To Dare a Dark Prince

by Sasha Byrne

  Rhys stepped forward. His thighs crushed the soft wool of her riding skirt as he forced her back against the cold, stone wall. His large warm hand reached down to engulf her small fist in his own, trapping her riding crop, her only weapon, within his strong grasp. Moving his other hand to wrap along her jaw, he caressed her delicate skin which was cooled by the night air. Beatrice’s protest died in her throat the moment he touched her.

  Leaning scandalously close, he whispered against her lips, “What should I call you?”

  Beatrice inhaled the spicy, sweet scent of his breath. Sarsaparilla root. His skin radiated warmth and the earthy scent of cedarwood. Some hidden primal instinct urged her to press closer to his heat, to banish the chill from the night air. She resisted its pull.

  Capturing her gaze, Rhys allowed his lips to skim the soft fullness of her own. “Shall I call you Beauty?” he murmured.

  Moving his mouth along the curve of her jaw, he let the sharp edge of his teeth nip at her tender skin. “Or shall I call you Beastly?” he teased.

  Enraged by the hated moniker, Beatrice tried to wrench from his grasp. His grip on her small hand was too strong. With her struggles, his thickly muscled thigh pressed against her skirts, forcing itself between her legs. Jagged points from the hard rock wall pushed painfully against her bottom. Raising her free hand, Beatrice swiped her fingers down his cheek, catching his flesh with her reddened claws, leaving a thin trail of blood.

  Her moment of triumph withered like a petal on the vine the moment she saw the light of ferocious determination in his eye.

  Chapter 4

  Damn, she is magnificent, thought Rhys.

  When Rhys caught sight of his intended bride expertly handling her horse as she rode out of the stable yard, there was no small amount of masculine appreciation mixed in with his anger at her scandalous and risky behavior. The tales of her beauty had not been exaggerated but that was nothing compared to the untamed sight of her wild spirit.

  Now after her wild ride, her gorgeous thick curls ran riot down her back and shoulders. Their tawny length was the color of spun gold. The small lavender buds tangled among her tresses gave her a fae appearance. Her bright amber eyes glinted with hints of grassy green as her anger was stoked. Large and cat-like, they expressed her every emotion, leaving nothing hidden from him. He could read in their unique depths rage fused in fire with desire. Her full red lips, open as she breathed deeply through her fury, showed sharp, pristine teeth. A vision of those teeth ruthlessly scraping along his shaft as he forced his cock deep down her throat brought a low, dark rumble from deep within his chest.

  A beautiful woman was as plentiful as a field of flowers. Beautiful, yes. Unique, sadly no. Yet, a woman with fire and spirit, that was a rare creature indeed. Something within him rose up and howled at the thought of bringing to heel a woman with so much fight and determination.

  Moving his free hand to grasp the slender column of her neck, he squeezed. Her pulse skittered and jumped under the pressure of his hand. Moving his hand higher, Rhys forced her head back, exposing more of her vulnerable neck to his strong grip.

  A strained, gasping sound escaped her lips as Beatrice reached up to claw at his wrist, unable to dislodge his hold. Dizzying panic swirled with desire, fear and fury at his calm dominance over her.

  Rhys relished the surge of power he felt as he held her very breath in the palm of his hand.

  “Perhaps I’ll just call you mine,” he growled.

  Rhys’ mouth descended on hers. Stealing the very air. His grip on her throat eased as his tongue swept into her mouth to take possession. Allowing no quarter. Learning her taste. Learning her scent.

  No one had ever dared kiss her. Not one of her father’s lily-livered marriage prospects had ever had the courage to touch her hand let alone force their attentions on her. After exalting in the unfamiliar sensation of his tongue as it swirled and danced about her own, Beatrice did the only thing she could… she bit down.

  Far from deterring him, the metallic tang of blood and sudden sting of pain only spurred him on. Pushing his tongue deeper into her mouth, Rhys ground his hips into her soft flesh, hating the restrictive barrier of her cashmere skirt. His hand slid from her throat, down the front of her riding habit. Frustrated, he moved his hand more frantically over the embroidered fabric, searching. The heavy brocade of her riding coat, along with the press of her corset, kept the curves of her bosom a mystery to him.

  Beatrice could feel the hard ridge of his shaft press into her stomach as his hand swept over her torso. Her lips felt bruised and swollen when, as if taking pity on her untoward response to his kiss, Rhys’ mouth moved to bite and suck the tender skin of her neck. She moaned, allowing her head to fall back, giving him unfettered access. Bracing herself against his chest, her fingers skimmed along the smooth leather surface of his jerkin feeling the impressive swell and bunch of his muscled chest beneath.

  This wasn’t happening. She wasn’t allowing herself to be handled by this beast of a man, this servant, in the middle of a deserted field! It was as if some unseen force controlled her actions, her response to his touch. Like everything else, she fought it.

  Driven by an insatiable need to feel her skin, to see her delicate flesh exposed to his heated gaze, Rhys released his grip on her riding crop hand and started to work on the velvet frog clasps at her throat. Feeling her beneath his hand became as sustenance to him.

  Beatrice seized upon the moment. Raising her hand, she slashed the riding crop towards his head.

  Rhys’ instincts were too swift. Raising his forearm, he deflected the blow. Twisting his wrist, he wrenched the crop from her grasp. Beatrice watched in astonishment as he broke the thick wooden rod with the strength of one hand as if it were no more than a twig. The sight released an unholy flutter in her stomach, despite the danger it implied.

  “So, releasing your claws on me was not enough for my fierce feline? You want to draw blood under the lash as well?” he ground out.

  His words brought Beatrice’s gaze to the four thin lines of blood that streaked his hollowed cheek and roughened jaw. Far from marring his beauty, in some base primitive way, they only added to it.

  “You have no right to handle me thus,” she lashed out with her words if not with her crop.

  “I’m taking the right,” he responded sharply through clenched teeth.

  Grabbing a fistful of her locks, Rhys led Beatrice over to his horse. Reaching into his boot, he retrieved his knife. Beatrice cried out when he flicked the sharp blade open. He could see the rampant fear in her eyes and yet she refused to plead or appease him.

  Beautiful, spirited and stubborn. A dangerous but heady combination.

  Giving her a look of warning before releasing her hair, Rhys cut a long, thin strap from the stirrup leather on his saddle. Once more reaching for her unwilling form, Rhys dragged her by the upper arm over to a nearby blackthorn tree. Its dark bark gave its twisted branches an ominous appearance in the faded light. Just like in her dream, crept the unwarranted thought.

  Realizing his intent, Beatrice turned to escape, no longer caring about her chances of outrunning him. Rhys easily captured her around her small waist. Lifting her off the ground, he carried her back to the tree. Beatrice squirmed, kicked, screamed and cursed… all to no avail.

  Wrapping the leather strap around her wrists, Rhys then secured the ends around a stiff, spiny branch high above her head. Her toes barely touched the earth.

  Beatrice pulled against the straps, feeling the leather stretch and bite but not loosen.

  “You are going to regret this! I will see you horse-whipped! Do you hear me?” she screamed. Her fear built. This was too close to her dream. Was she about to be ravished in the woods by the beast?

  Rhys walked back to his saddle to retrieve his leather riding gloves. Pulling the black leather tight over his hands, he thought about the punishment he was about to dole out to his future bride. Instinctively, he knew if he so much as touched her exposed
skin with his own, his control would snap. He would fuck her against the tree like an animal rutting in the woods. The thin piece of leather was her only protection from him.

  “Wait till my father hears of this! You will be run out of the village with pitchforks and torches!” she threatened.

  Moving to stand behind her stretched body, Rhys whispered against her neck, “For this, I would brave the sharp point of a pike and the burn of any flame.”

  Rhys tore at the button holding her skirt and petticoat in place. The skirt fell to the cold earth, tangling about her kicking feet. Expertly pulling on the intricate ribbon ties of her riding trousers, Beatrice felt the kiss of the cold night air on her bare bottom as the trousers, her last defense, joined her skirt on the ground.

  Rhys took a moment to appreciate the wild vision. Her arms stretched far above her head. The ample curve of her bottom on full display. The top of her slim thighs wrapped in the lace of her stockings. The leather of her boots covering her shapely calves. The contrast between the rich plum of her riding jacket and her creamy pale skin. Moving to circle her, Rhys’ piercing gaze sought her cunny. The light gold curls did nothing to hide her core. Soon, he thought. Soon, he would bury his cock so deep inside of her she would never question his authority over her body.

  “I’ll kill you myself for this,” she sputtered.

  Rhys stepped forward, pressing his chest against her own. Beatrice stilled as he stared at her open mouth. A moment passed. They shared a breath. She could feel the tension radiating from his body as if he was holding himself in check. One strong arm circled her narrow waist, pulling her even closer. Beatrice’s body shuddered as her bare cunny made contact with his cloth-covered, thick shaft. The thin wool of his breeches was a feeble barrier. This wasn’t happening, she thought, not for the first time. She was not responding to the touch of this beast of a man!

  Finally, he reached up to release the leather straps. The moment the pressure on her arms gave way, her body fell even more into his own. Amber eyes clashed with cold jade at the contact. Beatrice tilted her head back as Rhys lowered his. Their lips barely touched, a mere whisper but it was enough. Beatrice broke the spell.

  “Get your hands off me,” she ground out through clenched teeth. Raising her small fists, she pounded them against his chest.

  Rhys tossed his head back with a laugh. “My little spitfire beauty, I may never take my hands off you.”

  At her indignant shriek, Rhys lifted her by the waist and walked the few steps to a small wooden bench under the blackthorn tree. Sitting down, he tossed Beatrice over his lap.

  “I have a feeling this is long overdue,” he said with amusement as he took in her prone form.

  “Let me up you… you… beast!” she raged.

  Rhys stroked her left bottom cheek with one large, leather-encased hand. Running his hand across the top, he then slid it down under the deep curve. Cupping the underside, he slid his thumb along her crease, applying just the slightest bit of pressure. He reveled in how her cheeks squeezed, trying to keep him out.

  Beatrice instantly stilled at the intimate contact. Never had she felt such a threatening yet thrilling touch. She could feel the leather of his glove, confused at her wish it was his own skin caressing her. The leather felt warm and soft on her chilled flesh.

  Rhys moved his hand over the sensitive skin along the back of her thigh, tracing the lace edge of her stocking. Shifting, he ran his hand along her right thigh, letting the tips of his fingers push between her legs as they slid to cup the underside of her other cheek. This bottom was made for his discipline, he thought with a seductive smile.

  Willing herself to break his trance, Beatrice tried to raise her torso up. “Release me this instant. I demand it!”

  Rhys ignored her command as he pressed his two middle fingers deeper into the enticing dark vee created by the meeting of her upper thighs and bottom, knowing what laid within its hidden depths.

  Beatrice let out a shocked gasp as his fingers dipped into her slick cunny, sliding along the seam. Teasing. She renewed her struggles, kicking the toes of her booted feet against the unrelenting wooden bench.

  It was time to stop playing and get to her punishment, thought Rhys.

  Raising his arm high, he brought his full hand down on her left cheek with a loud crack.

  Beatrice screamed more from indignation than pain… that would come later.

  Rhys repeated the gesture, satisfied when he saw the unmistakable imprint of his hand on her bottom cheek. His mark. If he had his way, she would never go another day without such a mark from him on her body. With her wild temperament, it was more than a possibility.

  The sound of the leather glove hitting her bare skin made a louder, deeper tone than skin on skin contact. Rhys moved his attention to her right cheek, not relenting till he saw it glow a bright cherry red.

  “Why are you doing this?” she cried out.

  “Because you were a very bad girl riding out into these dark woods all alone. Who knows what kind of dangerous creature you could have encountered?” he admonished.

  “A dangerous creature like you?” she responded spitefully.

  “Precisely.”

  Her ample bottom cheeks jiggled with each strike. After the shock of the initial strike wore off, the pulsing pain started to set in. Her skin was on fire… a burning, stinging fire. With every touch of his open palm, it became harder and harder for her to not beg for mercy. The pain just kept building and building. She had to do something. Shifting up on her elbows, Beatrice opened her mouth and bit down hard on his upper thigh.

  Rhys growled in response, the unexpected pinch from her sharp teeth taking him by surprise. Instead of deterring him, it only incited him on further.

  Digging his fingers into her soft locks, Rhys grabbed a fistful of luxurious hair, wrenching her head back, dislodging her teeth from his flesh. Tears sprung to her eyes from the sharp pangs as he continued to hold onto her hair.

  “Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. Apparently, I am not spanking my fierce feline hard enough,” he darkly observed.

  “Go to hell,” she spit out.

  Rhys lowered his hand on the delicate skin of her upper thigh with a resounding smack. A cry was torn from Beatrice’s lips. Keeping his grip on her hair to hold her still, Rhys continued his assault. Two swirls of crimson marred her creamy skin, the contrast almost painful to view.

  She tried. She tried so hard, but it was too much. The pain. The hot heated pain…as if she were standing perilously close to a fire. Her skin was inflamed and swollen, every strike worse than the last. With each pulse, each movement, even the thought of movement brought a fresh onslaught of torment.

  “Please, please stop,” she cried out as the tears coursed down her cheeks. Her fingernails dug into the fabric of his breeches, no longer in defense but rather in desperation. Balling her fists into the soft wool, she begged, “I beg you. No more.”

  “Do you promise never to ride without an escort again?”

  “Yes! Yes! Anything,” she cried out. It was an easy promise to make. Her usual escorts, the stable boys, were afraid of her and she was a better rider, easily leaving them behind.

  “And to never attempt to jump high gates?”

  Beatrice didn’t respond. This man was nothing to her. As soon as she got herself out of this predicament, she would see him punished and chased off her father’s lands. Lying to him. Telling him what he wanted to hear so her punishment would end should have been easy and yet she couldn’t. The thought of lying to him… and worse, him learning of the lie… filled her with fear.

  Rhys stretched out his long fingers, splaying them across her generous bottom cheek before roughly squeezing the tender flesh.

  Beatrice wailed in distress.

  “Ow! Stop! Stop! Let go!” she pleaded.

  Rhys dug his fingers in deeper, watching as her reddened flesh turned white from the pressure of his hand.

  “I asked you a question, Beatrice,” he reminded, giving no qua
rter.

  “Yes! I promise! I promise,” she screeched. “Just let go!”

  The pain was unbearable. The press of his hand against her bruised flesh caused such a spasm of tortured suffering she became lightheaded from the overpowering sensation.

  “Say it,” he ordered.

  “I won’t do jumps,” she sputtered, tasting the salty tang of her own tears on her lips.

  Rhys used her hair to guide her off his lap. Beatrice winced from the sting of pain against her scalp. He placed her upright on her feet, rising to tower over her petite frame. Beatrice felt small and vulnerable as she took in the breadth of his shoulders, his massive chest and superior height.

  Without saying a word, he began to unlace his leather jerkin, never taking his eyes off her. Beatrice tentatively lowered her hands to try and cover her cunny from his view.

  “Don’t,” he barked. “Hands at your sides.”

  Beatrice obeyed but not without visible reluctance. Despite her recent spanking, she still had fight in her. Watching with trepidation as he disrobed, Beatrice could not explain the throbbing between her legs. It almost matched the pulsing pain of her bottom.

  Shrugging out of the leather vest, Rhys laid it across the bench.

  “On your hands and knees,” he commanded.

  “Please don’t do this,” she whispered.

  “On. Your. Knees.”

  With a choked back sob, Beatrice crawled back onto the bench. Placing her palms and knees on the thick leather of his jerkin. The leather felt warm to the touch. Warmed by his body.

  Beatrice’s body started at the touch of his fingertips on her back.

  Rhys brushed his glove-covered hand over the curve of her lower back, over her punished bottom and down her thigh. Depriving himself the silky feel of her skin, of the sensation of his roughened hand touching her porcelain softness, was the only thing keeping his primal urge to fuck her in check. He would have to settle for the slight feeling of warmth that radiated through the thin leather each time he caressed her punished backside. He would not find release, but he would be damned if he deprived himself of watching hers.