by Haven, Rose
Finally, he threw his head back and cried out. I felt his hands clench on my hips tight enough to leave bruises, and I was delighted that I would be carrying the marks of our union for days. I felt him pulsing within me as he buried himself fully, and I gasped when his pelvic bone brushed against my own sensitised flesh. I did not stop moving above him until his arms began to relax and his body slumped into the mattress. Then I gingerly pulled away – feeling empty at the loss of his warm weight inside of me – and mopped up the mess with one of my petticoats. I lay against his chest and felt his arms come up almost automatically to draw me closer.
“You meant it?” he asked, his voice husky and tired in a way that I found I quite liked. “You’ll marry me?”
I nodded. “Not because of our parents –”
“Oh, hang them all!” Edmund said fiercely. “I don’t care if he never acknowledges me – I’ll take your name if it comes to that. I just – I love you, Rosalie. I want to marry you. That’s all.”
As I caught my breath, my body still exhausted from our earlier activities, I found myself smiling into his chest.
“Good,” I said. “Because I love you, and I won’t settle for anything less.” I huffed out a sigh. “But we can take your name – or your father’s. I have no particular attachment to my own.”
“I love you name,” Edmund replied. “I love your name, and your voice, and your hair, and your nose –”
“Alright, I do not need my ego stroked,” I said, lightly patting him on the chest. “Rest now. I’ll write to my father in the morning. How does next week sound?”
“Next week?”
“For the wedding.”
I felt his body shift as he craned his head to look down at me. “Surely your father will want to be present?”
“Of course, but the moment he hears that I am to be wed, he will be on the first boat back to England. Trust me – he’ll want everything to happen as quickly as possible in case I change my mind.” I reached up and kissed him on the nose. “Not that I will.”
He smiled, and it was dazzling. “I’m glad to hear that.”
I laid my head on his chest again and let the hard thump of his heart beat lull me to sleep.
THE END
Table of Contents for FREE Bonus Books
Demon Romance Series
Cougar Romance Series
Billionaire Romance Series
Dragon Romance Series
Vampire Romance Series
Italian Billionaire Romance Series
Demon Romance Series
Regency Romance Series
Cowboy Romance Series
Demon Romance
Forbidden Mate: Submission to a Demon Lord
Secret Blood World Series Book One
Lucile Wild
Forbidden Mate: Submission to a Demon Lord
Prologue: A Slow Burn
One hundred years since his mate's passing, and still Luthias had trouble sleeping. The hope of finding her reborn self faded as time passed him by. He had searched tirelessly for the first ten years, when their son had still needed a mother. Then, grief had gotten the better of him. There would be only one Emilie. This was to be her final cruelty: to break him with love for her, then to abandon him to immortality. How far the demon lord had fallen, to still be alone in bed because he couldn't bear to let anyone use her pillow. The lord he had been, before her, would be disgusted.
Lord Luthias had tried to fall asleep that night with a heavy sedative, which the palace healer claimed was strong enough for a Canine Demon of his caliber. It wasn't. He remained awake, staring at the portrait on the wall he kept covered with a sheet as his thoughts rushed through cycles of her, his frustration, his loss, his duties, and back to her—so he thought. He must have been sleeping, because he was stirred awake by a tightness around his member, and a low moan.
His eyes opened. He was greeted by the sight of her pale figure, dark ringlets falling over large breasts that heaved with each measured thrust of her pelvis against his, as her slit attempted to swallow as much of him as she could handle. He could feel her inner walls expanding with his girth, making him even harder.
"Emilie..."
Luthias clenched his teeth with the indignity of an involuntary erection, but he could never be angry with her for doing this. He stared up at his mate, watching her heaving bosom jiggle against such a thin frame, but when he tried to sit up to touch her breast she held him down, hand pressing into the middle of his chest and shortening his air.
"You're dreaming," Emilie whispered, as her lips lingered just above his. "This is how our son was born. Remember?"
He did. He could recall waking up to this, the scheming glint in her dark eyes and that smile as he exploded inside of her, not knowing that nine months later it would be him between her legs—reaching for the child pushed forth by a womb engorged by this union.
"You promised to find me," she breathed, arching back to reposition her legs. She now had one tucked beneath his, providing her another angle with which to sink into him. She moved up and down, and he choked with pleasure like a teenage boy, not the lord of a nation. He despised her. He loved her.
"I...tried," he managed.
"I'm alive," she moaned, her sly smile returning as she leaned back down, letting her nipples brush over his chest. "I'm blonde, and pretty. Not as clever, though...for now..."
He tried to sit up again, but again she pushed him down, nails like claws digging deeper into his chest. He snarled at the pain, but in truth was only more aroused. It took all his concentration to hold in his seed.
"Where?" he demanded, even as he let out a heated breath.
"America...Vegas."
She leaned down, whispering coordinates in his ear, as if to embed them in his subconscious. As she did so, her hand slipped down to caress his scrotum, and he tensed with sensation.
"I'm even submissive, this time," she breathed, tongue flicking his earlobe. "You'll be able to keep your backbone."
"Name," he groaned.
"Elizabeth..."
Emilie somehow managed to sink even further onto him. She touched herself, index finger rolling her clit as her other hand squeezed her large tit. Luthias felt her climax around him as she gazed into his eyes, and he finally lost it. He emptied himself deep inside her and collapsed back, heaving, mournful as her warmth slowly slipped from his member. Still she knelt over him, a drizzle of his semen falling from her opening around his naval. She leaned down, stealing a long kiss.
"Wake up," she whispered.
He jerked awake.
She was gone, the room as it was supposed to be. Luthias sat up, still breathing like he had just finished a marathon; he snarled with frustration when he realized he had ruined his drawers and his sheets. Slowly, he fell back onto his pillow, disgraced enough to sit in his filth while he sorted out his head. His mate. His fucking mate. Even in death she would be the death of him, yet still—he wanted her back. He needed her back.
When he closed his eyes, he could still hear the coordinates. He engraved them in his mind. Perhaps when he found Elizabeth, he could finally get some sleep.
Chapter 1: The Hand of Fate
Her name was Elizabeth Brissette, but tonight she was Blondie, since the clients were allowed to choose what they called Stedman's escorts. She assumed by the name that she had been chosen for her blonde hair, which Mr. Matthias Seymour had made clear by his constant comments throughout dinner. She understood, of course. Real blondes were hard to come by in this industry, and despite what L'Oreal might advertise, you can tell when it comes from a bottle. More than that, her particular shade of blonde was unusual: a true gold which stood out against her milky skin, a cascade of waves all the way down her back. She had never cut her hair, not once. It was only part of her life she had ever had any control over. From foster homes to waitressing to the sex trade—in Las Vegas, her story was a dime a dozen.
She readied herself in the hotel bathroom of the Luxor, heaven compar
ed to the one-bedroom apartment she shared with three coworkers. Make-up was strewn across the countertop. Naked, to keep stray powder off her dress, she leaned over the sink to apply a second layer of mascara. She still blushed when her nipple brushed against the handle, reminding her where they were without the binding support of a Victoria's Secret 32DDD (the only one in the entire store, which she had had to fight another girl for like it was water in the Sahara.) At nineteen she had discovered that contrary to popular belief, a natural 32DDD was not a fun size. They were heavy, disproportionate to her bony body, and made it impossible to wear sweaters without looking like a blimp. Not that her clients cared. To them, her endowments were pleasing decoration.
After a moment Elizabeth stepped back, capped her mascara. She folded her arms beneath her tits, for support, as she surveyed her reflection. Deep blue eyes were all but masked by heavy shadow, liquid liner streaked out like Cleopatra to make her look more like her escort ad. Her foundation had evened out the color on her cheeks, and hidden disillusioned shadows beneath her eyes. She felt her breasts were a false advertisement for the rest of her form, which wasn't particularly shapely: it wasn't a workout regimen, but persistent hunger, which kept her thin. She could trace her ribs with her thumb, along with the protrusion of her hip bones, all the way around to an ass that was comically flat for her industry. Her boss, John Stedman, sometimes made her wear padding in her underwear when they were out in public, "to balance her out."
Another lipstick, maybe, she thought.
A dash of blush to keep her from looking as ghostlike as she felt. After wiping the purple from her lips, she dug a pink lipstick out of her purse, applying it to soften her features. With a glance back to her reflection then, she felt less like damaged goods. She almost felt pretty.
Stumbling a bit on an injured foot, Elizabeth hung on the doorframe to catch a glimpse of the digital clock by the bedside: 7:15. She had 15 minutes to be ready for Mr. Seymour, who had promised to meet her back at their hotel room at 7:30 following a trip home to the wife. Rushing now she slid her arm across the counter to dump her makeup back into her Ziploc, which she then tossed into her purse. She wet a paper towel to scrub away the lingering powder. As she pulled back on that slip of a black dress, she tried not to think about how grabby her client had been under the table at dinner. She tried not to feel the ghost of his boney hand on her knee.
Her ad stated that Elizabeth liked older men—much older men—not because that was true, but because they were usually incapable of going through with sex. They usually paid to have a pretty face listen to their fantasies, take them to dinner, and maybe give them a hand job to put them to sleep. In the three months she had been at this job, since she had turned 21 and been fired from the "barely legal"-themed waitress position, she hadn't had to do the deed once. That was why Mr. Seymour's lustful thigh-stroking during the main course had her uneasy—she had assumed that 68-year-old man with gray hair and a bald spot the size of Kentucky had had his fill of sexual encounters. Apparently, not the case.
He only paid until 10pm, she reassured herself. He'll get distracted.
Elizabeth waited on the bed at 7:26, legs crossed knee over knee, hair held up in a plastic clip so she could grandly reveal it to him when she ran out of things to say. She adjusted the underwire of her bra to get her breasts to sit more prominently against the dress' sloping neckline. She still wore her shoes because her right foot was tightly bandaged after an accident that morning, and explaining wounds was never the way to set the mood.
She heard the knob rattle. It rattled more urgently. She sighed, assuming he had forgotten his keys. In no rush to get the door for him, she let the rattling continue, until it stopped. No sooner had she moved to investigate than the door burst open, the doorframe splintered—she was suddenly standing before a stranger, the deafening squeaking of a door on one hinge all that filled the air between them.
"You...ah..."
She was too startled to scream, panic, anything. All she could do was stare at this man who was not Mr. Matthias Seymour—who was hardly like any man she had ever seen in her life. Over six feet, he was more than a head taller than her, with hair that was straight, black, and long. His hair touched his elbows, rivaling her own length. His skin was whiter than hers, without blemish, appearing in all ways smooth to the touch. Even his outfit seemed out of place, though he wore it well: black slacks and a white shirt, a long brown coat that screamed of expense. Although his features were all but feminine with their distinction—a narrow face tapered by an angular chin, thin eyebrows and cheekbones you could cut your teeth on—he was intimidating. Intensely hazel eyes, almost gold, were locked on her. His brow was set by unspoken expectation.
"Emilie," he said.
Elizabeth could hardly breathe, gripped by confusion and fear. Did she run? Did she call the police?
"Y-you have the wrong room," she managed. "And...you broke the door."
Her words rolled past him as he walked into the room, going directly to the nightstand where she had set her purse. He picked it up, opening and examining it, and all she could do was stare in horror. Who was this guy?
"Put that down or I'll call the police," she said, regaining her senses.
"Your phone is here," he said, pulling her brick of a cellphone out of the purse. "How will you do that?"
She felt her blood drain from her face. Her eyes flickered to the phone by the bed—next to him. She was powerless.
"What do you want with me?"
Her tone was steady, even as her fingers started to shake. Her heart pounded faster as he closed her purse, setting it back down on the table.
"You're coming with me," he said. "Is this everything you have?"
"Look, if you want to spend time with me, I can give you my boss' number," she said, though she had a feeling that meant nothing to him.
Unamused, the man looked her dead in the eye, as if daring her to follow through. The intensity of his look made her want to melt into the floor to avoid it, though a stranger part of her was—aroused, somehow. His shirt was missing the top button, revealing that the chest beneath was defined by muscle. His arms were thick in that long coat. Whoever he was, he was strong. No wonder he had been able to kick in a door.
"I had hoped you would be able to remember," he said, his low voice like a rumble in his chest. "Regardless, I'm not about to let you whore yourself another night."
"Then why don't you tell me who you are?" she asked, playing his game. She took a step towards her purse, hoping he might move away and she could make a mad dash with it. For now though, he was planted like a statue, though his gaze followed wherever she went.
"Lord Cennasaí," he said. "You called me by Luthias."
"I...called you," she said, trying to understand this man who believed himself a lord. "You really think you know me?"
"Once. Before you were this."
"Did you know me as a waitress then?" she asked. "I'm sorry, I served a lot of people..."
Luthias only looked more annoyed. Before he could say anything more, they were interrupted by the arrival of her client, who stood flabbergasted in the splintered doorway. Elizabeth thought to compliment Matthias' almost-acceptable combover, but decided against it.
"What's this about?" Matthias demanded. "Who is he, some kind of boyfriend? I paid good money for today and I don't remember him being part of the deal."
"I'm so sorry," she said. "I don't know—“
"What's your business with her?" Luthias asked, words sharp as his sneer.
"That's none of your business, young man," Matthias said. "Don't think I won't get hotel security if you don't leave right quick."
"Is that a threat?"
The question was deceptively cool, as Elizabeth's keen eye noticed Luthias' tense muscles and the raised vein in his temple. She didn't want to think what this man was capable of. She was far from a friend to Mr. Seymour, but wasn't about to see him hurt.
"Matthias, maybe you should go while I...
sort this out," she said, attempting to diffuse the situation.
"So he gets in on my time?" Mathias looked disgusted. "I don't know what kind of company that Stedman is running, but I didn't pay for another man's sloppy seconds."
"He's not my guest," she tried to assure him. "I won't be long, I promise."
"Just another whore, aren't you?" Matthias scoffed. "Guess escorts really aren't a cut above the rest."
It all happened in a moment. One minute, Matthias had pulled out his phone, the next it had cracked on the ground as Luthias slammed the old man against the wall, grip on his throat strong enough to leave his feet dangling above the ground as the old man gasped for air. Without pity, Luthias' grip tightened.
"You aren't worthy of the air she breathes."
When Luthias broke Matthias Seymour's neck, Elizabeth finally screamed. It was a sound stopped short when she covered her own mouth with her hands, trembling with horror as Luthias tossed the corpse to the side, which crumpled over itself in a limp heap. She wasn't getting enough air but she couldn't move her hands, knowing she would scream again, and that scream would get the killer's attention. All she could do was stare, as Luthias flicked off blood drawn by his sharp nails, and turned to face her. His gold eyes swirled now with red, as if physically tainted by bloodlust. In those moments, she swore she was staring at the devil himself.
"This is the last time you'll see me this way," he said.
His nails retracted to a normal length. The red in his eyes faded into white. Yet as he approached her, he seemed now to her more monstrous than he had before—a beast, parading in human flesh.
"What are you?" she whispered.
He was silent, at first. He reached to her, as if to touch her cheek, and stopped himself. His hand fell to his side, though his eyes never left her.
