The Fall of Lady Westwood

by Evans, Trent

  She felt his hands close on her arms, squeezing.

  “Sophie. What are you — doing?”

  Running her hand up and down his shaft, she enjoyed the feel of silk over steel, enjoyed the feeling of his maleness in her palm. Then he grunted, pushing her to her back and laying upon her.

  She struggled to spread her legs, to draw him in close. “My legs. Hurry!”

  Her need was overpowering, wanting him inside her, everywhere. She’d never felt this way before, but something within her told her it had to be now. They might never have the chance again. Dread chilled her at the thought.

  Owen freed her ankles, his hands shaking as he worked. She wondered if it was fear or arousal that affected him so. He stood up, and shed the robe quickly.

  She soaked in the gorgeous body, the angles enhanced by the moonlight that poured through the lone window. From the tree root cords at the base of his neck, to the broad shoulders, and defined abdominals, she wanted to trace every inch of those muscles, feel the power of them beneath her hands. Her eyes moved down, and she brought her hand to her mouth, nibbling on a fingertip. She would not have an easy time accommodating him.

  He moved her smock up her body, easing the threadbare fabric over the thrust of her breasts. His breathing quickened as he looked upon her nakedness. His hands took her breasts, tentative at first, then squeezing them firmly, making her moan. He traced the wide brown areolas with shaky fingertips, smiling as her nipples hardened for him. His hand caressed the soft flesh of her belly, the fingers playing with the curls of her sex. He lay upon her once more, his face just inches from hers.

  She felt the hard bar of his erection laid upon her thigh, and her sex spasmed. She was sure she could feel a drop of moisture seep from between her labia. She tensed, knowing what was supposed to happen that first time, the pain that would come. Still she wanted this, wanted this to be with him. For him.

  “I - it might hurt,” he whispered, his voice trembling with excitement. His eyes gleamed as he gazed down into hers. She was touched that he was worried for her.

  If only he knew what she’d already been through.

  “Then hurt me, Owen,” she said, her eyes flashing. She was out of control, she knew, but she wanted to be in control of this, in control of something. She drew in a sharp breath, as he entered her, a shallow tentative thrust at first.

  “Oh Gods,” he whispered, the muscles of his arms bulging as he held himself over her. She adjusted her hips, her heels pulling him closer, and he pushed further.

  “Owen,” she moaned. “More. Slowly.” She was afraid of the pain. She knew her fear was absurd, really, considering what she’d already been subjected to. But this was a different kind of pain, even more intimate.

  Her first intimacy — with her Owen.

  “Sophie,” he said, his breathing heavier. “Are you ready?”

  She closed her eyes, her heart soaring, fear warring with joy at his words. “Owen, please. Love me. Only me.”

  He thrust against her, the flesh resisting a moment, then giving way. She cried out, arching her body under him, her nails digging into the flesh of those muscular arms. The pain was sharp, but not nearly as severe as she’d feared.

  He pushed further, deeper, until she felt his pubic hair against her mound. His body trembled over hers, his breathing coming hard and fast.

  “Owen, please.” She rotated her hips, the hard shaft of his cock moving deeper. She knew she would be sore tomorrow, but she wanted him to move, to take her, to show her what was possible between a man and a woman.

  The pace of his thrusts increased. When she looked up at him, he took her mouth with his, the lips and tongue and teeth growing bolder, more demanding. She loved the feel of his passion, the barely leashed power of his body. His thrusts hurt, and she gasped with the effort to accommodate his size. She was crazy to be doing this here, now, but she’d examine just what the Hell was wrong with her later. Now, there was only this.

  Two bodies, one.

  She’d wanted this more than she’d realized, her sex clamping him harder, despite the pain — or because of it.

  “Sophie!” He grunted, his jaw clenched. “Sophie! I — Oh Gods!”

  She panted along with him, her eyes half-lidded, loving the contrasting sensations of the sting and the luscious slide of his hard maleness deep inside. His hips bucked against hers as he stroked within her, her breath catching as the broad head bottomed out against the mouth of her womb.

  “What about — inside,” he ground out, his thrusting relentless.

  Did she want this to lead to that? The logical result of their lust, their love? She cleaved even closer to him, her body a taut bowstring. The pain, the pleasure; the confusion and joy, was one whirling maelstrom within her.

  “Owen, no. Wait.” Her voice quavered with the rhythmic impact of his hips.

  He sunk to the hilt once more, his whole body shaking. The feel of him so, so deep made her moan.

  “Okay.” Exquisite anguish strained his voice. “Not … yet.”

  He withdrew from her, and she watched, fascinated and strangely bereft, as his fingers, wet with her virgin’s blood, fisted the long, thick penis once, twice. His deep groan rattled in her chest as he spurted his seed upon her, the limpid streams mingling with the matted hair of her pubis.

  She had an insane urge to lick it off of him, to clean his fingers of his semen. She wanted to know what it tasted like; she wondered why she seemed to have turned into an insatiable slut.

  Sophie tried to roll over, but his hand stayed her, firm on her hip. “No.”

  The glint in his eye, the firm set of his jaw, made the heat rise within her sex all over again. His gaze moved down her body, his big sun-browned hand following. She moaned, the flesh still sensitive as his fingers parted her wet folds, the long digits exploring within her sex, the sting of her sore flesh making her gasp. He felt all around inside, his touch gentle, exploring. He moved down her body, his sweaty musculature delicious against her soft, yielding thighs. She felt his breath on her sex, and she tensed.

  “Owen — no. I’m bleeding.” She could feel the flush rise on her chest and neck

  How could he want to?

  He placed a hand over her lips, his other hand continuing its leisurely tour between the soft petals of her labia. His thumb explored the curls at the apex of her slit, the flesh pushed back to expose the focus of her desire. He looked up at her, grinning, his eyes bright in the moonlit room. “It’s so red, so swollen, Sophie.”

  She turned her head away, closing her eyes tightly. She was mortified, but it was true. All she wanted was for him to touch it, to take her away in a flood of pleasure. It was a way to be somewhere else, if only for a moment, a place of pure bliss far removed from the dark, close confines of her miserable cell.

  “Ah, ah!” she blurted out as his thumb moved over the hard button of flesh. “Yes, Owen! More!”

  He laughed, a rumble of pure pleasure in his chest. She writhed beneath him, spreading her thighs wider. Her hands dove into the silky weight of his hair, and she held onto him as he dipped his head. His palm was over her mouth again, tight this time, and she struggled to free herself.

  Then her eyes flew open, as his tongue darted over her congested clit. The sensation had her boiling within moments, and when he closed his soft lips over her inflamed flesh, she screamed into the firm clutch of his palm. Her climax spiraled higher and higher, his tongue playing over her clit again and again as he sucked her deeper into his mouth. Her fists clenched in his hair, pulling his face hard against her gushing sex. His fingers kept moving within her, the hint of an incisor against her clit, and she uttered a soul-deep moan.

  He moved his mouth away, kissing her plump outer labia, his tongue flicking at the tender flesh of her inner lips. She felt his lips moved upon her “I’ve wanted this for so long, Sophie. So long.”

  She sighed, a smile curving her lips. She felt wrung out, her thighs shaking. She stroked his hair, wanting the mo
ment to stretch on for eternity. She could feel him playing with her, twirling her pubic hair that was drenched with his seed. He looked up at her, and lay his cheek upon the delicate flesh of her inner thigh. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, and she flushed all over again, realizing for the first time how strongly the small, cloistered chamber smelled of her arousal.

  “Owen,” she placed a hand on his cheek, and he grinned again, his eyes still closed. Her heart melted at the look of pure contentment on his face. She wanted an eternity of days where she could bring a man such pleasure. But that wasn’t quite right, was it? There was only one man that she wanted, and that man was Owen.

  He crawled slowly up her body, and she bit her lip, watching the rippling of his powerful shoulders, the broad muscles of his back, the hard pectorals. She let out a long pleased sigh as he curled his body around her. For the first time in months, she felt safe. He’d protect her, get her home. After that, who knew? She hoped, but that was all she’d allow herself until she was away from the evil that was House Westwood.

  Pulling her body closer to him, he tucked her head under his chin, his long fingers twirling her locks above her ear. The beat of his heart and the deep sound of his breathing soothed her, brought her back to earth. She laid a hand on his hard chest, her fingertips making tiny circles against his skin.

  “Rest now, Sophie.” He pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head. “We leave soon.”

  Then she closed her eyes, letting relaxation drag her down into the sweet refuge of sleep.

  * * *

  “You don’t have to stay, Arnaud. I told you, he won’t hurt me.”

  Arnaud sat back in the deep red cushions of an ornate chair, his fingers toying with the gold filigree stitched into the arm. “Humor me, Mistress. I only want to ensure your safety.”

  She frowned at him, but inclined her head. “You worry too much, Arnaud.”

  “It is my duty, Mistress.” His dark eyes were sharp, not leaving the woman and the man still laying in her arms. He had helped her move Clayton from the floor to lay on the bed, once more in her embrace, her back propped against the blood red velvet of the headboard. Clayton’s shirt was mostly undone, the smooth planes of a still strong chest laid bare.

  The Lady’s fingers twirled and tugged at his chest hair. Occasionally, she would gently tweak one of the man’s nipples between delicate finger and thumb. Arnaud had discreetly looked away as the Lady had moved aside the top buttons of her robe, allowing Clayton’s head to lie directly upon the olive curves of her generous breasts. The bodice of her chemise had been loosened such that the white lace only just hid her nipples from Arnaud’s gaze.

  “He will want her, Mistress. He won’t leave without her.”

  She winked at her overseer. “If I have my way, neither one of them will be leaving here anytime soon.”

  An unholy screeching noise of metal upon metal sounded from outside, followed by a tremendous boom that seemed to shake the ground beneath their feet. Arnaud stood, his hand on his sword, his eyes darting from the door to the window that looked down upon the courtyard below.

  Lady Westwood’s cool eyes narrowed. “What was that awful —”

  “The portcullis, Mistress.” Arnaud strode for the door. He paused looking back at her. “Stay here. Someone has dropped the gate.”

  The Mistress nodded, slipping out from under Clayton’s unconscious form. She rushed to her wardrobe, retrieving her short sword.

  Walking to the window, she looked down upon the courtyard outside. “Gods,” she whispered, backing slowly away, drawing her sword from the intricately decorated scabbard.

  There was a heavy thud against her door, and she whirled around, both hands on the grip of her weapon. The lethal point of the tip shook before her.

  The door partially opened, and she glided toward it, silent, her blade raised for a killing blow. Then she lowered the sword, her expression puzzled.

  Arnaud slipped through the door, leaning a heavy shoulder against the wood. He threw the bolt and locked it with shaking fingers. He turned his gaze to the Lady. His face looked ashen, his eyes wide, their movement nervous.

  “Mistress, step back I beg you.” He turned back toward the door, bringing his own broadsword up before him. He slowly backed away from the door.

  “How did so many get in Arnaud?” she hissed, her own sword still up, standing somewhat behind the overseer. “Who are they?”

  “It’s the Nocturne, Mistress.”

  “Oh dear Gods. Vampires.”

  The door shuddered, shaking in the heavy frame. A deep rattling growl could be heard on the other side. A strangled, pain-filled scream spiraled upward out in the courtyard, the blood-curdling tone finally cut off mid note.

  “How many,” she whispered, her tongue licking dry lips. “Did you see how many made the keep?”

  “The light was low, Mistress, but there were several. At - at least five.”

  She cursed under her breath.

  “By the door, Arnaud,” the Lady said, shoving his shoulder. “They’ll let their guard down if they see only me.”

  He nodded, skirting around the room, until his shoulder pressed against the wall, just to the side of the doorway. Another harder thud on the door, and both Arnaud and the Lady jerked.

  Horses began whinnying and then screaming outside in the stables. The tearing, dry sound of wood being shattered could be clearly heard. There was the irregular clop of hooves, then a man yelling at someone to get out of the way, his voice cracking with strain.

  The door shuddered, then part of it gave way, splinters and dust flying into the room. A large hand reached through the hole in the wood, the long fingers tipped with sharp gray nails. The remainder of the door groaned and blew inward, pieces of wood striking the Lady. She cried out, raising her sword and moving forward. Two of the black-clad nocturne, both easily a head taller than Arnaud’s six feet, strode into the room, their movement startlingly quick.

  Arnaud’s sword slashed up into the torso of the second vampire. There was a great wet-sounding cry and the figure pitched forward clutching at the bloody gash left by the sword’s blade. The first vampire turned in a swift fluid movement, grasping Arnaud around the throat and pinning him against the wall. The overseer emitted a high pitched gurgle, scratching at the arm that held him. Arnaud’s tongue lolled out of his mouth, his eyes wide with terror.

  Lady Westwood struck then, running the sword completely up under the vampire’s arm, the blade plunging deep into the upper chest. She staggered back as the vampire, yelling in pain, lashed at her with his free hand, the sword left to vibrate in his body.

  The vampire grasped the grip of the sword and ran it back out, pained grunting accompanying the passage of the lethal blade. Arnaud gasped repeatedly, still struggling against the implacable hand around his throat.

  The vampire that Arnaud had cut down stood haltingly up, and turned his gaze to the Lady. It was then that she could see the brilliant flaming silver of the eyes. She screamed then, stumbling backwards. “No! No!”

  The vampire flashed forward, gripping her by the hair and cranking her head back. “You’re coming with us, Lady Westwood.” He looked back at his companion, who still held the overseer pinned against the wall.

  The vampire holding Arnaud moved close to the man, until their faces were inches apart. “Where we’re going you cannot follow, human.”

  The vampire’s mouth filled with long gray fangs. Arnaud struggles intensified, the man uttering a high-pitched squealing. Then the vampire chewed into Arnaud’s throat, tearing the larynx out, then biting deeper, the dying man’s bright blood pouring out onto the vampire’s wrist and forearm.

  The Lady screamed, clawing at the arm holding her hair fast. The vampire holding her drew close, his fiery gaze locked with hers. “Before we go, there is something else I want from you, my Lady.”

  “Kill me! Please! Make it quick, I beg you.” Her hands clamped on to the vampire’s wrist, pulling at it.

&nbs
p; “Oh, what would be the fun in that, Lady Westwood? We have much more planned for you, we do.”

  The vampire holding Arnaud threw his lifeless body to the floor as it were a child’s doll. He nodded at Miriam. “We need to move quickly, Marshall.”

  She screamed again when she saw the fangs of the vampire holding her lengthen, his eyes burning yet brighter. The vampire wrenched her head back exposing the vulnerable throat. She gasped as the fangs sank into the delicate flesh of her neck. Her arms weakened then dropped away, limp. His hand traveled down her torso as he drank from her, squeezing a plump breast through the thin lace of her chemise. Her whole body soon grew still, consciousness leaving her.

  * * *

  Sophie lay with her chin on Owen’s chest, luxuriating in the sound of his breathing. She could see his eyes moving under the lids. Was he dreaming? Dreaming of her?

  She kissed his firm flesh, rubbing her cheek against the thin layer of light hair there. She suspected he’d have a hairy chest — her favorite kind — when he was older, but now in his comparative youth, he only had the hint of it. She wondered if she might be getting too far ahead of herself, but she tried to picture what he’d look like when he was older, perhaps even his father Isaac’s age? A beautiful lad would no doubt grow to be a beautiful man as well.

  She heard a sharp cry.

  Owen’s head snapped up, his eyes blinking rapidly. Then he was off the bed in a heartbeat, pulling his robes back on.

  “What is it?” She struggled at her shift, trying to get it to move down her sweat-soaked flesh.

  “Something’s happening. We need to go.”

  She scrambled off her bed.

  There was a piercing sound of groaning metal, then the whole building seemed to shake, dust falling from the ceiling. Owen cursed.

  “Is this part of the plan, Owen?”

  “It’ll be alright, Sophie.” The haunted look in his eyes told her the truth of it though. She swallowed hard, willing herself not to panic.