Table of Contents
By the Same Author
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Introduction
Chapter 1 Whose Dream Is It Anyway?
Chapter 2 Smoke and Mirrors
Chapter 3 Inner Light, Inner Dark
Chapter 4 Therapy
Chapter 5 Going Under
Chapter 6 Trust Issues
Chapter 7 Across the Rubicon
Chapter 8 Duplicity
Chapter 9 Cry Havoc
Chapter 10 True Confessions
Chapter 11 Lust for Life
Chapter 12 The Cavalry
Chapter 13 The Ties that Bind
Chapter 14 Show Me the Grimoire
Chapter 15 Endgames
Chapter 16 Aftermath
Epilogue
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Gothic Heat
'You have beautiful hands,' she purred, 'very skilful.' Still holding him, she sat up, letting the sheet fall to reveal her breasts and belly. 'Would you like to touch me now?' She drew his hand to her breast, closing it around the soft resilient orb and pressing his fingers down over a nipple that was erect and puckered. As his grip tightened reflexively, a man's natural response to a lush breast against his hand, she made a low sound in her throat and tipped her head back, closing her eyes and moaning and pressing herself more closely into his hold.
By the same author:
Continuum
Entertaining Mr Stone
Gemini Heat
Gothic Blue
Hotbed
Lust Bites
Magic and Desire
Shadowplay
Suite Seventeen
The Devil Inside
The Stranger
The Tutor
Gothic Heat
Portia Da Costa
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
ISBN 9780753516577
Version 1.0
www.randomhouse.co.uk
Black Lace books contain sexual fantasies.
In real life, always practise safe sex.
First published in 2008 by
Black Lace
Thames Wharf Studios
Rainville Rd
London W6 9HA
Copyright © Portia Da Costa 2008
The right of Portia Da Costa to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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ISBN: 9780753516577
Version 1.0
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
This one is for 'himself'
Introduction
Previously, in Gothic Blue ...
At an archduke's reception, a handsome young nobleman falls under the spell of a malevolent but irresistible sorceress. Two hundred years later, Belinda Seward also falls prey to sensual forces she can neither understand nor control.
Stranded by a thunderstorm at a remote Gothic priory, Belinda and her boyfriend are drawn into an enclosed world of luxurious decadence and sexual alchemy. Their host is the courteous but melancholic André Von Kastel, a beautiful aristocrat who mourns his lost love. André has plans for Belinda, plans which take her into the realms of obsessive love and the erotic paranormal.
Paula Beckett is Belinda's friend. A chance encounter with evil, in the garden of a sleepy English pub, has dangerous and unforeseen consequences. Allying herself with an enigmatic lover who may or may not be her friend, Paula too is drawn to the mysterious Sedgewick Priory and the web of dark, sensual magic that surrounds it.
Gothic Heat is her story ...
1 Whose Dream Is It Anyway?
Am I dreaming?
Yes, you are, said the low, seductive voice inside her head. But it's my dream, bitch, so just enjoy it and don't you dare try to wake up or you'll regret it.
Adrift on the edge of sleep, Paula Beckett surrendered.
What would it be tonight? Heaven? Or hell?
Or just a whole lot of sex, like the last time?
The night was sultry. A high, yellow moon rode above the park at Sedgewick Priory and the scent of lush summer roses hung in the muggy heat.
The sorceress smiled as she stood naked at the open window of her boudoir, the moisture of her recent bath still glistening on her skin like tiny jewels.
All was well. She had everything she wanted. At last.
Somewhere out in the fragrant green shadows, a night bird called, and a moment later came the sharp cry of a fox or some hunting animal signalling for its pack. The sorceress felt a deep bond with these predators that roamed the copses and the hedgerows, seeking prey. She too was a hunter to the bone.
Somewhere in the great priory, a clock chimed, reminding her that the time of her tryst was approaching. Turning from the window, she continued with her toilette.
The bedroom itself was just as luxurious as she'd imagined, and the tall pier glass presented a more than satisfactory reflection. Her borrowed body was somewhat different to the one she'd been born with all those years ago, but even so it pleased her. The breasts were full, the waist narrow and the hips generously flaring. She shook her head, and her hair, already black again, rippled in a silky tumble to her shoulders. At her crotch, it was thick and flossy too, a moist grove to tempt even the most resistant of lovers.
Turning this way and that, she perused her belly, admiring the glowing sigil of her power, the ultimate symbol of her triumph over those who would vanquish her, including the very man she awaited. Visible now, the iridescent black design was almost three dimensional on her belly. It hugged the soft, rounded curve like a tattoo, just beneath the insolent dink of her navel. Touching it fondly, she savoured the heat that emanated from the intricate motif, then idly moved on, anticipating the night ahead. She slipped her hand between her legs, seeking her clit and the valley of her sex. She was wet and slippery, the fluid abundant on her fingers as she delicately teased herself.
Mmmm, that was so good. And soon other fingers would be playing there. Should she pre-empt the pleasures ahead, or stave them off to increase their intensity? She chose the latter, knowing her lover would soon put in an appearance.
Selecting a vial of oil f
rom several on the dressing table, she slowly and thoroughly began to anoint her body. The golden viscous fluid was laced with a heady blend of aphrodisiac spices of her own concoction, designed to sensitise her skin and increase her sexual pleasure. The ingredients were rich yet subtle and devilishly effective, inducing a delicious glow of heat without causing irritation. Her red mouth curled cruelly as she remembered, centuries ago, testing the quantities on her maids. There had been tears and moans. Weeping at the fire of too much spice. Wails of unquenchable lust as their bodies burnt with a different heat, twisting and writhing with the need to be pleasured. It had amused her to watch them jiggle and twist their thighs as they knelt down to lick her sex, one after the other, satisfying her while their own desires went unanswered. Afterwards, she'd permitted the girl who'd given her the most orgasms to run naked to the stables, where she'd been serviced repeatedly by a dozen grooms in a wild orgy.
But tonight's oil had precisely the right proportions. And the sorceress's low moans were of delight as she smoothed it lightly across her skin.
Flickers of heat drifted over her limbs, her belly, her thighs, sinking in below the surface and gently glowing. Tipping a generous quantity of the oil into her hands, she parted her thighs and assumed a lewd, splay-legged stance, then sluiced the golden fluid over her vulva.
'Ah! Ah! Ah!'
Oh, the delicious, warming surge of sensitivity. Her hips swirled of their own accord as the spice stimulated the reactive tissues of her sex. Even as she slicked on the oil, her fingertips went back on her previous decision and began the inevitable dance of masturbation.
Her thighs shook, her belly clenched, and she closed her dark eyes, imagining her lover standing before her, watching, watching.
'Soon you will enjoy this body, my lord,' she purred, flexing her thighs, dipping lower, and thrusting her pelvis to and fro.
Her pleasure mounted, the rush of blood in her veins firing the heat of the spice even higher. Her hips jerked and her sex grabbed at air, clenching in a swift, intense orgasm. Filling herself with her own fingers, she gurgled uncouthly, her voice low and animal.
Oh, but the rapture was magnificent. Every time, every climax, was unique. But soon there would be finer pleasures. And those were redolent with other deep, darker emotions than that of simple physical satisfaction. As she withdrew her fingers from her crotch, the sorceress's smile was triumphant with anticipation.
A firm, forceful tread in the corridor announced the arrival she'd awaited for so long.
Her fingers still fragrant with the oil and her own heavy musk, she snatched up a richly embroidered wrap from the bed and flung it around her. Clutched low against her breasts, it enhanced their creamy curves, the jewel-dark reds and purples of the sensuous fabric contrasting dramatically with the creamy pallor of her skin. The edges of the luxurious robe barely met at the front, offering shadowed hints of her thighs and crotch.
There was barely time to strike a pose before the bedroom door was flung open, only the sheer weight of the great slab of oak preventing it from crashing off its hinges. She'd been expecting a knock, but clearly he was in no mood for the niceties of polite behaviour. Once upon a time he'd been a courteous young man, beautiful, respectful, almost scared of her. But now he was confident with the experience of years. So many, many years.
In the doorway stood a lean masculine figure, a sight so splendid her mouth almost watered. As it was, her oiled and still trembling body lurched with subtle pleasure on seeing the man she'd wanted for so long.
'Madam.' His curt nod made his long hair swing. It was dark, with light strands of silver striating the silky fall.
So handsome. But then, he always had been. The sorceress sank momentarily in a mocking curtsey, aware that the action exhibited the midnight patch of her pubic hair for just a second.
Let him see it, she thought, feeling the curls moisten as he noted the display.
His eyes were blue. The bluest of blue, like sapphires, like a summer sky, a dazzling blend of many shades of one colour. They burnt with heat – surely desire but also hate and emotions far more complex.
He strode towards her, his blue star-strewn silk robe swishing lightly as he walked.
They stood eye to eye. He was tall but barefoot, and so was she. The fire in his eyes seemed to reach out and stroke her sex like a hand, and his nostrils flared as if taking in the odours of the oil and her arousal.
Without warning, his hand whipped out and grabbed the back of her neck, drawing her to him. Their mouths crashed together, hard, unforgiving, combative, and, though the sorceress admitted him, it wasn't a capitulation. As his tongue probed, she fought back, nipping him wickedly with her sharp teeth. He made a rough, raw sound in his throat, his hand tightening on her neck, crushing their lips even tighter together. Her jaw aching from the pressure, she laughed inside and let her tongue soften, giving ground temporarily.
The grinding kiss went on and on, primal communication flashing back and forth between their battling mouths. It was a war, a delicious melee, sending the heat of lust around her body, centring in her breasts and in her sex. When he suddenly released her, she could hear the thudding pulse of gathered blood.
'My lord.' She lowered her eyes but her tone was sardonic.
Long, elegant hands snatched at her robe, whirled it from around her and flung it across the room. His brilliant eyes narrowed at the sight of the sigil, his mouth pursing in a tight, bitter line. Its presence clearly angered him, and though his scrutiny darted from her lush breasts, to her glistening pubis, it returned, as if against his will, to the marker.
'You look well, my lady Isidora.' His red tongue circled his lips as if savouring the magnificent dish that was her body.
'As do you, my lord André.' Her eyes dropped pertly below the belt of his blue robe to where the fabric was visibly tented by the mighty pole beneath. Unable to stop herself, she reached for him, longing to flip aside the silk and expose him as he'd exposed her.
A grip like iron clamped on her wrist and held it away from both their bodies. 'Not yet,' he hissed, twisting away from her as she tried to get to him with her free hand. Within the blink of an eye, he had both her hands secured and he'd manhandled her down onto the Persian rug.
The sense of being dominated was as delicious as it was novel, filling her veins like heated honey. Of their own accord, her thighs gaped wide apart as she knelt before him, her head bowed.
With his free hand, he cupped her breast, squeezing it hard, lifting and moving the heavy orb like a horse-breeder examining the flesh of a prized mare. The sorceress groaned, her juices welling up and sliding down her leg. The pressure hurt but she rocked her hips involuntarily as he fondled her. The urge to demand that he caress her sex was overpowering, but the blue ferocity in his eyes compelled her silence.
He squeezed and palpated. First one breast, then the other, flicking at her nipples and goading them to intense sensitivity and stiffness. He was tormenting her, overpowering her, amusing himself by denying her satisfaction.
Eventually, she let out a groan. 'My lord ... my lord ... I ... please touch me.' Flaunting forwards her hips, she tried to entice him with her odour.
'All in good time, madam.' His voice cold, he released her breast and her hands with a disdainful flourish, as if her skin repulsed him. The dramatic force of it sent her hurtling onto her back, on the rug, legs akimbo. She lay sprawled, her thighs open, mute and compliant.
Turning away from her, he rose to his feet and, with a languid elegance, shed his robe. Almost in slow motion the light silk slid down over his body, revealing his broad back and hard sculpted bottom. Between his thighs she could see the dark rounds of his balls.
He was magnificent. Splendid. A prime, awesome male. He more than made up for all the long decades of waiting. Walking away, he was a poem of pale gilded skin and working muscle, and she watched avidly, her flesh heating anew as he snatched up the flask of oil from the sideboard. Plucking out the stopper, he sniffed its conte
nts then shook his head as if to clear it. His hair shimmered and rippled, sliding and slipping across his shoulders.
Then he turned. And the sorceress gasped.
Had he always been this big? She had seen so many men over the years that it was hard to remember. But surely he was mightier now than when she'd last bedded him, when he was young and callow. He was a man now, not a befuddled boy, and his shaft thrust out before him, high and proud and ruddy, his rounded glans distended with raw arousal.
His eyes seemed dismissive as he stared at her. Dismissive of her nakedness, and also of his own. For a moment, she thought that he was about to reach for his robe and just leave her there, burning with lust – but then he shook his head again, pursed his lips and, after pausing only to fondle his erection, he returned to the circle of the rug, carrying the flask.
The sorceress reached for him, but again he dashed her hand away, pushing her back onto the floor and the soft weave of the precious carpeting. She subsided, loving his dominance and yearning for his sex. Reclining like a houri, she draped her arms backwards, exhibiting her body as he knelt beside her and raised the glass vessel.
She closed her eyes, still seeing him with her perfect inner vision.
Slowly, with precision, he poured the spiced oil onto her belly in a gleaming ribbon. She felt it slide over her skin, coating the hot sigil and pooling in her navel. When it overflowed, the streams of fluid spread like the points of a star across the curve of her abdomen, and one line of it flowed into her pubis, between her labia.
The heat in her sex grew, calling out to the man who was overwhelming her. She writhed against the rug, creating yet more heat in the cheeks of her bottom.
The crash of glass against the sideboard made her eyes fly open. Her lover had flung away the flask and was glaring down upon her, his beautiful chiselled face a complex mask.
He hated her.
He admired her.
He wanted her.
In the centuries ahead, against his will, he would love her.
Gothic Heat Page 1
