by Sharon Page
* * *
“You do not really want me to spank you, do you, Ravenhunt?”
“Indeed, I do not.” But he gave her a smile filled with devilment, thoroughly mischievous. They had stepped into the foyer of his house. Using the key she had swiped earlier, he locked the door, then slid four bolts across to secure it.
Yes, he had definitely allowed her to escape earlier, for those heavy, awkward bolts had been left open. Now he was making sure his house was completely secure.
She couldn’t bear to think of men who wanted to kill her. She was too tired.
Spanking. Ophelia never would have dreamed she would think about spanking a man so she did not have to think about assassins and mad scientists.
He turned to her. Moonlight spilled in through small windows flanking the door, sending blue streaks through his hair, casting blue shadows across his crisply sculpted features.
His was a beautiful face. Her fingers tingled. Suddenly she was compelled to sculpt it. To remember every detail so she could slowly coax marble to flow in those magnificent lines.
“To be honest,” he said, “I was planning to spank you.”
She quirked a brow. “I wouldn’t like that. It would hurt.”
“I would never hurt you.” His voice was smooth as chocolate, deep and husky. “Think of the way it would tease your skin.”
“A blow would not tease me!”
“A soft blow. Just enough to ignite your nerve endings. Enough to make your skin sensitive and your nerves sizzle. To send a rush of electric sensation through your body. To make your quim ache and pulse. To make you feel, my dear. I could make you come, just by spanking you.”
“Come? Come where?” she asked, confused.
“Coming means the orgasm you will have.”
She looked at him, lost. “What is that?”
“When your body feels pleasure—when it feels sexual stimulation—tension builds inside you. Your body works toward a climax, with the pleasure building and building until you want to scream. Then it explodes inside you, on a wave of pleasure that melts your soul, my love.”
She shivered. His husky voice was like a magic spell. She almost said yes. “Spanking is a punishment.”
“In this case, it would be erotic foreplay.”
Ophelia shook her head. His mouth hardened, forming harsh lines to bracket his firm, bronze-pink lips. “A deal,” he offered, gruffly. “You spank me first, then I do it to you.”
She frowned.
“Come, love. I’m allowing you to do it first.”
“All right.” But her agreement was a lie. She was not going to be struck on her bottom—no matter what he thought she’d agreed to. “Do we go up to the bedroom? What about your room? I haven’t seen any other bedchamber that looks like it is used.”
She had almost forgotten about that. It was another mystery about him.
He shrugged. For a man who had got what he wanted, he looked troubled. “My line of work—killing vampires—keeps me awake at nights. That’s when I hunt them. So I don’t need to use a bedchamber.” A sharp tug of his gloved hand and he’d undone his cravat. He let it drop to the floor of the foyer.
Ravenhunt was undressing right here.
It startled her and he smiled. “Your mouth is a huge O, Ophelia. You shouldn’t be shocked. You’ve seen my naked body before.”
Yes, all muscle and lean sinewy strength, and it had been shocking. “Why do you hunt vampires at night? They sleep in the day—I learned that at Mrs. Darkwell’s. They are dormant and vulnerable. Isn’t that the best time to go after them?”
There was a pause while he took off his tailcoat, then his waistcoat, and he let those fall carelessly, too. “You have to know where their lairs are. It is easier to protect the populace by hunting at night, so you can assassinate a vampire before it takes a victim.”
That made sense, but she felt there was something not quite right. “You’d still need somewhere to sleep. You would just do it in the day.”
“Since I have no servants, I just use a daybed in the study. It’s easier than having to tend to more unnecessary rooms myself.”
“Why do you have no servants? Is it because you keep kidnapping women and that’s hard to explain?”
“The hunting and killing of vampires is an odd profession. We’re supposed to keep people from learning vampires do exist. Along with other beings with special powers, like us.”
One quick whisk of his arms and he pulled his shirt off, baring his perfect torso. “It’s too cold and impersonal in here for a spanking to be any fun.”
He started off, his clothes over his arm, and Ophelia followed. In for a penny, in for a pound. She had come back with him to his house, knowing full well what she had agreed to. In that club, she’d glimpsed other things happening in the corners of the room, when she’d quickly averted her eyes from the naked stranger who was tied up.
There was one woman on a man’s lap, the skirts of her shift pushed up and her naked legs spread over his. She was leaning back with her back against his chest, and his hands were between her legs. Her bottom rose and fell on him with a rhythmic motion. They were doing something private and intimate in front of so many people, and they were doing it so they could both watch the man in the middle of the room.
Shocking, yes. But she’d felt a wave of hot . . . awareness.
Ravenhunt led her to a door at the other end of the hallway from hers. “The master’s apartments,” he said, pushing it open. “If I used a bedchamber, this would be the one.”
It was the room she’d looked in earlier. In the center was the enormous bed—it stood at the height of her waist, with a dusty canopy soaring above. The counterpane was smooth and clean, but she suspected if she struck it, a cloud of motes would fly into the air. Balls of dust gathered like tiny kittens here and there on the floor.
He strode in and opened a chest that sat at the foot of the bed. “Ah, here it is. Thought it was here.” Straightening, he had a much smaller wooden chest tucked under his arm.
It wasn’t until they reached her room that he satisfied her curiosity. He set the small trunk on the vanity table and flipped open the lid. Out of it, he took a long thing that looked like a small whip, with a black leather-wrapped handle, and a long leather strap that dangled. Next he withdrew a wooden object, with a smooth, rounded paddle and a wood handle.
“What are those?”
“Accoutrements for spanking.”
“You have a chest filled with things to use for hitting someone’s bottom?”
“Not only that. They are all kinds of devices for enhancing sexual play. All gentlemen keep them. We spend much of our time when we aren’t using them dreaming of how we will.”
She was sure Ravenhunt was teasing her.
He led her back to her bedroom, where he tossed the wooden paddle onto the bed. “We should get started.” His shoulders shook as he undid his trousers. His long lashes shielded his eyes, but she thought he looked . . . not aroused, but troubled.
One swift motion of his hand shoved his trousers down. Underneath, he wore nothing. His muscled, taut bottom was bared to her.
He planted his hands on the bed, spread his legs with his trousers bunched around the top of his boots. He hung his head, his straight black hair falling around his face.
She was supposed to smack him. With the paddle.
She couldn’t use her hand without really hurting him.
All right. He wanted it. It was like a dare—and she’d never had the chance to do daring things. She’d been locked up for so long.
Curling her fingers around the smooth, varnished handle, she lifted the paddle. Held it above his bottom.
Oh heavens, she didn’t want to hit anything so perfect. Pale, firm, and defined by the muscles beneath his smooth skin, his rump was a work of art.
Wouldn’t smacking it be like a desecration?
“Come on, Ophelia,” he groaned. “Do it.”
She closed her eyes. Swung. Bu
t lost her courage at the end of the arc and arrested it, so the paddle only lightly tapped him.
Ravenhunt’s breath came out in a fast, harsh stream. She couldn’t see his face, but his back was tense and he made a growling sound. Then he groaned, “Excellent. But you can do it harder next time.”
“It doesn’t hurt?”
“It hurts in a good way. That’s part of the—of the pleasure.” She tried again, being more firm. A quick slap to his hard right cheek. It barely jiggled, since his bottom was so taut.
His head bucked, his long, lean body braced on arms locked straight. So straight, the muscles bulged and his veins were like cords looped around his forearms. “God, that was good.”
“You liked that?” Was there something to this she didn’t quite understand? She would assume it wasn’t pleasurable at all. But he twisted to face her, and there was such an intense expression on his face. Harsh lines ringed his mouth. His eyes were bright and intense. “Spank me again. You can’t leave me hanging now.”
She obliged, trying with a bit more force.
His deep, throaty moan vibrated through her. Goodness, he did like this. A thrill ran down her spine, a sensation that shot down between her legs and throbbed there, aching and demanding.
Instead of hitting him, she ran the flat of the paddle over the curve of his rump. If only it could be her hand touching him. Feeling how soft his skin was, even over that hard, solid muscle. She noticed the dusting of dark hair. She longed to coast her hand all over him, even down between his legs from the back and touch the fascinating large ballocks that dangled there.
She couldn’t touch him. Certainly not there. Smoke rose when they touched. Contact with her obviously burned him, and she couldn’t inflict that on tender places.
Oh, but she wished she could touch him.
“You do?” he asked softly.
Had she said it out loud? She must have. “Yes,” she cried. “I want to grope your backside, and fondle the muscles on your arms, and put my arms around you, and—and—”
“Then do it,” he said.
She smacked his bottom lightly with the paddle. “I can’t. I’d hurt you.”
“You know, love, I really don’t care. It would be worth it to be touched by you.”
Crazily, madly, she put the palm of her hand against his rump. Against the red mark the paddle had made.
But Ravenhunt flinched and smoke rose, and she snatched her hand away.
“Spank me,” he urged, and she heard the note of laughter in his voice. Turning, he winked at her, his long lashes flashing over his dark eye. She giggled.
When had she last giggled? She couldn’t remember. Never had she thought it would be over a bare bottom and a session of spanking. This was utterly surprising. It was fun.
“Come on, love, you’re killing me with suspense. I’m on the brink of a colossal erotic explosion. It hurts.”
Goodness, she was not doing her duty here. She lifted the paddle and swacked him. She paddled his bottom lightly, then firmly, then gave one daring, hard smack.
“God,” he muttered. His hips moved back and forth rhythmically, in time to her spanking.
“I had no idea,” he growled, “it could feel so good—”
He broke off and shifted, so he was sideways across the bed. Her eyes went huge. From here, she could see his private parts. Huge and straight and thick and sticking straight out.
He wrapped his hand around the enormous shaft. Between moans, he gasped, “You are amazing. The most erotic woman with a paddle I could dream of.”
Ophelia giggled shyly, then gasped herself. His hand ran along the length of his erection. He gripped tight, pulling at it.
How stunning. How marvelous. How strange. He was so rough with it. Surely those strokes, in that fearsome grip, must hurt.
And his moans . . . so loud, so intense, they made shivers go down her spine.
She spanked him again, and suddenly his head jerked, his body bucked, and he let out a cry of agony. His shaft seemed to swell to incredible proportions before her eyes. He jerked his hips up at the same moment a white fluid shot forth from his erection and spattered over his hand.
She gaped at him, the paddle dangling from her hand.
He straightened, and he cleaned his hand on a corner of the disordered bedsheet.
“Spectacular,” he murmured.
Before she could think of a thing to say, he moved with his amazing speed. Next thing she knew he had the paddle in his hand and he grinned rakishly at her.
“Your turn,” he said.
7
Coming
Beneath her skirts, her bottom was round, plump, and quivering.
Raven had swiftly changed positions, tossing her gently on the bed so she lay on her tummy, and he stood beside the bed with his trousers hanging off his hips and the paddle in his hand.
He brought it down, stopping just before the flat of the paddle struck her rump. Coming that close, anticipating the way her generous arse would jiggle when he struck, he was rock-hard again. Even though he’d just climaxed so hard he’d thought his brains would melt.
“No,” she cried. “I can’t do this.”
“You can,” he murmured. He gave her a light tap with the paddle.
Hell, if he could do it, she could. With Jade, he had been whipped regularly, flayed all over his body. The idea of being hit again had made him darkly angry. But having Ophelia spank him had surprised him.
It had been playful. Fun. Erotic.
But she was tense with fear, and he had to make her melt.
He gently caressed her curves with the paddle. Having her spank his rear had kept him from going mad for the scent of her blood. It had also given him a reason to keep his face away from her curious gaze, so Lady Ophelia couldn’t see how his fangs had launched out when he got aroused again.
With her, now, he was more than just sexually excited, more than hot and aching to pummel her sweet little ass. The tempting aroma was stronger than ever.
“You aren’t spanking me,” she whispered. She was twisting to see behind.
“I’m touching you without my hands. Fondling your lovely arse with the paddle.”
She quivered at his words.
“Like it?” he murmured. He gave the lightest tap with the wood, making her bottom tremble under her gown.
“It—it tickles.” She giggled.
He tried a firmer spank. This was what he enjoyed. Being in charge.
“No, I’m not ready to be spanked yet. I’m not. I’m just not. Please, please don’t?”
He needed to command her, but not frighten her. “More caresses,” he promised, and he ran the paddle over the globes of her bottom.
She giggled. The sound of her delight rang in his ears. If he closed his eyes, he could remember the sweetly desperate way she had protested that she was not ready to be spanked yet. It touched his heart, brought a smile to his lips.
Savoring the soft, silvery sound of her laughter, he set down the paddle. He laughed, too, and that made hers go on, until she hugged herself, smiling beautifully.
He was a man who no longer had any reason to smile, yet it was impossible not to laugh with Ophelia.
Their game had to end for the night. Dawn was close and she was tired. As much as he hungered for the chance to apply the paddle to her luscious derriere, he had to wait. He had to let her sleep. And he had a pressing reason to stop now.
Hunger.
He had to satisfy it. Now.
Lifting the paddle from her bottom, he said softly, “That’s enough for tonight. You need to sleep.” Grasping her wrist, he quickly helped her sit up, then released her. Shirtless, he had his trousers pushed to his thighs, revealing his enormous erection. He saw how she tried to look away from his cock, but her gaze always riveted back to it.
He ruthlessly pushed his hard prick down and struggled with his trousers until he fastened them over the bulge. “Let me take you to your bedroom and tuck you into your bed.”
He held out the paddle for her, so she could grasp the handle. Pulling on it, he whisked her to her feet. She swayed on her slender legs, obviously exhausted. Yawning again, she put her hand over her mouth.
Not caring about the pain that went through him, Raven lifted her into his arms and carried sleepy Lady Ophelia to her bed. There he helped her undo her dress, and gave her privacy to slip on a nightgown he had acquired for her. He had gotten it from a madam who ran a brothel for vampires.
As he drew the covers over Ophelia, she gave him a smile that speared his heart. Her smile was so adorable it touched him. She glowed like a woman in love.
He was supposed to win her love. Why should it feel like he’d been kicked in the gut?
Returning to his room, Raven noticed the cobwebs at the ceiling, the coldness of the room since he never needed a fire, and the sense of emptiness in it even though it was filled with furniture. It was as if the room had no soul either.
He pulled on his shirt, swiftly fastened it at the collar, and shoved its tails into the waistband of his trousers. He had no time to worry about the lonely feeling of his room. He could not go back to Ophelia and watch her sleep. He couldn’t stay with her.
Another wave of hunger hit him, so fast and hard he had to grab the bedpost. His fingers gouged into the wood. Inside, he seethed with hunger and lust.
He wanted her neck. Wanted to sink his fangs into it. Wanted it now.
Cursing, Raven ran down the corridor, passing the door to Ophelia’s room. He forced his legs to keep moving. Launching over the banister, he jumped off the stairs and landed on the tiled ground floor at the foot of the staircase.
Raven pulled on a cape, grasped a silver-tipped walking stick, and headed out the door, locking it behind him. His destination was the docks. He would reach them just before the first glow of daylight touched the sky. Many people would be out, beginning their working day. He had little time until full daylight came, and he ran the risk of being burned to ash by the sun’s rays.
