by Cerys du Lys
Chapter Six
What harm could it do to her now? Anna could not tear her eyes from Tristan’s wide chest. How did he feel? She wanted to know. Her palms were slippery and her finger-ends wanted to reach out and touch his solid muscle and soft skin.
As she was pushed back onto the couch, her hands raised up and she placed them flat on his chest, as if to push him away. Her touch was gentle and she was fooling neither herself, nor him. There was a building pressure in her belly and her legs parted as his thighs pushed between them. He went down on his knees, his forearms resting around her waist, and his face looked up at her. He looked quite serious, unsmiling and dark.
When his lips closed over her nipples, she cried out, but it was a shout of sudden and unexpected pleasure. Some bolt of lightning shot through her and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to understand what her body was doing. His tongue pulled at her nipples and she wanted it.
Then he kissed his way along her belly. Each brush of his lips was a new shock of pleasure that went straight to the pounding, clenching throb deep in her pussy.
But when his mouth encountered her secret parts, and his tongue poked out to touch that strange little point of pain and pleasure, her clitoris, her thighs tightened and she moaned in fear. “No, no, no,” she began to mumble. “I don’t think-”
“No,” he said, pulling back for a moment. “No, you mustn’t think.”
His tongue pressed again between the wet folds of her pussy and she began to fight him, squirming and wriggling to get away. His hands held onto her waist firmly but she kicked out with her legs, cycling them desperately. The more she fought, the more she wanted to get away.
“Stop!” Tristan launched up, his shoulders knotting as he got to his feet and continued to hold her down, looming over her.
“I’m sorry-” Anna began to say.
“I want you,” he growled. “You’re wet, and warm, and ready. You have fire in you that my brother just cannot understand. I don’t want to take you like he did, selfishly and meaninglessly.”
But this is selfish and meaningless, isn’t it? She wanted to ask him but she was too afraid of the answer. What did he mean? Her voice cracked but she said, surprising herself, “I want you to want me…” but her words died away to a whisper, and she was appalled at her own confession.
He fixed his eyes upon her. “You want me?”
Had she said something wrong? Did he expect honesty? Perhaps he thought she was lying.
Enough, she told herself sternly. “Yes,” she said. She waited for the world to tumble down.
It did not.
“Oh God, you are killing me,” he said, bending his face low to nuzzle his nose against her ear and neck. His breath on her skin set her aflame once more, and she reached up to pull him closer. “You want me and you fight me. You’re innocent and you’re fallen. You’re damaged and you’re so pure and whole. My God, Anna Rossington, do you know the power you hold?”
There it was again - the suggestion that she had something that men craved. In response, she angled her head to him, and his lips found hers, and found them eager and wanting.
She tasted her own muskiness on his mouth, and sucked at his tongue impatiently. He kissed her hard, forcing her head back against the couch, and his left hand moved to clamp over her pussy mound, his fingers pressing between her folds.
Again she could not help closing her thighs, trapping him, but he was in no mood for further resistance. Wordlessly, he picked her up, one hand still between her legs and the other scooping her up under her back, so that she had to cling to his neck as he stood and hefted her into the air. He strode through the sitting room and kicked viciously at a door, bursting it open to reveal a large and elegant bedroom.
She was confused; he could have had his way with her on the couch, but understanding quickly dawned as he threw her onto the bed and began to use the belt from a dressing robe to tie her left ankle to one of the bed’s ornately carved posts. She wriggled but he caught her other ankle and lashed it with some belt or scarf to the other post. She was split open, the air cool on her wet pussy.
Then he moved behind her and she heard soft noises, but could not see him. She was just starting to crane her head when he was there, climbing onto the bed to kneel above her, and she saw then he was completely naked. He hovered over her face and she began to thrash and scream.
“Hold still!” he commanded. His strange, hairy sack hung down between his thighs, brushing against her face and she turned her head to one side, trying to get away. It wasn’t right! She had no idea what he was about to do, and the fear of the unknown was all-consuming.
“What are you doing?” she gibbered.
“Trust me.”
“I can’t.”
“You will.” He grasped his own cock and pushed it down, towards her mouth. He moved his knees back so he was more lowered over her, and his manhood touched her lips. “Suck me.”
He tasted warm and salty and she closed her eyes, trying to stop her mind from grasping what she was doing, even as her own body was craving more. He moved in and out of her, and she could hear his breath panting; whatever she was doing, he liked it.
He liked it. Oh, God.
His hands went to her body, stroking over her breasts, her arms, her belly, caressing every part of her that he could reach. She arched, involuntarily.
“You see,” he grunted. “This is what it is about. Two bodies, hungry.”
Yes, she wanted to say. If only she could turn her own mind off, she could do this. She wanted to do this.
But when he dragged his cock from her mouth, and moved across the bed to position himself between her legs, now facing her, the panic rose up in her again. “No,” she said, “I don’t think…”
“Again - you don’t think,” he commanded. “You mustn’t think. Let me think for you.”
“But-”
His body lowered over her, smothering her, pinning her down, her legs held wide open and apart. She struggled, her lithe form rolling, but all it did was press herself against him. And her body wanted that; she wanted to be crushed, to be held, to be…. secure.
As his cock pressed against her pussy, she remembered how his brother had done this, too - and suddenly a light went on in her head. Yes, she wanted to shout, take me just as he did. A tiny part of her was shocked but she no longer cared, and when Tristan began to force his cock into her, her legs opened and her eyes closed and she heard a shout and maybe it was her, and maybe it was him. She no longer cared.
Her body was on fire with need and as he entered her, she drew him in, enclosing herself around him, her hands on his back, holding him to her. Her hips bucked and met his, not quite in time, but it didn’t seem to matter. Something was happening - some dark desire was riding her, consuming her. She felt her power crackle through her as he ground into her, two souls intent on some pinnacle that she could barely comprehend.
She didn’t know what she wanted until it happened - a starburst, an explosion, her pussy clamping hard as she tensed in every part of herself. And then, he too was shouting, arching, flexing, his cock pumping hard into her and he shuddered and held himself still.
She was sobbing, crying, though she wasn’t in distress; somehow the release had triggered a welter of emotion that transcended everyday labels.
Tristan dragged himself out and she could barely see him through her blurred eyes. He was a large pale shape, moving off the bed. A cover was thrown over her. The bonds were untied. Her eyelids closed and she heard water, splashing.
She needed something. Something more. She forced her heavy lids open and struggled onto one elbow, and saw through the open door that he was in the sitting room. He must have washed himself in the dirty, cold bath water. He passed the doorway, and he was dressed.
“Mr. Craythorne-” she called. “I-”
But as she sat up, pulling the covers around her body, she heard the bedroom door click closed.
And then, with a nasty little sound, it
was locked.
Chapter Seven
Tristan strode down the corridor and his staff were too well-used to his mercurial moods to pay any attention to his angry movements. He grabbed his outdoor coat from the butler and dismissed the suggestion of the carriage with a jerk of his arm.
He strode out into the evening light, walking aimlessly. How had she got under his skin like this? It unsettled him.
With his wife neatly out of the way, he had vowed to stay free of all entanglements. The events of his sister Beatrice’s short life had first revealed to him what trouble women could cause, and nothing since then had disabused him of that fact.
In fact, his brooding now over the pale beauty in his house, just proved to him what a mess women caused.
He wanted to beat her and he wanted to caress her. He wanted to keep her and he wanted no one else to have her. He didn’t like the sound of this fiancé of hers, and yet it was nothing to do with him at all!
There were other problems he needed to attend to as well - his brother, and his brother’s ill-thought-out plans for their gang. Their rivalry with the Earl of C.’s cartel. What he was going to do about Anna’s parents.
Oh, and all the other day to day business dealings of running one of London’s most powerful and dangerous gin and opium smuggling operations, too.
He cursed, and turned about to make for home.
* * *
Anna hammered on the locked door until her fists hurt. Defeated, she sank back into the bed, pulling the covers around her. She had found a silk robe that he must use as a dressing gown, and she wrapped it around her body, pulling the belt tight around her waist. She felt woefully underdressed but it was the best she could do. Her own clothes were torn, dirty and fit only to be rags.
She awoke with a start, and it was still half-light, and she thought at first she had been asleep for only a few seconds. But as her senses gradually returned to her, she saw that it was, in fact, morning.
“Good day. Hungry?”
“Oh!” She sat up, and realized that Tristan had woken her with his activity in the adjoining sitting room. She crawled out of bed and re-tied the robe, and stood in the doorway to watch him.
“That’s my robe.”
“I had nothing else to wear.”
“Hmm.”
She bit back her rude retort: did you expect me to be naked? He might well reply “yes” and it was not an option for her. Instead she said, “Good morning. You did not need to lock me in. I am grateful for your attentions and care.” She tried not to sound bitter.
“Good. I thought it best, under the circumstances. Come and sit and eat.” He had laid out a fine breakfast on a table, and she obeyed, though more under the direction of her own stomach than his words.
“Thank you.”
“Hmm,” he said again.
“Are you not joining me?” she asked, unwilling to start eating while he stood there, leaning on the wall, his arms folded.
“No, I have already eaten. Go ahead.”
She felt awkward, but hunger overruled that.
The silence was painful. After a while, she decided she had to take control again. “Sir, I do not know what you intend to do, but I beg you that I might be allowed to write to my parents to reassure them that I am alive, and well.”
“Do you think yourself to be a prisoner here?”
“You did lock me in.”
“Ahh yes.”
“So…?” she prompted, looking up at him, pleading with her eyes.
“Don’t,” he said abruptly.
“What?”
“Look like that.” He unfolded his arms and pushed away from the wall. “I should let you go. You can tell your parents that you are well in person.”
“Sir…”
“They will rant and rave at you, but they will welcome you back in the end.”
“You have heard of my father?”
“Yes. Your other plan - to be a governess - yes, this will be the best option.”
There was something unsettled in his manner, an uneasiness, and it made her nervous. He was not the sort of man to be in doubt about something. She tidied her plate, and tipped her head to one side. “So you are to let me go?”
He half-closed his eyes and sighed out, long and harsh, as if he was in pain. “I want to keep you.”
She let herself wonder what it would be like to be kept by a man like this. The way he stirred her body, the way he did not care. He was the opposite of Stapleton Jones, and the more she saw of Tristan Craythorne, the more she despised Stapleton.
Therefore, logic ran, if she hated Stapleton and he was Tristan’s opposite…
It was Anna’s turn to sigh wearily.
“And what of your wife, sir?” she snapped, tired of the unknown and tired of being kept in the dark even as she was kept a prisoner.
“And what of your future husband?” he retorted.
They stared at each other, then, and she was not inclined to look away, in spite of her upbringing. He remarked upon it, saying, “You are altogether too bold for a society miss.”
“No doubt that is why I have no line of suitors wanting my hand in marriage - save for Stapleton. And he…”
Tristan finally came over and took a seat opposite her. He began to pick at the remains of the food she’d left. “You care not for him, and he does not care for you. Such is marriage.”
“The same with your wife?”
Tristan shrugged. “Yes, of course, though I have been able to place her somewhere quietly out of the way.”
Anna shuddered. “I suppose that as soon as Stapleton tires of me, he shall do the same.” Then she remembered her altered situation. “Or at least, he would have done. Now we cannot marry. So I ought to be grateful to your brother in that regard.”
“No!” Tristan was almost angry. “Not he. Never he.”
“Why do you keep in business with him, and live with him, then?”
“You are bold!”
“Yes, sir.”
“So do not pretend now to be meek.”
She lowered her eyes. Part of her, some devil in her, wanted to keep provoking him to see how he would react. But she held her tongue at last, and he began to speak again.
But he told her of his marriage, not his brother. “My wife is in a quiet place, a lodging house under the care of some lay sisters. She has had disorders of the nerves. Partly, I suppose, brought about by my own lifestyle. We were wed too young and barely knew each other. But she is happier now, by the sea in Bridlington, and I am happier here, and she is well looked after with nothing to worry or trouble her. I cannot cast her aside.”
So you do take responsibilities seriously, she thought. “You are a good man, then,” she said hopefully.
“No, I am not. Expect no mercy from me. Except…”
She pleaded with her eyes, and clasped her hands tightly together.
“Except,” he said, “you ought to write to your family.”
“And tell them when I am coming home?”
“No,” he replied shortly, and stood up. “To tell them only that you are safe.”
The way he said safe, with a sudden lowering of his brows, did not make her feel in one bit secure.
Chapter Eight
He stalked out of the room, and called for a maid. The slender creature darted in, took away the tray of food, and disappeared. Tristan followed her out, and locked the door once more.
Anna prowled the rooms, but there was nothing of note in the bedroom or sitting room. She even took the liberty of opening and closing drawers and cupboards but it was a bachelor room and had no sign of a feminine touch.
And nothing for her to wear but the robe.
She stood by the window and gazed through the glass, down through the leaves of the high trees that bordered the quiet London street far below. From time to time, a carriage passed by. It was so much like her own residential street that she felt almost comforted.
The house was much richer and she had thoug
ht her own family rich, though. And the more money, she knew, the more power the person had. No wonder neither Tristan nor Hugh seemed too concerned as to her father’s reaction.
Anyway all of London knew him as an old-fashioned bully who would cast her out without a second look.
Free from her family. Free from Stapleton. Painfully free, now. Except caught, here.
Some impulse in her wanted to know more about Tristan, and what made him so trapped between goodness and badness. She was lost in thought and did not hear the door open again; she turned when she heard a cough.
Tristan was once again standing there. They watched each other warily, and then he stepped forward and threw some clothes down on the bed. “Dress yourself, and come out to the sitting room as soon as you are done.”
She was delighted to see that the dresses he had flung there appeared new; there was a pale blue one, and a light peach silk dress to choose between. She went for the blue. He had also thrown down some undergarments of silk, and she used the water in the bowl on the washstand to make herself clean before slipping gratefully into the garments. She tied the ribbons about her waist. There was no mirror in the room, so she dragged her fingers through her hair and twisted her long tresses into a high knot, and secured it with more ribbons. Finally she felt more able to stand up for herself, and she walked into the sitting room with a slight confidence.
Her hopeful mood was buoyed when she saw he had placed on the table some writing paper, an ink well, a pen and a pot of sand to blot out the ink.
“Come; sit, and write. Tell them you are well.”
“I ought to tell them the truth.”
“You look well to me.”
She stifled her frown at his obtuseness. “It is strange,” she said, speaking almost to the paper in front of her, and not to him. “I feel as if I am at the beginning of a journey, and I am … curious.”
“Curious?”
She grabbed every scrap of courage from someplace strange and unfamiliar, and rose to her feet. He looked alarmed as she came towards him, and she was reminded of her power. It was something she was desperate to explore. He didn’t back away, but he was as rigid as a steel pole when she stopped, standing close by him and craning to look up at him.
