Jillian Stone - [Phaeton Black 03]

by The Miss Education of Dr. Exeter

  He did his best to suppress a grin, which proved impossible, because her dimples were out. “I could suck your lingam like a mango fruit . . . if you wish.”

  He stared for a very long time, before he rose from the bath and yanked her upright. He tried not to linger too long on the rivulets of sudsy water trailing over her sleek curves.

  She continued to quote the Kama Sutra. “Let me put the whole lingam into my mouth and—”

  “Stop that,” he ordered, and promptly swept her up in his arms. Parting the bed drapery, he lay her out on top of the counterpane. She used her heels to dig in and inch away from him. “Stop what, Exeter?”

  As predatory as a great cat himself, he leaned over her. “Stop tempting me so.” His voice was gruff, and he imagined he looked as though he might eat her alive. Perhaps, he would.

  “Turn over—on your stomach.” Mia raised a brow, but obeyed. He held her wrists together against her back. “You need to be taught a lesson,” he whispered, and slapped her bottom. With his free hand, he gently stroked her clitoris. He alternated his stinging slaps with his pleasuring touch. The objective was to have her begin to be excited by both. And he didn’t stop, not until her breath came in short, harsh gasps. The spanking, the scent of her arousal, her lovely mewling whimpers urging him on—all signaled her escalating pleasure.

  Exeter broke away, gasping for air himself. Dear God, how he wanted her. “Do not make this harder for me, Mia.” What on earth was he saying? He was making it just as hard on himself. Aching balls hard.

  He let go and flipped her over. Facing her, he brought her face closer, inch by inch. Then he did something inexplicable. He kissed her. Christ, how could he resist her? He covered her mouth with his and sucked her tongue into his mouth. He meant for his kisses to be punishing—ravaging. He wanted to see her lips swollen and slightly open—imagine how she might take him in her mouth.

  He was on the brink of losing complete control. “Open your legs.”

  Mia drew her legs up defensively and then teased him with just enough resistance, until she allowed him to push them open. “I’m going to taste you, Mia.”

  He brought both knees up high, and trailed soft kisses along the insides of her thighs. He understood what she wanted, what she desperately needed. He would replace the measured sting of the spanking with his tongue.

  Gliding his mouth over the most sensitive parts of her, he laved and flicked with a rhythm that invited her hips to rock with him. His face was wet with her essence when her legs and belly began to tremble. Sweet, mewling sobs of pleasure begged him not to stop. “Oh yes, Asa,” she gasped. All it took was one last lick and she was over the edge of her climax, crying out in unrestrained ecstasy.

  Exeter picked her up and moved her under the coverlet. Nestled in the warmth of the feather bed, he wrapped her in his arms and squeezed her tight. “What is it about you, Mia?”

  “Me or my bottom?” She wore a curious, slightly vexed look on her face. “Feeling a bit itchy and sensitive back there.”

  He kissed her neck. “Good.”

  Chapter Eleven

  MIA NARROWED HER EYES. This man had taken her over his knee, in the most erotic sense. He had positioned her facedown—buttocks up—held her hands in his vise-like grip and spanked her. Not as hard as a paddling, she supposed, but she was quite sure he’d left his mark.

  He’d also aroused the wildest, wickedest thoughts. More. And harder. She moistened her lips and pondered her first question: Me or my bottom? Exeter watched her closely. She suspected he was interested in her reaction to his shocking behavior. “Was that supposed to be arousing—or punishing?”

  Exeter bit back either a grin or frown. “Perhaps a bit of both.” Mia hooked a leg over his body and placed a hand on the hard, rippled surface of his torso. “You must let me pleasure you.” She wanted to gaze on his handsome face—see his eyes darken and glaze over from her touch—how empowering it would be to give him pleasure.

  “No.”

  “Why not?” Mia growled, and tossed off the coverlet. “Then touch yourself—but you must let me watch.”

  Exeter appeared to consider her idea, and a thrill rippled through her. He punched up a few pillows and settled back against them. “And how is pussy feeling?”

  “Well pleasured, Doctor Exeter.” Mia grinned. She watched in fascination as he took his cock in his hand. He stroked slowly, from the base to the tip, occasionally running a finger along the cleft of the helmeted tip. A lightning bolt of pale blue veins zigged and zagged down the length of the powerful shaft. She could only imagine what he might feel like deep inside. The very thought caused her womb to clench. “May I . . . lend a hand?”

  He gazed at her from under heavy eyelids. “There is a jar of paraffin jelly in my kit.”

  Mia slipped from the bed and returned with the ointment. Opening the jar, she gobbed a bit of the slippery substance on the end of her fingers.

  Sensing her intentions, he eyeballed her. “I have not had a woman in months—you dare to touch me, and I promise you I will explode.” His speech was a hoarse whisper. She had come to know the timbre of his bedding voice, and his gravel-laced speech sounded like a man who was greatly aroused.

  Climbing over his legs, she straddled his thighs. “Where, first?”

  “Spread it on the tip.” She circled the head of his penis with her finger. “Like this?” Exeter groaned his answer and it thrilled—such a primal, speechless utterance. Golden green eyes, glazed over from desire. “Lower.” He held the shaft still, while she spread the slick clear jelly over his member. Covering her hand with his, he showed her how to stroke. Up and down, once, twice . . . She moved slowly at first. “Now, faster.” She pumped faster. “Harder.” She pumped harder. His hips thrust up to meet her and his head angled back into the pillows. “Good God—I’m going to come.” His face was so beautiful—chasing after his pleasure—no other thoughts, no worries—just her next stroke. “Do not stop now, Mia—whatever you do.”

  “I will not.” Her hands, slippery with emollient, were running up and down his straining shaft. She followed his instructions—slightly harder and a bit faster—until he growled loudly. In that moment, his pulsing hot seed spurted high into the air. Even as waves of pleasure consumed him, he managed to watch her with half-open eyes.

  Mia sat back on her haunches, stunned.

  Still in the throes of a convulsive finish, his shoulders heaved as he finished his release with a long exhale. Gradually, his breath returned to normal, and he made eye contact. One side of his lips twitched upward before he stuck his head under a bolster. She was quite sure she heard muffled laughter.

  She pushed out a lower lip. “Not comical or amusing, Exeter.”

  He lifted the pillow. “You didn’t see the look on your face.”

  She imagined her large round eyes and her mouth hanging open; no doubt she had looked like a babe in the woods as the big bad wolf slathered sperm over his chest and stomach. She slid off the bed and fished a washcloth out of the bathwater. “I had no idea.” She used the cloth to wash his chest and the banded muscles of his stomach—she could not help but think him handsomely made—lean and hard.

  “You had no idea . . . of what, love? The force of the eruption? The amount of seed—?”

  “All of it.” Her voice almost a whisper.

  He tugged the cloth away, and dabbed her cheek. “You missed a spot.”

  “Is it always like that?”

  Exeter grinned. “Perhaps not quite as effusive—as I said, it’s been a while.” He lobbed the washcloth into the tub with a splash.

  “But . . . when you remained at Mrs. Parker’s. I thought—”

  Exeter frowned. “You thought wrongly. Mrs. Parker and I are not lovers.” He eased his expression. “Leastwise—we haven’t been for some time now.”

  Her chest swelled a little and her eyes watered. But before her heart could soar with happiness, he added. “I am still curious, though, as to why you asked her for th
e address of a male prostitute in Paris.”

  Mia shifted her eyes away from his darkened gaze. “I did not think she’d be such a tattler—”

  “What a brazen little chit you are. Asking after Etienne Artois.” He pulled her up beside him and tucked the coverlet around her.

  Mia rested her head on his shoulder. “Phoebe got his name from her sister. We were curious.”

  “I might have known the little minx put you up to it.” He sighed, adding a gruff, Exeter sort of tsk. “Lisbeth has amounted to nothing but trouble for Henry.”

  He referenced the Earl of Bath. And she’d heard the rumors, as well. Most of the gossip had come from Phoebe herself. In fact, she had taken delight in telling Mia that her sister, Lizbeth, Countess of Bath, had approached Exeter suggesting a weekend tryst at one of the country manors. Mia nuzzled his shoulder, which muffled a growl. “I do not like it when you refer to me as a chit.”

  He reached under the covers and hooked her leg over his thigh. His slumberous, half-lidded gaze traced the curve of her hip. “Then don’t act like a chit.”

  Exeter motioned Jersey ahead. “The lock is ancient and rusted—quick work for your dagger.” He reckoned they were at least fifty feet below the square, yet they had not yet reached the catacombs. Barely an hour ago, they had slipped through the locked gates of Place de Sorbonne and ventured down a narrow stone stairwell. He glanced over at Mia—who watched the captain of the Nightshades fire up his dagger and go to work on the padlock. She met his gaze over Jersey’s shoulder. “Will we avoid the ossuary, or do we head straight for it?”

  “Having second thoughts?” Exeter kept his grin wry. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you refer to this escapade as a great adventure?”

  “An adventure in men’s trousers, no less.” Mia returned his grin with a wink. Good God, what was he to do with her? He had raised a termagant—wild, dangerously brave, and completely arousing in trousers and jacket with her hair tucked under a paperboy’s cap. A few hours ago he had taught her how to stroke his cock—something she had proved wonderfully adept at, for a novice.

  Exeter exhaled the resigned sigh of a man on the verge of complete surrender. The unthinkable was happening. From the very start, he had adored Mia. But he was in danger of falling in love all over again. Good God. Exeter pushed the thought back—far back—and concentrated on the task at hand.

  The plan was to place the locator bugs in and around the north end of the catacombs, while Ping, Valentine, and America sprinkled their heat seekers in an old lime quarry below the Luxembourg Gardens. They were to reconnoiter at a third secret entrance—a brewery hundreds of years old. Tim Noggy would also try to make the rendezvous, from the Outremer.

  The beam from Jersey’s dagger easily sliced through the lock, and they made their way down a twisted hallway of mortared stone. Taking up the rear guard, Exeter motioned Jersey and Mia ahead. They had agreed to travel light, which meant no lanterns. Jersey’s dagger would provide plenty of illumination and Exeter carried a battery torch with him. It was a miraculous gadget Phaeton had procured for him months ago from Scotland Yard’s Secret Branch. Exeter hoped the experimental dry cell batteries were still good. The torch was their only backup.

  A half dozen candle feet of light spread out from Jersey’s weapon. “Dagger, sword, torch—quite a utility you’ve got there, Captain Blood,” Mia teased their stoic bodyguard.

  The Nightshade set a blistering pace through the darkness stopping once to help Mia negotiate a length of passage undergoing repair work. “What’s that noise?” Mia asked.

  Both he and Jersey slowed to listen. “There is a complex network of springs under Paris.” Exeter listened a moment longer. “Aqueducts travel alongside some of these tunnels. If we hear an underground train, that would likely mean we have crossed into the Outremer.”

  Mia shook her head. “No—it wasn’t a gurgling sound, nor a train. More like a zephyr—a singing wind.” Wide, liquid eyes moved from him to Jersey and back again. “You don’t hear it?”

  “Does the cat hear this strange wind or does Mia?” Exeter probed, gently.

  Mia chewed her lip. “I’m not sure.” He thought he knew the answer but signaled Jersey to push on.

  “We’re almost there.” Jersey swung the luminous sword forward, and they followed after him. The narrow passage gradually widened into a large chamber. They found themselves standing before a stone portal at the entrance to the ossuary. Above the doorway there was an inscription: Arrête! C’est ici l’empire de la Mort. Jersey read the words aloud.

  Mia translated, “Halt! This is the Empire of Death.”

  They entered a cavern lined with carefully arranged human bones. Bones heaped high behind retaining walls made up of femurs and tibias, skulls and mandibles. Some of the arrangements were artistic in nature: a heart-shaped outline in one wall, a cross of skulls on the opposite side of the room. A number of intricate designs were fashioned using skulls surrounded by a pattern of stacked femurs and tibias.

  They stepped gingerly at first, and then more rapidly, as Jersey ushered them through one connecting cavern after another. Mia turned to back to him. “Dear God, Exeter—so many lost souls.”

  “Millions, I’m afraid.” As if his answer wasn’t grim enough, Jersey pointed to a placard mounted on a wall that estimated the number of dead. Near six million. They entered a round room circling a huge central pillar carefully crafted out of an arrangement of bones.

  Jersey pointed the end of his blade at one rusty gate, then another. Both blocked passages led to other parts of the catacombs. Signs posted on the iron bars warned of possible cave-ins—that the passages beyond were either under renovation or unsafe to navigate. The Nightshade looked to Exeter. “The next tunnel is crucial if we are to meet up with the others.”

  Exeter opened a satchel strung over his shoulder and removed a tin with half the heat-seeking bugs. Mia helped Exeter spread the inert bugs around the cavern. “What did you do with my cinder toffees?” Mia asked suspiciously.

  He searched in another pocket and unwrapped a pocket square. Two large pieces of the honeycombed toffee lay in his palm. Before she could reach for a piece he pocketed the handkerchief. “If we get lost down here this could be our only sustenance until we’re discovered by either Tim Noggy or Prospero.”

  “I’m not about to get lost down here.” Mia’s hand plunged into his pocket and retrieved the candy. She selected the smallest piece and offered up the other.

  Nodding toward one of the gates, Jersey popped the honeycomb in his mouth. “Somewhere south of this room, we need to make a right turn.”

  Exeter folded up his map. “No matter what, we maintain a southwest heading. If a passage takes us off course, we double back.” Leveling his compass, Exeter confirmed the direction Jersey was pointing.

  Mia sighed. “Worst case, Ping will find us.”

  Jersey fired up his dagger and made short work of the gate lock, ushering them into the next passage. Up until this point the tunnels had been tall enough for even Jersey and Exeter to traverse upright—now there were long stretches of low ceilings. Jersey frequently called out, “Watch your head.”

  As the passage lowered and narrowed, Mia began to appear agitated. Twice she stopped and whispered, “Shush!”

  Jersey slowed. “We’ve got a dead end ahead.”

  “Shush!” Mia’s harsh whisper was more adamant this time—enough to warrant a long silence. A moaning sigh—something decidedly unnatural—whimpered through the cracks and crevices of the limestone walls.

  Mia’s eyes were large and round. “Did you hear that?”

  Exeter looked up at Jersey who nodded. “I say we track back to the gate and look for another tunnel south.”

  The singsong voice whispered again. Exeter whirled around, looking for a being or face. He’d even settle for a smile—but found none.

  A second wave of hushed quavers filled the air. “Circles-ss-s, circles-s-s-s—you move in circles.” The musical
, airy voice hissed. He checked his compass again. “The needle is spinning.” Jersey and Mia both leaned in for a closer look.

  Exeter drew on his gut instinct, something he had learned to trust when confronted by the supernatural. “Talk to the wind, Mia.” He smiled softly and nodded to encourage her.

  She scanned the rock walls on both sides of the passage. “Who speaks?”

  “Who-o-o asks-s-s-s?” the voice sputtered and hissed.

  “You talk as though you were out of breath, but you are made of air—you are the wind.”

  “Alas-alas-alas-s-s-s, not wind . . . per s-s-s-se. I am the last breath of the souls who are buried here.”

  “Oh dear,” Mia exhaled a sigh of solidarity. “Would you tell us, please, which way to go from here?”

  “That would depend on wh-wh-where,” wafted the whisper, “you were going.”

  “We make our way southwest to join our friends,” said Mia.

  “Then, you must s-s-s-top moving in circles-s-s-s. If you continue to circle, no matter which way you journey, you will only return to me.”

  Exeter frowned; this strange wind whispered in riddles.

  “No, that won’t do—we need to get somewhere,” Mia insisted adamantly.

  “Oh, you’re s-s-s-sure to do that,” mocked the wind. “That is—if you are contrary enough.”

  Mia checked with Exeter. “Contrary?” she mouthed silently. He shrugged. Mia must have felt as though she was getting nowhere, because she tried another tack. “What sort of beings live here about?”

  “In that direction,” a breezy zephyr blew by their noses, “lives an old rock troll and in the other”—the whisper abruptly reversed course and rushed down the passage they’d just come from—“there is a magician. I don’t advise you visit either one—they’re both mad.”

  A whimpering moan whirled into a cyclone of wind, tossing up a screen of dust particles. Mia squinted—they all did—as sand and dirt swirled around them. In warning, Jersey pointed his sword at the twister. Using all the seeing power he could muster, Exeter made out the shredded robe of an ethereal being. The creature turned tail and vanished down the narrow corridor.