made her knees shake again, his thickly muscled shoulders rolling as he stroked the small of her spine, massaged the back of her thigh.

  He looked up, eyes slitted against the spray. One hand slid down her leg to her ankle, shackled it, and lifted. She tottered, prying her hands off the wall to grab his head. He propped her foot high up on the opposite wall, on top of the shower controls. “Keep it there.”

  Feeling like a broken flamingo, Charlotte nodded. Next he reached for that porcelain pot and held it up. She put her hand under the nozzle and he squirted the soap into her palm. “On your breasts.”

  Firming her supporting leg, she rubbed her hands together, then cupped herself.

  He nodded. “Ja.”

  His nose went back to her belly button, then went straight down into the folds of her labia. His tongue licked her clit like he was tasting a treat. A shiver visibly coursed over his skin.

  “Should I turn the shower off?” she asked, concerned.

  In answer, he pushed the lever higher, making the water slice even harder but in a thicker, more narrow stream. It now focused on his back. “Rub yourself. I will show you what shower sex can do.”

  Her nipples had a certain fascination since they were so hard and swollen. The slide of his special soap revealed there was some oil base to it, slick and fragrant. But her own touch was secondary to his mouth. Now that she was splayed open, all she could do was press her back tight to the wall while his clever hands toyed with her cheeks . . . and the crack between them.

  His mouth was huge, hot, and hard. She was so sensitive, and grateful he carefully kept his teeth from her. But his tongue held a shocking amount of pressure alone. Lapping and rubbing her, he went up and around, repeating, sucking, molding to every bit of flesh.

  It was after she came that she felt his finger in her ass. Breath shuddering, she came back to herself to find herself clenching her pussy, seeking something to hold inside but stunned to find the long, thick finger deep in a hole she hadn’t thought to explore. “Ohhh,” she moaned.

  He gently wiggled his finger, then his tongue came back to her clit. Arching her back, she tried to get away from it. “Too m
uch.”

  He huffed against her. “Do you hear me laughing?”

  Her moan again was cut off when he focused. His finger deep, shifting slightly on a lovely burn, his tongue busy, she came again even faster, warmth oozing through her body. Now when she eased out of the pleasure, he had two fingers inside. His teeth scored her tummy as he watched her hands drift half-heartedly across her breasts.

  “Ivor . . . are you?”

  His gaze dared her.

  “Are you going to take my ass?”

  He pumped his fingers inside her with more force than before. Her eyes rolled up in her head. He stood up, soaping her all over with brisk, firm, one-handed efficiency. Her gaze kept returning to his erection, thick and straight, the soap giving it a gloss that made her thirsty. The burn in her ass grew to a bright pain before it faded to a throbbing need. He leaned against the back wall, eased in behind her, then bent her forward. Her breasts felt enormously heavy as she leaned out. He was warmer than the shower wall, but no less hard.

  “Put your hands on the opposite wall.”

  She did, the position leaving her stretched but with her ass still tucked tightly against his thighs. He flicked something on the wall and the water stopped its attack on her spine, but she could still hear it rushing nearby.

  “This, Charlotte, is how you have shower sex.” He spiraled his fingers inside her. They drew out slowly, millimeter by millimeter.

  No sooner had she caught her breath at their exit than a new pressure stung her hole. With one forceful push, the head of him lodged inside. She cried out, back arching.

  He eased his feet wider, one hand clamped on her hip. “Submit.”

  Why did he give the order when he had command? He pushed straight into her, a short, decisive glide that filled her entire spine with sharp sparkles. She sobbed, her head dropping forward, her hair hanging in tangled sheets around her.

  The hard spray of water hit her belly first. The jet of water was so strong. Then it began to circle. She realized he held the shower wand, on maximum force. It circled lower. Lower. The pain in her ass faded. Anticipation made her breath short. When the water jet hit her clit, she rose up on her toes. That just forced him in deeper. Her hands fisted on the shower wall.

  “Say my name.”

  His name? Whose name? Where was she?

  The water turned roaringly, scaldingly hot. Her body spiked so hard into pleasure she gave a short scream in frustration that she didn’t go over.

  “Who has your ass? Speak this truth.”

  What was he talking about? She needed the wand to move, just a bit. She tried to tilt her hips but couldn’t.

  The water turned ice-cold. She shrieked, hands beating on the wall. “Ivor!”

  He grunted, then began to shift in short, hard strokes, rocking his tip up and back in her ass but certainly not using his length. The cold was like an ice pick on her clit. Between the pain of being stretched in her ass and the freezing water, she thought she was going to lose her mind. His huge hand left her hip and slid up her spine, closing in her hair with a fist.

  When she came, she thought she’d die. The pleasure ran all over her body. Belly, thighs, spine, scalp. Her lungs froze, her legs melted, her nerves sang.

  The moment lasted an eternity. He gathered her up and propped her in the corner, warming the water and soaping her in silence. When she was clean she stayed there and watched him wash himself.

  He regarded her with arrogant satisfaction and she couldn’t remotely mind.

  Then he turned off the water, knelt, and kissed her clit with gentle mouthings and flicks of his tongue until she came one more time.

  The capital of Fairyland was now New York City. The bitch-queen had had hers in a dreary, peat-scented burrow in the middle of a sheep farm in Ireland. Charlotte had walked into the gray stone chamber whose main decoration was moss and pronounced there was no way in Hell she was staying there.

  So, home she went. Oh, she’d considered other places. Red Rock country near Sedona had soothed her for a few weeks. The rocky, pine-studded shores of Maine seemed promising for a month. The sunny perfection of a Florida Gulf island had been possible for two months. But then she’d discovered that her people could bend space, although not time. Finding a perfect natural environment was redundant when you could make your own.

  So many races, from so many places. If you were going to call a conclave of thousands of people, a major city provided housing and transportation, with a wide variety of food and entertainment. She’d gathered her people in New York and chosen a council.

  Under a nice but normal-seeming bridge in Central Park, they placed the invisible entrance to the new capital in a smooth brick wall. And in this new burrow, there was comfort, light, wings of rooms for each councilor in a mosh pit of styles, and a ridiculous throne room she modeled on the Hofberg Palace in Vienna, where Gram had once had a quickie during a New Year’s Ball. There was a harem room for comfortable orgies, a lazy river, a nightclub, a lush butterfly garden with a waterfall, a library . . . and the ability to add any other idea that popped into her head just by drawing on the magic of her people. As her own personal joke, Charlotte kept a gray granite pot of Irish moss inside the front door.

  Sometimes, Charlotte lived there with her court, which consisted of Winter, Willow, and a Valkyrie named Gjertrud. Who knew Valkyries were actually a member of the fairy clan? Charlotte now knew. She knew them all. All that was required was to focus on one strand of energy in her head and she could see one of them, where they were, how they felt. Her dreams were no longer her own.

  But as confused and uncertain as she often was, she was never sorry. Being the Fairy Queen had really tremendous perks, not the least of which was rocking in a nightclub and feeling, down to her bones, that she belonged with these beautiful people. And then sending the entire rave into an orgy. That never got old.

  One foggy November evening, Charlotte lounged in her moon tower. It was a glittering glass construct fitted over a massive oak tree in the common world. She sat in a nest of delicate and warm dragon silk. Curled in the folds, she drowsed, gathering the power of the frosty moon while listening to the new Daft Punk on her iPod.

  She felt the slight vibrations of someone walking up the spiral staircase and lifted her head to see first Willow’s hair, then her face appear. Flicking one bud from her ear, she looked at the woman’s serious face. Usually that face meant someone had been killed or done some killing. Charlotte sat up.

  Willow said, “The Euro Alpha of the Wolves is here to see you.”

  Charlotte stood and followed Willow down the stairs. “Tell me how this is important?”

  “He seeks an audience to confirm a truce.”

  “Truce? Were we at war?” She’d cleared up several wars the old biddy had kept going. The only one Charlotte had started was on the unicorn hunters previously employed by the hag queen. “Wait. I already met with Rick.”

  Ricardo had been a yummy hunk of good ol’ boy American sugar—on the outside. Inside he was the deadly Wolf Alpha of the Americas. Both North and South.

  “Just as the Elf Tribes of the world came to meet you, the main Were packs will as well. But this is a key meeting that most shifters have been waiting for. How you decide to act now will set the tone for our relations with international Weres.”

  They stepped off the staircase and she stopped, feeling a little woozy from the long spiral. “It seems like I should have been prepped for this. Why is this visit unannounced?”

  Willow lowered her hands into the folds of her watered-silk rose ball gown. The historical skirts she’d favored before were now complemented with a matching corset, although the lace neckline was so low that the tops of her aureoles showed. Her hair was still the elaborate and literal nest Charlotte had first admired, towering with flowers, curls, ribbons, and gems.

  Charlotte’s hair was in a similar s
tyle, minus the creatures, although sometimes butterflies did rest there. She wore a lace-trimmed velvet skirt that ended at her knees. It was a rich, royal purple, as were many of her clothes now. That had been a tradition her people seemed to find comfort in. Her S-bend corset was modern, a black leather device that made her feel beautiful rather than served any particular purpose. It came to the middle of her breasts, crushing them into enormous mounds above the constraint.

  One peeking nipple was adorned with a gold ring, from which hung a gold chain so fine it appeared to be a hair. The chain led to the enormous amethyst on her left hand. Charlotte was now married to her people. All of them. Hers to care for, hers to guide, hers to train and fuck. Her boots were also modern. The sleek, black, over-the-knee style sent commanding echoes in the marble hall they now moved through.

  “I don’t know why he didn’t plan it, but I suspect it’s because he was afraid you would refuse him.”

  Sighing as they turned in to an elegant mission-style room full of gorgeous oak furniture in stark geometric lines, Charlotte figured out who it was. “Ivor.”

  “Yes. Where should you receive him?”

  Tapping her lip, Charlotte considered. The harem would be interesting, especially if it was occupied. The throne room would be satisfying. Even the moon tower would work, as he’d have to go up to her, and they’d face each other without the trapping of their status. Did she want that? Did she still want the elegant Viking she’d chosen first on the night she’d come into her power?

  Looking around, she shrugged, and sat on one of the brown leather loveseats. The mica lampshades cast the wood-paneled room in amber light. “Bring him here. Just him. No entourage.” It was a good medium between formal and casual.

  “Gjertrud is insisting you not see him alone. She says your defensive magic is not yet acceptable.”

  “Then she may escort him.” Charlotte toyed with a large Boston fern in a gorgeous copper bracket that fluffed from the wall next to her. She trusted her court completely. “Do you have any political recommendations?”