by Sharon Page
She was more than just a little foxed. Lady Ophelia was drunk. A strange feeling welled up in Raven. Disapproval and the need to give her a lecture on being more careful.
His reaction was what it would have been for Frederica, his sister. He shook off the feeling. Ophelia drunk was good for him. It would make her seduction easier.
But he couldn’t completely lose the sense of feeling protective of her.
Ophelia was naïve but she had strength, too. He admired it. Her strength and courage made her more than just a pretty young woman—it made her beautiful.
He wasn’t in love with her. He had been in love with his fiancée. He knew what the emotion felt like—an obsession to have and possess a woman.
Even as a marquis’ heir with the courtesy title of earl, he’d lived in fear he wasn’t good enough for the beautiful Lady Margaret, daughter of a powerful duke. He’d been afraid she would flit away to someone else—a duke, for example. To prove himself to her, he had fought a duel for her, pummeled her other suitors in Gentleman Jackson’s ring, and pursued her like a madman. His love for her had turned him from a confident, carefree young buck into a man haunted by doubt, aware of every misspoken word or unfulfilled opportunity to win her heart.
Love had leveled him. It had eroded his strength.
But once he had won beautiful Margaret’s heart, he’d felt like a king.
Then he had lost her. She’d died.
What he felt for Ophelia was just a man’s need to protect a woman. It wasn’t tempestuous or all-consuming. It wasn’t love.
But according to that blasted book of Guidon’s, it had to be if he wanted to save her. He had to fall in love with her, and he had to make her love him.
How in hell was he going to fall in love? Losing his fiancée, and then becoming a vampire, had sucked all the capacity for love out of him.
Now Ophelia stared at him boldly with bright, drunk eyes. Swaying a bit, she undid her robe, and she let it fall to the ground. A gruff laugh rose from his chest.
Ophelia was a sweet thing, and it was going to be fun to pleasure her tonight.
And somehow he had to find a way to fall in love with her, seduce her into loving him. Then he had to die while loving her.
Damn, how did a vampire who had no soul, who had a heart like ice, do that? He had to hope the answer was in Guidon’s book. He’d read it until dawn and hadn’t found any answers.
There had to be something in that damned book. Somewhere there had to be a guideline for vampire assassins on falling in love.
“You’re frowning.” Ophelia sashayed unsteadily toward him. She ran her finger around her lips. Wine had stained her lips the dark red of blood.
He fought not to think about that. He’d fed before coming to her. A quick bite, as it were.
In her pale ivory nightdress she looked almost angelic.
He had to fall in love with her so she wouldn’t be destroyed. Fall in love with her, then lose her forever. She would be free. In a way, so would he—making love to her meant he was going to finally die. He laughed, the sound sharp and bitter.
Her swaying body suddenly stilled. She frowned at him. “Do you not want to do this?”
“Yes, of course I do.” He was going to die—it was his destiny. He wanted to make love to her as much as he could before he did.
Not caring what it would mean for him, he caught her in his arms and kissed her. Wine was tart on her lips. A jolt of agony shot through him, so strong and so unexpected, he reeled back with it, pulling away from the kiss.
The pain inflicted on him by her power was stronger.
So what was he going to do to her?
There was a lot he wanted to do. Watching her come last night, he’d wanted to slide his cock inside her, feel how creamy she was, feel her walls clutch around him. He liked to watch her come, but he wanted to make her come with his prick.
Or his mouth.
Instead Raven held up an ivory wand. The closest he could be to her was sliding the wand inside her hot, wet cunny.
“What is that?” Ophelia found it hard to speak—her words were slurred together.
“Lean over the table, love,” Ravenhunt commanded.
Doing so made her bare bottom stick out, just as his had done. “I don’t want to be spanked now.” Though actually, she felt light and airy enough that she didn’t mind the idea. “No, changed my mind. You can if you want.”
He tapped the wand against her bottom. “Oooh,” she whispered, and she wriggled her hips. She swayed her rump back and forth, then tauntingly up and down. At his laugh, she blushed, certain she must look silly, but she wanted him too much to care. “Please,” she whispered.
The cool firmness of the rod stroked over the curve of her bottom, then slid between her thighs. The length brushed her nether lips from behind. His strong hand thrust it forward so the length of it grazed along her cunny. She gasped. The cool, smooth ivory was thrillingly teasing. He worked it back and forth, until it eased her sticky lips apart.
“It’s not as large as I am,” he said.
It’s not? It seemed rather large. But even with her wits fogged by wine, she remembered seeing Ravenhunt without his trousers and his erection had seemed startlingly enormous.
“I’m going to put it inside you, beautiful one,” he murmured. “If it hurts you, tell me.”
She nodded. But with all the wine sloshing about inside her, she couldn’t feel pain at all. Gently, he slid the thickness of the ivory wand between her lips. The tip touched her entrance. She should be shocked. But she ached to be filled.
“Please,” she whispered.
She was so tense, so filled with anticipation. Aching and throbbing inside. The wand went inside her, and she felt a twinge of pain. She winced, but it vanished swiftly.
Then there was nothing but pleasure, silky pleasure sliding through her whole body.
He stroked the wand in and out. She rocked against the table, eyes closed, thinking only of sheer delight. Deeper and deeper, he went. Ophelia moaned. Gasped. Then she squealed when the wand went so deep that shocks raced through her everywhere.
His finger slipped between her nether lips, and pressed against her nub. “You can’t touch me—”
“I can’t resist.” He rubbed her there. A few firm caresses in perfect unison with the thrusts inside her.
Oh heavens. Oh goodness. Oh—!
Pleasure burst in her like fireworks. Glittering, brilliant delight raced through her every nerve. Her body thrashed against the table, as it danced to sheer ecstasy. The climax ravaged her. She wailed in glorious agony. He quickly moved his fingers away from her, and she didn’t need his touch there anymore. But the climax was so intense . . .
Her sex was clutching at the wand inside her, pulsing around it. Ravenhunt kept thrusting it, and the pleasure went on and on. Her legs were weakening—
She couldn’t help it. She grasped his arm. She needed to touch him. Ached for contact. A huge jolt of sheer agony shot through her where her fingers gripped his forearm. Ophelia screamed with it.
He roared with pain. Ophelia fought to let him go, but her fingers wouldn’t obey. He grasped her hand and pulled his arm free.
She jerked her hand away from his. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. Tears burned in her eyes, dripped to her cheeks.
He draped her robe around her. “It was not your fault.”
In front of her eyes, he licked the ivory wand and her jaw dropped.
“This way I can taste you,” he murmured. “Don’t worry. Tomorrow night, we are going to have to ensure you don’t touch me. It hurt you this time, as well as me. Tomorrow we have to tie you up.”
8
All Tied Up
Tonight was about sex, just as if he were still a mortal man.
Raven strode down his hallway, dressed in a robe he never wore anymore. He wasn’t aware of cold, and with his house mostly unused, it was usually as cold as a tomb. He’d lit fires and made it warmer only for Ophelia.
> Years ago, he used to enjoy playing bondage games, when he had been an ordinary British marquis, and not a blood-drinking demon. He did what any peer did—indulged in all the sexual games on offer in London’s brothels. That had been before his engagement to Lady Margaret, when he was a randy youth eager for experience. He’d been eager to learn sexual technique so he wouldn’t be callow and unskilled in his marriage bed.
He’d learned what every young gentleman did: there were things you did with a courtesan you would never do with a gently bred wife.
So he walked toward Ophelia’s bedchamber, preparing to tie her up, but he didn’t know exactly how to go about it. Doing this with a woman of Ophelia’s breeding was foreign to him. A wanton who saw ropes would know what the game would be.
Ophelia was going to have to be guided step by step.
An arousing thought.
And it would distract him from thinking about her sweet blood.
Raven reached her bedroom door. Shock fixed his feet to the threshold. His jaw all but dropped to the floor and slammed into the wooden boards.
Ophelia awaited him.
Naked.
She sat on the edge of her bed by the bedpost. Her loose hair tumbled in pale curls over her shoulders and down to the curve of her bottom. Her arms were pressed to her sides, which pushed her full, round breasts together and pointed dainty pink nipples straight at him.
He almost staggered back.
How sweet she looked. Framed by long pale lashes, her huge indigo eyes sparkled with anticipation, until her gaze riveted on the ropes. Her hand went delicately to her chest, but her nipples tightened and lengthened, a sure sign she was intrigued and aroused.
Beneath his heavy robe, his cock swelled with a rush of blood and bucked up to smartly smack his stomach.
He was in a damned strange situation. To save Lady Ophelia, he had to condemn himself to destruction. The only way to save her was to coax her to fall in love with him, which meant she could never know the truth about him.
He’d read through Guidon’s book—a book that managed to make sex sound pedantic and dull. But the gist was: he took her power through sex and he saved her by winning her heart and by giving her his.
Nothing could save him.
Hell, it was fair enough. He didn’t deserve to be saved.
The sex he was to enjoy with her was to fill his last days on earth.
Slowly, Ophelia stood, naked, all that golden hair gleaming in the firelight, making a halo of gold around her. Definitely she was growing to trust him.
Hades, she was beautiful. Raven felt a deep tug of sympathy. She should have been able to use her beauty to flirt and tease and enjoy love. She should have been able to marry and be happy. But it wasn’t just her power that was hurting her. He was betraying her. He was coaxing her to open her heart, and in the end he was going to hurt her when she gave her power to him and he died.
He knew how devastating that was. How crippling and agonizing that pain and grief was.
“Will it hurt to be tied up?” she asked.
“No, I promise it won’t.” He kept his voice soft and coaxing. “Does the idea entice you?”
A pink flush raced over her cheeks while she considered. Blushing fiercely, she nodded. “I have to admit it does. Doesn’t that make me very naughty? Or bad?”
“It makes you delightful,” he said. It was true. The wicked one in this was him.
Her gold-amber brows lifted. Apparently she was surprised by his answer. “Delightful?”
Half-turned from her, Raven let a wicked grin play on his lips. “Many women find it freeing to be bound. You can’t be improper if you have no choice, after all.”
“So how do we begin?” She put her wrists together and held them out daringly. “Like this?”
Raven could immediately picture the black velvet ropes around her slim wrists. In that moment, he didn’t care she was a lady at her core and he had no right to be playing bondage games with her. He wanted it. In his trousers, his cock hardened at once, heavy and pushing hard against the fabric.
Gruffly, he said, “I tie you to the bed. Lie down.”
“You are terse and commanding, aren’t you? You could ask nicely.”
Her voice wobbled a bit, betraying her nerves, but also her displeasure at his curt order. She fascinated him—she was demure and ladylike, but inside she was strong. She’d had to be strong, he supposed, to survive. But to win her heart, he had to be stronger. Ophelia had to learn to let herself trust him, to give herself to him body and soul.
“I never ask nicely,” he growled. “Not in games like this.” Holding the ropes, he scooped her up, put her over his shoulder for a second, and tossed her lightly on the bed.
She bounced and scrambled to sit up, but he wrapped the rope around her wrist. Fast, but not with a vampire’s speed. Black velvet slid smoothly around her slender pale wrist. Raven knotted it firmly, making a loop that she could not slip her hand through.
His cock bucked again at the thought of what would come next.
“That’s tight,” she gasped.
His throat was damned tight. “Too loose and you won’t have the fun of feeling bound and beyond your control. It’s tight enough to make you my sexual prisoner, but not enough to hurt.”
“Maybe you made a mistake.”
“I never do.”
He knew she was wrestling between her upbringing to be a good and proper young lady and her natural erotic, sensual nature. The way to encourage her to play, to free her to enjoy this, was to take control.
He drew the rope to the bedpost and the sudden tug made her fall on her back. Her breasts jiggled, her flushed nipples bobbing temptingly. It took him only moments to wrap the rope around the post and tie a secure knot. While she pulled hesitatingly at the rope, testing its strength, he caught her other wrist, and attached her to the post with smooth ease.
He did it without touching her skin and without hurting her.
Raven stepped back. The sight of Ophelia like that, with her arms raised behind her head, black rope in a band at her wrists, struck him like a blow. Her breasts wobbled softly with her every quick breath. Her pink nipples were distended, as plump as thimbles, revealing she was enjoying it.
He’d never been so aroused. But damn, he couldn’t touch her.
Panting, she met his gaze. She blushed again sweetly.
“You are beautiful, Ophelia,” he said. “Even though you’re the one in ropes, I feel bound right now. Bound by you.”
She blew at a strand of hair that dangled over her face. “I don’t understand.”
He whisked the hair away. “Watching you is so enthralling. Every time you tug at the rope, the way you turn your head to peek at how it’s tied to the bed, the way your breasts sway as you move. I feel like your captive, Ophelia.”
Ophelia would not quite believe Ravenhunt, except that he spoke slowly as if he were trying to understand himself what he felt. He sounded sincere.
She remembered waking here as his prisoner. Now, being his prisoner in fun, for carnal games, didn’t feel frightening.
True, she felt unsure and awkward, just as she always felt. But she was caught up in erotic excitement, too. It made her cunny throb.
Even with nothing touching her but the ropes at her wrists, she was becoming aroused. Ophelia could smell the lush scent of her juices. She felt wet and slick between her legs.
What was he going to do to her? He couldn’t touch her. He couldn’t go inside her, as much as she ached for it.
She didn’t know what he planned. For once, not knowing was driving her mad in a delicious way. The anticipation allowed her thoughts to run riot. What could he do without touching her to make her “come”?
“You look very thoughtful. Have you ever fantasized about this?” Ravenhunt sat on the edge of the bed. The blue velvet robe he wore highlighted the paleness of his skin. His cheekbones and strong jaw looked to be carved of marble. But his eyes were dark, so black they were unfathoma
ble.
“I—” She couldn’t reveal the truth.
After reading the gothic novels, sometimes she had thought about being taken captive and ravished. When she had been a prisoner at Mrs. Darkwell’s and she’d had nothing to do but sculpt and read. Locked away in a room, she had not only sculpted, she had also spun wild, erotic fantasies. She’d dreamed of a dark, mysterious man taking her prisoner, seducing her, and falling madly in love with her . . .
She’d ended up in that very situation.
But she could never admit it.
“Of course I haven’t,” she said firmly. “What are you—” She broke off. Ravenhunt held another rope. The length of it dangled from his strong hand.
“I know you have thought of this.” His voice was a deep, husky growl. It slid over her as decadent as hot, dark chocolate.
But she could never reveal those fantasies to anyone. They were her most shocking secret, and she would keep them buried forever. “No.”
Smooth velvet teased her bare ankle and, startled by it, she jerked her leg away. But Ravenhunt captured her foot, and had her ankle tied and bound to the column at the foot of the bed in moments.
He crossed his arms over his chest. His robe gave a glimpse of white skin and sculpted muscle. More ropes lay over his hand. She was his prisoner again, and he was watching her with a shiver-worthy heat in his gaze.
He watched her with such intensity, her heart hammered. She had to say something. “You are very quick at tying knots.”
“Practice.”
When her other foot was equally bound to the bedpost, he paced slowly at the end of the bed.
“W-what do you do to me now?”
“Whatever I desire.”
The rough way he said it made her heart thunder, made her wetter, hotter, and made her cunny clench in a slow, intense way.
“Imagine what I can do to you now,” he said.
He moved away from the bed, and she strained against the ropes to see what he was doing. But her bindings were too tight, and she couldn’t lift up enough to watch. She was tied spread-eagle to the bed, her legs parted and ready for him—well, ready if he could make love to her. She was served up for him, unable to refuse to do anything he wanted.
