A Deal to Be Done

by Lucy Leven

  The Beast quirked an eyebrow. “Do you find something of interest, lass?”

  “Oh, I do,” she told him, and the sudden breathiness of her tone was unintentional, though useful. “And I long for it, Beast. I crave it. I wish for you inside of me. I wish for you to look at me as you take me apart ”

  “Then as the Lady Nicolette wishes.”

  The Beast kissed her. Deep, a plundering of her mouth. His warm touch set her ablaze from the tip of her nose to the tip of her toes.

  “I wish for us to be bare,” she said with a gasp. “That is what I wish.”

  She pulled away from the Beast but a breath, reached behind herself so that she might begin to undress. And it was then that she came a cropper: her fine gowns were a puzzle of laces and stays with which the castle’s hands always gave her aid. She could not make head nor tail of them on her own, and on her own she was, for the Beast only watched her struggle, smiling, and made no attempt to help.

  Nicolette tugged and tugged at what laces she could reach, and on the fiercest of those tugs came the tear of ripping fabric. Her laces loosed but a little, and her breasts spilled from their confinement, though only enough to let her nipples tip free.

  “Oh, blast it!” she exclaimed.

  And had she exclaimed but a shade louder, Nicolette might not have heard that distant thud, as though a book tumbling from a shelf, then a single aborted gasp, almost contained.

  Her eyes dashed to the shadows, and though she could see nothing but those shadows, she realised all at once. “Oh, he watches us,” she whispered. To the Beast she turned. To the Beast she said, “Beast, Willeme watches us.”

  “He does,” the Beast said, no surprise in his voice. He already knew.

  The smallest whine broke from Nicolette, unbidden, at the thought of Willeme seeing her so, a wave of hot sensation breaking upon her at the thinking of that thought. And it was not a sensation of mortification, nor discomfiture. It was, she realised, a feeling of hot excitement. A passion of it, and Nicolette discovered that she liked it well indeed.

  The Beast cocked his head as he reached up to twist a curl at her nape. “I will command him to leave should you wish it, lass.”

  Amidst her dislike of Willeme, Nicolette was surprised to find that even she could summon some small measure of pity for him. “Perhaps,” she said, “perhaps he does not wish us to know that he is here. Perhaps it is that he fears your rebuke.”

  “There are many doors to this library,” the Beast said, his voice low and for Nicolette alone. “If Willeme wished to leave us unseen, he could have done so long ago.”

  Nicolette’s breath caught upon a strange half-gasp as heat flared anew, wet and luscious, between her thighs. “He— he chooses to watch us then?”

  The Beast tipped his chin, his eyes warm and full of mischief. “He does.”

  “Oh…” With a shivering rush of feeling, Nicolette understood, and in that very same moment, she understood the Beast’s intent, the sly wonder of it. “Then,” she began, pressing closer to the Beast, “if we are to intrude upon Willeme’s precious time with his precious books, it would only be polite of us to offer him an enjoyable viewing, would it not?”

  The Beast’s mouth quirked, a glint of his sharp teeth. “Only polite,” he agreed. And in his gold glimmering eyes, Nicolette could see her own expression of mischief reflected back at her. “What is it, lass?” he asked.

  “I want him to see me,” she whispered, “as I want you to see me.” Nicolette pushed herself up from the Beast’s lap, stood up, stood back. “To see all of me.”

  The Beast’s eyes shocked golden then, a flash of magic so bright in the deep and growing shadows that for but a heartbeat it seemed like the sun was high again. But the magic faded in an instant, and in its stead, in the hearth, the fire roared into life anew, bathing them in warm, molten light.

  The Beast’s magic, unseen, whispered back, and rushed over Nicolette in turn, the softest breath of a touch, and she was bare before the flames had settled. The Beast stood, came within a handspan of her. She could feel his heat, his strength. “To your liking, my lady?” he asked upon a low, theatrical bow.

  “Indeed, kind sir,” Nicolette said, attempting a curtsy of her own, one that quickly reminded her why curtsies were usually attempted in full skirts and heavy gowns.

  She stumbled a step, but the Beast caught her, and laughing, lifted her with an ease that seemed especially beastly, lifted her until her thighs were slung over his shoulders and her back was to the cool stone of the wall, so high above him, so high above the flagstones.

  Nicolette gasped at the sudden rearrangement, and she had barely found her bearings when the Beast pressed a hot, sucking kiss to the inside of one soft thigh, the other, and then all at once, he put his mouth to her, and whatever bearings Nicolette may have had, she lost them altogether.

  She gripped the Beast’s hair tight as he licked up into her, as his mouth cupped her as his hand had before, that morning in the rose garden, all heat and desire and tempting wetness.

  And then there was no thought within her to give to remembrance, for everything, all sensation and feeling, every shred of her being, centred on the press of his mouth against her quim, the play of his tongue against her bud.

  Oh, he was so clever. So, so very clever.

  Nicolette tipped her head back against the wall, hauling in heaving breaths that heaved her breasts in turn. A sound stuttered from her throat — half a moan, half a whine, wholly ragged. Of all the ways he liked to pleasure her, she wondered that this was not the one she enjoyed best of all.

  “Oh, Beast,” she whispered. “Oh, your mouth. Oh, your clever, clever mouth.”

  But the Beast, it seemed, lived to torment her, for he pulled back then, though only a little, just enough to look up at her as she glanced down at him, surprised. And that was why Nicolette saw the moment he flicked at her bud with the very tip of his tongue and felt it just the same. She hissed her pleasure, her fingers grasping tight in the Beast’s dark hair.

  “Does he watch us still, lass?” the Beast whispered, his breath hot against her while her nerves sang from his searing touch.

  Nicolette fought for sense amidst the haze of hot sensation. “Wh—what?”

  “Willeme,” the Beast said. “Does your tutor watch us yet, lass?”

  Willeme. Oh, Willeme.

  That he must have seen her, lost so to her pleasure, and pleasured in turn by the Beast. Nicolette keened a little, quiet and broken. Oh, the thought of it was so delicious.

  Through her lashes, she looked to the shadows, hoping so dearly, and saw a glint of eyes in turn, wide in the darkness, watching her back.

  “He does yet watch us,” she whispered. “I do not think that he has even blinked.”

  A huff of a laugh against her quim. A shivering spike of pleasure at the heat of its touch.

  “Good,” the Beast said. “Then shall we give him more to watch, do you think?”

  Nicolette shivered anew at the thought of it, and of the thought of the pleasure yet to come. “Oh, yes,” she said. “Oh, please.”

  The Beast wrapped strong arms around her middle, guiding her down, until she held her thighs tight around his hips and her hands clasped behind his neck. To the table he went, pushing aside her exercise books and chalk-scuffed slates, and laid her there instead.

  Nicolette watched, idly slipping her fingers through her curls, down to play with her throbbing quim, as the Beast reached for the laces of his leathers.

  And that was when Nicolette realised — he meant only to free his prick.

  All at once, she sat up and grabbed for his wrist, stopping him. “No, Beast,” she insisted. “Your skin upon my skin. That is what I wanted. That is what I still want.”

  And what Nicolette wanted, the Beast so seldom denied her. “As it pleases you, lass.”

  He loosed himself from her grip, stepped back, and Nicolette watched with eager eyes the unveiling of hewn muscle and warm skin, like
the unwrapping of a longed-for present.

  The Beast stood before her bare, all of him licked by firelight. The sight of his prick, so hard and thick, standing so proud, made her mouth water. Oh, how she longed for it. How she longed for him.

  But long she need do no more: the Beast held out a hand and motioned her to him.

  And for a moment, confused, Nicolette could only blink at him, wondering how he expected her to stand after the splendid licking he had given her, for her legs still felt as steady as a posset pot.

  But her hand she gave him, and with it, the Beast pulled her to him, lifted her again, so very easily, and set her thighs about his hips once more.

  Then, he held her where he stood, letting her weight loose only but a little, letting her slide, drawing her down into his lap and onto his big, hard prick, the wondrous girth of it, the wonderful length of it, until he had seated himself fully, until Nicolette clenched tight around him, so full and fulfilled.

  She could not help but moan at the sensation of the Beast within her, an inarticulate, racked noise that she did nothing to stop, nor to quieten. For she felt so filled she could barely contain herself.

  Though he held her strong enough and steady enough, Nicolette did not ride the Beast. She did not, as was her usual wont, set them to some wild rhythm. But the rhythm she did set was an ancient, primal thing all the same. She rolled her hips against him, again and again, as the ocean waved, as the fierce, wintering winds bent the boughs of the Dark Forest.

  And she came apart time and time again, her quim ablaze with hot, wonderful sensation, her bud a spark of seemingly never-ending pleasure.

  But that pleasure had to end, and when it did, so Nicolette slid from the Beast’s strong arms and to her knees she went. There, she got her hands upon him, worked him long and well, worked him to his own completion, and let him spend his pleasure on her cheeks, on her breasts, in her mouth, lapped up every last drop she could find.

  The Beast pulled his abandoned chair to him, and pulled Nicolette to him in turn. He placed her in his lap and kissed her as she kissed him, deep and long, tasting one another and the pleasure they had spent.

  The Beast pulled back but a little to speak his words across her bitten-red lips. “A valuable day of lessons.”

  “Most valuable,” Nicolette agreed. “And quite successful, I think?”

  “More than successful, I would wager.”

  And they both pretended not to hear the quiet tread of feet across the library’s flagstones, nor that ragged gasp of tormented breath, nor the quiet creak of a closing door.

  A Heart’s Desire

  Nicolette was bored and in dire need of entertainment — entertainment which the Beast refused to provide.

  “I am engaged at present,” the Beast told her as he strode through the Great Hall, Nicolette at his heels. “Have you not your lessons with Willeme to entertain you?”

  “Not for an age yet,” Nicolette said, a whine rising. “And little does that matter, for he claims to be engaged with his work also.”

  The Beast’s laugh was a warm thing, though distracted. “Then the solution is clear, lass: you must entertain yourself for now.”

  “But—”

  In truth, the Beast did look occupied. Under one arm, he held an old, ragged scroll; in his other hand a bundle of letters, one of which bore a heavy, regal-looking seal.

  Still, “But I wish to be tumbled,” she tried again, and upon pouted lip this time. “And I do not wish to tumble myself.”

  But the Beast did not stop. “Then ask it of the castle,” he told her from over his shoulder, passing from the room, “and she shall conjure your heart’s desire.”

  Nicolette watched him go, frowning as she stood in the empty expanse of the hall. She felt hot within her skin and a tumbling from the Beast would have remedied that.

  The castle was always a generous, gentle lover, but today, she wished for more than simply hidden hands.

  A heart’s desire, the Beast had said. Surely to conjure such a thing would be the work of the most powerful magic, and if it was powerful magic she sought, and the Beast would not provide it, then she knew just where to go.

  In the gardens and orchards and follies beyond, winter lay hard all around, the trees bare, the frosts thick. But in the rose garden, summer still reigned in all her wondrous, lush splendour.

  Every wall was a tapestry of delicate pink blooms. Even upon the heavy gate, with its tangled briars, the roses grew, and the winter sky overhead in its pale, powdered blue could easily have been taken for a midsummer sky.

  A breeze, strangely warm, shifted through Nicolette’s hair like a questioning touch. The castle wondered at her intent. So she took the Beast at his word and told the castle of how she wished to be taken, to be handled, and not gently. She told the castle all that her heart desired. And when she was done, a hand touched her cheek, trailed a fingertip along the plushness of her bottom lip, a soft, reassuring touch.

  I know your heart’s desire, it seemed to say. And that heart’s desire I shall grant to you.

  So Nicolette let the castle undress her, let it draw her from her fine gown and delicate underthings. Then she laid herself out on her front upon the grass, well enjoying the prickle of the blades tickling her stomach and the thought of what a sight she must make.

  And as that thought sparked a shivering thrill through her, she slipped a hand beneath herself, slipped it downwards to tickle at her bud, to spread the slipping slickness of her growing wetness, to wind herself up into the most glorious frenzy of want.

  But no release did she grant herself. For that, she wished to see what the castle had in mind.

  So Nicolette got her knees under herself, spread her legs wide, arched her back, low and wanton, canted her hips to the clear winter sky, presented herself like a bitch ready for the mounting.

  And then she waited — for no longer than the span of a few delicious, anticipatory heartbeats, she waited. Then, a shimmer of magic in the air, a person taking form behind her, a gentle touch to her hip. And all at once, Nicolette knew: this was her man of shadows, her man of ink-stained skin, the phantom who haunted her most wonderful dreams.

  A heavy breath of surprise broke as it left her lips, broke into a quiet, ragged moan.

  Still she could not see much of him. Only his strong, thick calves, his feet, the hand that reached down to press at her hip, to smooth up her side, then down again, a teasing, tempting touch. That touch scraped a little, deliciously teasing, as though her lover’s fingertips were calloused, but his hand was broad and warm all the same.

  And so was the other. He took hold of both her hips, his touch sure and steady, and in the next instant came the slow, delicious press and slide of his thick, hard prick into her ready quim. Not the Beast’s prick. Not that wondrous, monstrous delight. But this prick’s girth was still more than pleasing. As was the skill of the man who wielded it.

  Nicolette sighed in building pleasure and hot satisfaction, pushing back to meet his every stroke. There was something pleasingly methodical in the way he handled her, in the studied manner he tumbled her, as though with every careful thrust, he calculated angles and degrees so as best to please her, so as to wring every drop of pleasure from her being.

  But Nicolette’s being was a contrary one, and despite the hot, high pleasure her smoke-shadow lover gave to her, she wanted more. She wanted to tangle herself in his careful control, to snap it and break it as she broke the blades of grass beneath her.

  She wanted to wrap her thighs tight around his middle and twine her arms snug around his neck, so that they might rut together unbidden, two bodies as one, sharing but a single breath between them.

  And her mind was a tumble of all the things she wanted and wished for as her smoke-shadow lover tumbled her to a sweet release in his wonderfully methodical way.

  Suddenly, as a notion that had never before occurred, Nicolette found what she also wished for was to see her so-called heart’s desire, her dream of sh
adows and smoke.

  But he had not yet spilled his pleasure. His vigour was still hot and hard and insistent. She felt the subtle cant of his hips, a slide towards movement, drawing a fresh spark of twitching pleasure.

  And with it, she wriggled free from his gentle touch, from the silken sheathing of his prick — wriggled free before he could begin to pleasure her anew, and turned herself on the dewy grass.

  “I wish to see you,” she said, gazing up into the slip-sliding shadows that gave form to her clever lover. “Please. It is all I want. Might I see you?”

  A touch of smoke and shadow brushed across the soft skin of her cheek. Yes, it said. Yes, see you might.

  “Oh, thank you.”

  Heavy-eyed, so resplendent with her lingering pleasure and soft contentment that she felt aglow, Nicolette watched in fascination as the faint shadows thickened and firmed and coalesced into true being. Until above her, watching her in turn, was a man — a man of flesh and blood and not a little magic.

  And a man she knew.

  His dark hair hung about his face, not contained in its usual neat queue, but his wide, pale eyes were just the same.

  Willeme.

  Nicolette gasped, overcome, utterly, with the shock of his being there.

  She knew that this phantom was not Willeme — not the real Willeme — but this Willeme was still real, and the way he had touched her and handled her and pleasured her was real also.

  The way he looked at her — questioning, fond. That was real. The way he waited on her approving word before he touched her again. That was real. And that…

  That she wanted.

  “Oh, please,” Nicolette whispered.

  Willeme’s smoke-shadow twin smiled down at her, a real smile, no mockery in it, his thin mouth curved with true and quiet joy.