by Shirl Anders
Drummond tried to find his voice, but it rasped, “You are not going with the Archangels or be involved.”
Gabriella’s fingers found the crease of his ass, tracing it. Et oh! Another, “zone.”
“I know, darling,” she answered, much too acquiescent, he thought, when he could think, with Gabriella’s fingers now spread out over the rumps of his buttocks as she kneaded them. He had always known he was an ass man. He delighted in playing with his wife’s, but he’d never considered his own much, until . . .
A groan rumbled uncontrolled from his throat as one of Gabriella’s oily fingers slid and burrowed through the crevice of his ass. His cock seemed to be connected to the sensation and it pounded strongly. Incredibly, his ass itched to rise upward, and he fought the urge to crawl up on his knees, while his mind vicariously wondered just how far his lovely wife might go in this direction. Whether it was balking on his part or actually hidden aroused thoughts over the matter, he could not digest at the moment.
“We were cheated of twenty-five years, Drummond. Years we missed the pleasure of each other, and now it nearly makes me weep or crumble to even think of being away from you for any length of time.”
Damnation, the woman was merciless, ruthless! “Ah,” he groaned as his ass lifted and Gabriella’s small finger circled his anus. Another, “zone” of incomparable proportions. She leaned forward over his back again with her breasts rolling, as her heated breath touched his ear.
“I want to, Drummond. A little prod, but I will not if you do not find it arousing.”
Good Christ! Drummond jerked his head more to the side, getting part of Gabriella’s mouth in a heated kiss. She must have taken this as a yes, because he could feel somewhere inside him the feeling that he knew meant that she had . . .
“Ah,” His cock nearly ejaculated.
“Oh, darling!” Gabriella mewled as she scooted back more, freeing his legs and ass. Then, while his thighs spread open wider, her finger stroked shallowly, while her other oily hand began to frolic with his balls.
Heaven help him, he came up onto his knees with his engorged cock burning it was so hard, as he literally begged like a fool. “Oh Christ, Orchid, stroke my cock.”
“Oh yes!” she exclaimed passionately. “This is just as I envisioned it!”
His wife envisioned wicked and naughty things that pushed him to an edge he’d never been on before. While her finger began rhythmically stroking in his ass, her tongue suddenly lapped against his balls from behind, and her other hand squeezed around his cock . . . pumping it.
“Fuck!” he charged, losing his control, as his wife milked a thrashing ejaculation from him, while finger fucking his ass.
Fertile imagination, his ass, Drummond thought. His wife was kinky in the best and most lavish sense of the word, and his cock spewed seed, four times, until his knees nearly collapsed, and his chest heaved in great billows. He twisted his neck, shook his head, tried to catch his breath as Gabriella lifted her finger from his ass, but lovingly kept licking his ball sacs. He was on his hands and knees, with his legs spread, and he considered tentatively that it was not such a bad position, if all done properly.
“What was the razor for?” His breath still heaved.
“Mm mm,” Gabriella’s warm tongue lifted from his balls. “I was going to shave your balls, but I have decided that I really love them hairy instead.”
Drummond’s flaccid cock twitched. Impossible! “You are not going to go along with the Archangels!” he growled.
“I know,” she answered sweetly, too sweetly by far and he knew his wife’s campaign had just begun!
He was in for it...
Chapter Four
As she walked, Kit squinted again at the address on the letter in her hand. Paris addresses were hard for her American mind to make out, and Clay’s scribbled writing did not help. Thank the Lord, she had been able to lose her husband at the dock. She’d made her way into Paris, arriving last night and had managed to find a hotel that was respectable enough for her to stay in. Not that she’d gotten much sleep. She found she was much too keyed up at being so close to discovering where her brother was. She’d even thought to use a false surname at the hotel, just in case Nick was more industrious than she thought he was.
But he was behind her now and she was determined to leave the embarrassment of her monumentally bad choice in marriage behind her. She had much more important matters to attend to. It had taken a lot of willpower not to go out searching for Clay last night, feeling that all her worries could easily be set aside if he was still at his Paris apartment, just being stubborn in the end, and refusing to write to her these last six months. Hearing about their father’s illness might have made Clay retreat into himself, or he could be sitting in his flat drinking French wine, brooding, and playing his piano. His one true love in life was music.
Nevertheless, while she may have been confident enough to gallop a horse on the road to Paris on her own, she had enough commonsense to not try to wander alone in Paris at night. Paris was the largest city she’d ever been in besides New York City. The sprawl of Paris awed her, when her normal bases of reference were vast and wide-open spaces.
Kit stopped at what looked to be the address, a well-laid brick building, in what appeared to be a nice section of Paris. Clay was not without his resources. While his passion might be music, he had taken his knowledge of raising cattle and turned it into profit. From his letters, Kit understood that Clay had used his personal relationship with many cattle-ranchers in America to ship beef cattle to France, and the price was high here for the American bred delicacy.
Kit knew there would be several larger apartments in the building. It did not surprise her when she walked through the gate and stepped into a well-kept patio garden. On the far side was the front door with a large iron pull-bell placed out front. Just as her gloved hand reached upward to pull the bell, the front door pushed open toward her, and she quickly stepped back, hearing the burr of a baritone voice saying, “Aye, Mademoiselle lass, ye keep my card and think on it. I just want to look, and I’d take nothing. Maybe help, when it’s all said and done.”
Mademoiselle lass, Kit thought, what queer turn of phrasing, while her mind registered and placed the Scottish accent. The accent seemed so out of place to her mind set of Paris. Then suddenly, a large man passed her on the front steps. Kit barely saw the man as he tipped his head in a polite gesture, then he was past her. Had she turned around to watch him leave, she might have seen him pause to look back at her. Instead, she was left looking at a middle-aged woman standing in the entryway.
What passed next, to Kit, was a dance in French pantomime and American as she tried to converse with the lady and make known her wishes to see her brother. In the end, her savior was the arrival of the lady’s English speaking, twelve-year-old son. The son informed her that his name was Pier and his mother’s name was Mademoiselle Lillian. They lived on the bottom floor of the building and oversaw the tenants for the owners.
The next piece of information Pier imparted was quite disturbing. He said Monsieur Clayton lived there no more. Luckily, Kit rallied, and asked more probing questions. At first, Pier and Mademoiselle Lillian were hesitant to say anything until she showed Pier a letter from her brother. Fortunately, he could read English as well as speak it, and quickly understood that she was Clayton’s sister. This changed the dynamic considerably. Mademoiselle Lillian now saw her as a way to recover unpaid rents she adamantly felt were due to her.
Upon hearing all of this, Kit nearly had the hope that Clay had run out on them. Her mind quickly skipped to hopeful possibilities such as he’d fallen on hard times. However, that hope was dashed when Mademoiselle Lillian informed her, through Pier, that she was almost ready to sell Clay’s personal belongings to recover part of the money owed.
Kit hastily assured them that she would pay the rent owed and that she wanted all of Clay’s personal property. Once this was clear, Mademoiselle Lillian became more relaxed and co
nversational again. Soon, Pier, with key in hand, was taking Kit to Clay’s apartment.
“When was the last time you saw, Clayton, Pier?” Kit asked as they climbed the narrow stairs. They passed two flights and two other doors that Kit assumed were other apartments.
“It was on zee day before Bastille Day. I remember well. Monsieur Clayton would wave on his way to zee café in the morning, or he would stop and throw the ball to me. I like those days. Then, he was no more, and I think he would say adieu.”
Yes, he would, Kit thought, with a twinge. Clay was always good to children. Dread silently built inside her at the thought of how long Clay had been gone, that and the fact all his personal property was still there.
Hours later, Kit emerged from a hired carriage outside the Commissionaire de Police building in Paris. All her fears were confirmed and running rampant, really. Clay was actually missing, and for no outward or discernible reason. Foul play, screamed inside Kit’s head as she straightened the folds of her mocha-colored walking dress. She’d taken the time to return to her hotel to change her clothes after searching Clay’s apartment for clues. She’d dressed in an elegant outfit with accessories. They were clothes that by their very quality and presence spoke of money. Deep pockets, her father would say. Show them you mean business by your appearance and demeanor alone.
She did mean business, Kit thought firmly, as she adjusted her deep chocolate-colored hat with a mink-edge, set off with a black veil scripted with flowers. She meant to file a report with the Paris police that her brother was missing and she meant for them to listen to her and to take her seriously. Or at least think that she had money enough to cause a monumental fuss, Kit thought, which was halfway true. She came from money, but whether she had any money any more was up in the air. Nonetheless, she knew somewhat how to carry off the ruse of a moneyed person. After years of watching her father, she would use it like he would and bite back any hesitations she felt at trying to do so. The world was very much a man’s world and not easy for a female to get her voice heard.
But she’d been brave enough to leave Nick behind, hadn’t she? Oh yes! Only she wished she could not hear the echo of Nick’s voice in the back of her mind telling her over and over how incompetent she was. The true mystery was, why did she care what he thought?
Kit started to climb the fifty or so steps to the entrance of the Commissionaire de Police building. Perhaps, it was because she had started to care for Nick, in the beginning, but now she would not let Nick’s falseness win. She’d been a shadow in her father’s life, because she was a girl. Yet even then, she’d tried to outdo, to show her worth. She would now too, she thought. Nothing had ever felt more important to her or urgent in her life. Clay had always treated her as significant, nearly an equal. Maybe it was the adversity that Clay had to endure by being what people thought was different. A lover of men, what their father thought was perverted.
Kit nodded her head to the uniformed man who opened the doors to people entering. Then, she swept inside, hoping that she looked like she was an important presence. She’d searched Clay’s entire apartment and the more that she’d looked through his things, the more urgent the knowledge came to her that this was not a man gone off on some unexplained wandering, but a man suddenly ripped out of an active and thriving life.
While she found little to explain to her what could have happened to him, she did find things that told how abruptly he’d disappeared, leaving important matters undone in his business. There were written missives from any number of sources asking where their shipments were, what the time schedules were, and demanding Clay contact them immediately. Many of these had been unopened, collected in a pile of waiting mail that Mademoiselle Lillian had taken delivery of when she could not reach Clay. Kit had opened each one, feeling more desperate with each one that she read. Clay would not do this. He would never do this!
In Clay’s apartment, Kit had found only one good avenue to pursue, and that was the name of a man that had written Clay a love letter. She’d found it tucked in the bedside table and it looked as if it had been read many times. By Clay, she assumed. It surprised her to find that it sounded like any other love letter one might read between a man and a woman. But this was man to man with deep heartfelt feelings, and while Kit had felt like a voyeur, she’d also felt the tug of her heart. This man, Marco Remior, cared for her brother.
So, she would rouse the police to the best of her ability, and after that she would find Marco Remior and begin her own search. No matter what it took! Or what she had to do. She would find Clay, because she loved him deeply.
Thus fortified and inwardly emboldened, Kit fairly marched with authority to the reception counter inside the Commissionaire de Police of Paris.
Chapter Five
Lady Chloe Ravenscar stood in perfect stillness with her naked body freshly oiled from her neck to her toes by her husband’s roughly scarred hands. “Raven,” she passionately called him, but his real name was Lord Harrison Ravenscar.
Her oil-slick flesh gleamed, illuminated by the numerous candles lit about the bedchamber. It cast her skin to ivory with the lightest yellow tint, while touching shadows here and there over her feminine curves. Glistening darker shadows beneath her heavy full breasts, barely traced shadows over the slightly rounded protrusion of her soft belly. Never to be flat again, after bearing two children, nor her breasts as uplifted or compact.
She had given Raven a daughter, and she realized in the depths of her soul, by Buddha’s great wisdom, that with the gift of a child, she had soothed some of the wounds in Raven’s heart. Her first child, Sebastian, was not Raven’s. Yet, Raven treated him as his own. But there was a special bond between Niella, their one-year-old daughter and Raven, not because Niella was his blood, but because she was his daughter. The peace inside Raven had started after they had committed their love to each other as man and woman. Then, it had grown these several years and enlarged greatly with the arrival of their daughter.
Raven had brooded less and smiled more, even laughing with his children. He had become more open with his family and friends. The peace inside him had flourished with warmth, to be strong and true.
Until tonight.
This week a demon lurked. It thrashed its ugly head, and Chloe thought she knew why the demon had returned. It was because Raven thought they would expect him to kill again, to return to being an assassin. The moment last week when Chloe had heard Joelle telling the tale of her, Saxon, and The Order of the Satyr, Chloe had felt it too. The demon’s talons had scraped her soul and frightened her. Raven would not survive again. He could not go back to what he was, just as she could not go back to what she was. She was Raven’s woman now, which between them meant much more than simply being his wife.
Raven looked at the gleaming sculptured shapes and curves of his woman standing nude before him, while he slowly circled her. The animal within him was rising again. It was dark and lewd, filled with unnatural cravings. It aroused him to try to hold it at bay, even as he assuaged its unreasonable cravings. Chloe knew it lusted for her. He could see her reaction in the circle of her nipples, puckered a dusky rose, with her nipple tips jutting outward in deeper red. Below, the lips of her cunt took on a light rouge color. The slit clearly seen and vulnerable, glistening wet. Her ass, his personal treasure, was round with the feminine globes shivering lightly.
She feared the animal. She desired the animal. She loved his barely edged control of it. She sensed the heightened danger this time, even as she submitted to him. She would forever be the only thing that could save him.
His wife exuded the warm aroma of cinnamon and husky arousal as he stopped, fully clothed in an open edged shirt and dark britches before her. He held a roughly braided rope coiled in his left hand, one end hanging freely. Chloe’s almond eyes traveled along its length to the frayed end. He lifted the frayed end of the rope up to her lips, brushing their full bowed-shape lightly as her brandy eyes deepened to dark whiskey.
“Kiss it,”
he whispered, with his rasping voice barely sounding in low insidious drawn out vibrations.
The allure of Chloe’s lips plumped as they kissed the roughened hemp. The movement swayed the lustrous and straight length of her black hair around her bare waist, as she suddenly exclaimed, “I beg to go with you! Don’t leave me!”
Harrison felt shock stiffen through his lean muscular frame, even as he rasped, “No!”
Harrison knew Chloe did not plead for him to take her into the submission and ecstasy of the moment. Their bond was not just of the body, but of the mind and soul. She would not tempt the fates to beg anything from him that he did not already give her, unless the demand inside her was forcefully out of control. But his devious and lecherous mind twisted this with the perverted logic that what he was about to do to her had just been proven, was needed.
He was completely confident that in a short amount of time he would have Chloe mindlessly aroused beneath his command of her. It was clear that she needed his direction. He would provide it, and she craved their unique kind of passion as much as he did. It was what bound them and made them one together.
Harrison moved then, walking to Chloe’s side, then behind her. He let out more length of the frayed end of the rope, while lowering his hand, until the end dangled against Chloe’s oily buttocks. He snaked the end along the plush crease of her ass, watching her ivory flesh shiver alive with the sensation.
“Please,” she whispered.
Damn it, his mind cursed. “Put your wrists behind your back, Rosebud.” Just saying his pet name for Chloe stroked his cock. Her hesitation showed her reluctance.
But her wrists still moved behind her back. “Raven, I need to talk to you,” she tried.
“No,” he uttered with his hoarse voice, and he meant more than saying no to talking. His woman knew that. He roped her wrists once, but he held the hemp closed by his grip alone, without a knot. He pulled the rope, lifting her wrists behind her, arching her back and thrusting her naked breasts outward. She gasped a sound of excitement as he stepped to her side, lifting his free hand with the rope held coiled up to her throat. He grasped the slender column knowing the rope would be rough against her silky flesh, while the looped ends would sway and abrade the bare flesh of her breasts. He arched her neck back, bending her until his lips hovered with harsh breathing over her open and slightly panting mouth.
