“Change your mind about skinning me? Is it because I’m so pretty?” he hissed in her ear.
“Magic doesn’t work on you, does it?” she asked, trying to keep her voice from betraying her desperation. But he knew. Esme imagined he could feel the thump of her heart in her chest, like a tiny frightened animal trying in vain to escape its cage.
“Not usually, no.”
It was worse that he didn’t sound smug. It was simply a fact. How many witches had underestimated him and how many had died for it? Esme didn’t want to die, but she feared the pain more than she feared death.
“Will it hurt?”
“No pleas for your life?” he mocked.
“You’re the Witchfinder. I don’t want to waste whatever breath I have left.”
“You’re a smart one. Much smarter than all the others of your kind. Which is why, if you do something for me, I’ll make your death painless.”
“I can’t raise the dead.”
His grip tightened painfully and crushed the air from her lungs. “How did you know what I wanted? Are you in my head, you filthy witch?” He said “witch” as if it were a curse, a profanity.
She dug her nails into his arms as she fought to breathe and he relaxed his grip. Esme inhaled deeply, ashamed at how thankful she was to simply be able to do so. “You said you wouldn’t hurt me.”
“No, I said I’d make your death painless. I’m not ready to kill you yet. Answer my question.”
Terror knifed through her. He could keep her alive for a long time. He could hurt her until it pleased him to stop. As a former Grand Inquisitor, torture and death were art forms to Frost and he was a master of both crafts. “Because that’s the only thing a man like you could want from me. I’ve been around a long time, Witchfinder. I do know the dark depths of the human heart.”
“I’m not human.”
She wanted to ask him what he was and why he hated her, but she supposed it didn’t matter. “Are you going to do it now?”
He shifted, his forearm dragging over her breasts and his long, strong fingers closing around her throat. She was still immobile but adrenaline rushed through her veins like lava. His skin on hers was a brand, and if she ever got the chance to look in a mirror again, she wouldn’t be surprised to see burns where his fingers touched her.
Her body didn’t feel like her own. Her nipples tightened at the friction and her slit clenched. Esme tried to block out the sensation, though she refused to feel guilty for something her body did involuntarily. Arousal was common with any rush of adrenaline, in men and women. There was nothing more life affirming than sex.
It was also a primal self-defense mechanism. Her most basic instincts said if she could get him to mate with her, he wouldn’t kill her. But her brain knew better. Nicodemus Frost would have no second thoughts about killing, even if he did fuck her. Regardless, she made no attempt to struggle. The scenery around them was still melting slowly, changing…and he controlled it. So strangely enough, it seemed the safest place for her at the moment was locked against his body, his feet on the only solid ground.
“I could kill you now. I could snap your neck like a twig. But then I wouldn’t have the answers I want.” He released her throat, and instead stroked his fingers down the pale swan curve. “You always respond better to pleasure with an edge of fear and pain. For most, just the fear of me is enough. But not you, Esme.”
Now she was alarmed. He’d never caught her like this before—but she’d dreamt he had. Fear warred with desire but Esme was determined to control herself, and thereby some portion of the situation. By Circe, but he had a hard body. His strength seemed limitless.
She imagined him drilling into her, his hands roaming her body, the weight of him pressing her down. Esme felt like she’d been hit with a lust spell.
“Have you ever thought about how intimate death is?” she asked, trying to draw Frost into a web of seduction both to use against him and to quell her sudden surge of lust.
“I have.”
His answer was not what she’d expected. “Does torture turn you on?” Esme suddenly wanted to know what made him the way he was. What made him kill.
“No.”
“Then what does?”
“Do you think you’re the first witch to try to bargain with her body?”
“I’m not bargaining. I know you’re the one in control.” And as long as he was secure in that knowledge, she’d have more time to form a plan.
“And you like that, don’t you, Esmerelda?” The cadence of his voice changed and it was heat and sin, rather than the images of frozen wasteland his voice usually conjured.
Her clit throbbed and the arm that had been anchored around her hips loosened so he could push his hand between her legs. She could fight him now, but she didn’t want to. Those hands that were tools of death and pain now brought pleasure, one of them working into her pussy, stroking and kneading her clit. She hadn’t even noticed that he’d stripped her down to her panties…
Esme remembered again this wasn’t real.
It wasn’t quite a dream but it wasn’t reality. The bedroom, she now realized, wasn’t her own. The running paint of the walls and surroundings—he’d somehow transported them to another plane.
She’d dreamt of being caught and fucked by the Witchfinder. It was the most taboo of fantasies, thinking about fucking the man who wanted to kill her, but Esme was a bad witch and she liked bad things. She knew the chant that would send her back to her own plane but she didn’t utter the words. His flesh felt too good and since it wasn’t real, it didn’t matter what they did here, did it?
It was screwed up that she wanted to fuck him, to make this more than a fantasy, but Esme had accepted long ago that she was a twisted bitch and so she bent the plane to her will. The scene solidified around them, the swirling colors separating, objects forming. A plain hotel room featuring a crappy painting of flowers on the wall and a bed.
She knew going on the offensive would be her best defense. Frost wouldn’t know what hit him.
He sat on the bed and she turned in his arms, straddled his waist and rolled her hips, rubbing her sodden pussy on the hard shaft that tented his Armani trousers.
“You didn’t answer my question. What turns you on? If not death and pain, then what?”
His hands slid up her sides and down to her hips, seeking control of her movements. “Power.”
“Mmm, me too.”
“Tell me the truth, Esme. Admit you’re powerful enough to raise the dead.”
“No.” She worked her hips against him, still enjoying the feel of his cock, and imagined that fucking him would be akin to swimming with sharks. Her adrenaline spiked again and desire flared hotter.
“I see I have to remind you who’s in control. You know this isn’t our plane of reality. But this is real enough…”
The hotel room disappeared and Esme found herself naked and chained to the killing rock in the long ago village of her youth. Frost loomed over her, not in Armani but in a priest’s cassock, with all the tools of a confessor of the Inquisition.
“You can’t hurt me in my own imagination,” she said more to herself than him, but the cold iron chains felt very real against her heated skin.
“Do you know if you die in a parallel plane, you die in your own world?” His gloved hand slid between the valley of her breasts and her body responded to his touch, back arching so he’d take more.
“But I’m not going to die here because we haven’t gotten what we want from each other.” She licked her lips.
“And what do you want from me, witch?”
“My life.”
“No.”
“Then you have your answer to your question about raising the dead. I’m powerful enough to do it, but I won’t. Not if you’re going to kill me anyway.”
“It’s easy for you to be bold here. What about in the real world? Will you still be so hot for me there? Still so unafraid?”
“You must want me bad, Witchfind
er, to have turned to magick.”
“Yes, Esmerelda. I want your power. I want your hand to reach into the dark places I can’t and bring back what belongs to me. I’ll do almost anything to get Galatea back.” His gloved hand cupped her breast, his thumb circling her nipple.
“Why these games?” She didn’t ask what she really wanted to know—why Galatea? If she’d been fucking Spinner, it wasn’t like she and Frost were together. Meg said Galatea worked for him, but that wasn’t enough reason for Frost to raise the dead. Or was it? “I thought you would just torture me to get what you want.”
“I am.” He smiled, cold and distant, the expression at war with the heat in his eyes. “The Black Eros is almost a better torture than anything I could have designed myself. It will take longer…but what better way to punish you than to make you want me so badly you’ll go to your own death just to feel my touch?”
The Witchfinder laughed and it was a sharp sound, like flint on steel. “I’ll have what I want, witch.”
Esmerelda was slammed back into her own world, sprawled across her bed.
It frightened her how her body had readily responded to Frost in the other plane, how those needs continued here. Causing her to strip and touch herself, drive her wet flesh toward completion.
She worked her pussy fast and hard and she couldn’t stop. Goddess, not only could she not stop, she didn’t want to stop. Even knowing he’d used the Black Eros—more a curse than a spell—and every spark of pleasure jolting through her body brought her one step closer to a fate worse than death.
Somehow that made her wetter—hotter.
The more taboo, the more she desired it. She wantonly replayed the previous scene in her mind, chained down, how the cold steel had felt on her skin, how helpless she’d been beneath his hands. The Witchfinder could have done anything he wanted to make her crave the pleasure of his touch, to be ashamed by it but need it anyway.
She didn’t care. There, in the darkness of her room, alone, she’d make herself come thinking about every depraved thing he could ever want to do to her.
Fuck, but she was wet, her lube coating her fingers as she thrust into herself. But it wasn’t enough. She wanted to be filled, managed, owned. She wanted to feel like it was Nicodemus Frost fucking her and making her pay, just as he’d promised to do.
She wanted him to see her doing this to herself and be just as hot for her. He’d used the Black Eros, and that was some bad shit, but only the witch who’d cast the spell could break it. So Esmerelda was determined to enjoy the ride—and take him down with her.
Esme used her magick to summon her vibrator from the nightstand drawer and charmed it to drill her just the way she wanted—plunging deep into her needy cunt, withdrawing almost completely only to slam into her again. Just the way she knew the Witchfinder would fuck her. It was wild and rough, but it felt good too, the curved tip of the toy driving home the pleasure to her G-spot. She charmed another toy, a clit hugger, to position itself over her clit so her hands were free to play with her nipples.
Yeah, there were benefits to being a bad witch.
She imagined her fierce tugs and pinches were his mouth suckling, his tongue teasing and his teeth grazing the sensitive buds. Esme cried out and bucked her hips off the bed to meet her phantom lover. She wondered what he’d do if he were there right now. If he’d watch with cold indifference on his icy features or if he’d free his cock and push it past her lips, demand she suck him while she pleasured herself.
Esme grit her teeth as sensations swelled and ebbed, only to swell again just as powerful as the tide. Fuck, that’s what she’d really love. For him to come while she sucked and licked his witch-hunter’s cock, to taste his hot salt and know he wasn’t as indifferent as he pretended to be. Making him come, that would be another fraction of power over him, his cum on her lips and her tongue, a piece of him that would be hers.
The toys worked her pussy relentlessly, buzzing against her swollen bud, thrusting in and out between her slippery nether lips and into her clenching cunt. But it was the fantasy of the Witchfinder eliciting those sensations that sent her over the edge; that had her biting her lip so hard it bled and fisting her sheets in her hands as her hips bucked and wave after wave of orgasm washed over her.
But she didn’t stop there—she planned to bring herself off again. The bliss was almost too much, but Esme wasn’t above a bit of sexual masochism if it got her what she wanted.
She knew how the Black Eros worked—and if the Witchfinder wanted to play in her head, then she could play in his too.
Chapter Three
Nicodemus Frost struggled in vain to keep his hands off his cock. Slipping into that plane with the witch, he was just as affected as she was by the Black Eros.
Frost knew the risks when he’d cast the spell. It had once been called the White Eros, a way for lovers to be together but still remain physically chaste. Yet the more couples used it, the more tightly their souls were woven together until their desires bloomed into something darker—obsession and madness.
It was a risk he was willing to take.
All these long years chasing her, he used to have fantasies of what it would be like when he finally caught Esme. He’d imagined killing her quickly, killing her slowly, making her kill herself, making her suffer for what she’d done. But with the Black Eros, those fantasies had changed. Especially after they’d turned interactive.
The things that happened between Frost and Esme now…they weren’t as he’d planned. He had thought he’d use the spell to eventually discover her location. Thought he’d drag her to the alternative plane and control the setting, the props, have Esme at his mercy. But she wasn’t. She was strong-willed, strong-minded and her power vied with his for mastery.
It had surprised him to discover the witch liked him bad. She liked being afraid of him. When the scene had changed and she was bound to some rock and he was wearing a priest’s cassock—he’d plucked that directly from her mind. That was what she fantasized about. Being bound and completely under his control.
He didn’t have to build a new world or a fake persona to seduce her. She was receptive to the darkness in him, the killer.
And as much as it galled him to admit it, that would have turned him on without the Black Eros.
She was so fucking hot, just thinking about her made his hands burn with the dream memories of touching her. Of feeling her soft curves pressed against him as she struggled to get free. He liked it better though when her struggles changed and she wasn’t trying to get away, but closer, rubbing her cleft against his cock and her tits against his chest.
He worked his hand up his shaft slowly, determined to punish his body for needing this release. Frost had gone years without sex, his body a weapon honed for death and destruction. He didn’t eat, rarely slept; all he did was train and kill.
Until this.
But it would be worth it. Her body was being schooled to seek out his touch. She’d come right to him.
He found himself slipping back into her mind again. She was fantasizing about him. The Black Eros had already linked them, her thoughts of him opening a view into her mind as wide as a bay window. The witch was still tied to the rock and she imagined him working her pussy as she fingered herself. Fantasized about him questioning her, using sex play to get the answers he wanted—bringing her near orgasm and then denying her because she hadn’t said what he wanted to hear.
Nicodemus allowed her to move the image of him, complied with her control of the space. He felt like a voyeur because she didn’t know he was there. He liked that too.
Her parted lips were painted a velvety red that reminded him of the petals of a rose. Of course, he knew her tongue was a poisoned thorn, ready to flay him at any moment. Just as his attention focused on her mouth, she began imaging his cock pushing past her lips, the salty taste of his cum on her tongue. She wanted to know what it would take to break him.
The witch’s body was wet and responsive in her fantasy, h
er cunt tugging at his fingers, pulling him deeper and clenching around the thrusting digits. She fought her orgasm but that was fine. He wasn’t going to let her come until he was ready.
He jacked his shaft slowly and with measured purpose.
Frost felt her awareness of him like a physical touch, but he didn’t flinch away from their connection. Let her do as she would. The more times they connected, the easier it would be to draw her to him.
Esme began imagining another man’s mouth on Frost’s cock, and when he didn’t react, she imagined his mouth on yet another partner.
If the little witch wanted to play dirty, he could do that. In fact, there was absolutely nothing he wouldn’t do to claim his prize. He whispered the incantation to transform her fantasies to simulated realties in that secret plane shared between them.
She gasped as his mind molded the setting, a pseudo torture chamber, and she was chained to a rack. One of the two naked placeholder males she’d introduced, he positioned between her thighs, licking her cunt; the other stood by her face so she could suck his cock.
Then he shaped the placeholders so they looked like Nicodemus himself.
“Oh fucking Circe,” she squeaked.
Her thighs were already quivering, her cunt swollen from her orgasms in the real world, and every muscle had tightened, strung like a new bow in preparation for the next blitz of pleasure.
“You will not come.”
“And what if I do?” she breathed.
“You’ll be taking all three cocks.”
“Oh!” She cried out, arching toward the tongued caresses of the doppelganger between her legs.
“You may anyway, just because I like that sound you make.”
“Please, Frost.” Her hips bucked.
“Begging already?” He stroked his hand down the spine of the naked man in front of him. “Thought you wanted to see this. I seem to remember Venice in 1840, you told me to go fuck myself. The idea has always appealed to me.”
He grabbed the doppelganger’s hair and pulled him away from the witch’s cunt, then licked her juice from the man’s lips. Frost watched the witch, remaining in control and detached as his mouth worked over the other man’s.
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