Bloodlust Denied

by Phillips, Christina

  Her wrists were swathed in silk, and tied securely to the head of the bed.

  This was madness. How had she allowed the duke to enslave her so? This wasn’t part of her plan. She tugged uselessly at her bonds, knowing they wouldn’t loosen, yet unwilling to admit she truly was a prisoner of her own unbridled lust.

  “Struggle all you wish.” The duke’s languid voice, tinged with a touch of amusement, invaded her panicked mind. “You aren’t going anywhere without my express permission.”

  He lounged on a carved chair by the foot of the bed, and the self-satisfied smirk on his aristocratic face was clearly defined in the light of the numerous candles that illuminated the lavishly decorated room.

  She dragged in a calming breath, but it didn’t calm her because never before in her long existence had she been in so precarious a situation.

  Never had she been without Thanatos by her side. And now she had no idea where she was, how far from him the duke had taken her, or the faintest notion of how to contact him.

  “You said you weren’t kidnapping me.” Gods, was that the best she could do? But she had already tried to break her bonds and she could no longer delude herself. Her preternatural strength had diminished since the duke had forced her to her knees.

  The memory of what he had demanded of her as she knelt between his thighs, caused heat to flood her face and liquid warmth to bathe her treacherous pussy. Even now, she still wanted him.

  “I lied.” The duke shrugged. He clearly believed her naïve not to have known that already. “We still have unfinished business, Morana. If you please me well enough, you will remain unharmed and handsomely rewarded when I allow you to leave.”

  “I’m not a whore you can appease with a few paltry gold coins.” Once again she tugged on her restraints, infuriated by her powerlessness and by the way he had so easily tricked her.

  But how had he tricked her? How had they arrived at this place and why couldn’t she remember?

  The duke laughed as though he found her genuinely amusing. “Not a whore? Then enlighten me. What are you? How many other strangers have you fucked in back alleys since our midnight encounter?”

  “That’s none of your concern.” The satin sheets covering her slid over her skin as she tossed impotently for freedom. She froze as sudden comprehension dawned. “Did you undress me while I was unconscious?”

  Surely not. Surely he was not as depraved as that.

  “I did. It was a most,” he paused for a moment as if considering his words, “enjoyable experience.”

  He had stripped her naked and put her to bed. Mortification snaked through her soul, heating her cheeks and curling her fingers. But far worse was the dark delight that tugged between her thighs at the vision unfurling in her mind. Had he stroked her pussy? Touched her clitoris? Shame at her wanton thoughts washed through her breast, but it was disturbingly faint. Because the vivid images in her mind of the duke stripping her and looking at her naked body were both dreadful and shockingly arousing.

  “How dare you?” She had aimed for outrage but her words sounded feeble. Mortal.

  “Morana.” He came to her side and looked down at her, the expression on his face suggesting he imagined she was an exotic exhibit beneath a glass dome. “This façade of outraged morality is amusing, but hardly convincing. I’m not the first man to have seen you naked.”

  He was wrong. She had never allowed such intimacy, even with the few—so few—lovers she had entertained over the eternity of her existence.

  But he would never believe her. Even if she was inclined to confide in him.

  He offered her a smile so depraved it sucked the air from her lungs and, to her secret fury, caused tremors of lust to ripple through her damp folds. Apparently satisfied by her silence he hooked a finger under the satin sheet and slowly inched it over her sensitized breasts.

  “Coward.” The word rasped, shattering the silence, and his finger paused.

  “I beg your pardon?” The polite phrase, coming from his lips, was stripped bare of civility and thrummed with leashed savagery. Danger and death pounded in the room, with every erratic beat of her heart and yet she couldn’t back down, couldn’t beg his forgiveness. She knew at a fundamental level that made no sense that if she did, this encounter would instantly end.

  Sanity screamed she should do all in her power to ensure that end. Except she didn’t want to lose this knife-edge of vulnerability, this sensation of an outcome unknown. But most of all, she didn’t want to see the outrage or the disbelief in the duke’s mesmeric eyes transform into derision.

  She curled her lips, baring her teeth. “Untie me, and see how far your depraved desires get you when I’m free to defend my honor.”

  Shock glittered in his eyes, obliterating all other emotions. Had he never been spoken to in such a manner before?

  “Your honor?” The way he glanced over her enslaved body sent a shiver of shame burning through her core. “You retain honor enough to defend?” Incredulity smoked through the last words, doubtless intentional, and she tensed against the irrational pain that jarred her heart at the knowledge he thought so little of her.

  It was imperative she didn’t allow him to see the extent he could wound her with a careless remark. How complete would his power be over her at such a devastating discovery.

  “It doesn’t surprise me that a man who possesses no honor himself is unable to recognize that quality in another.” She infused each word with as much derision as possible.

  For one eternal moment, time hung suspended in the emerald depths of the duke’s eyes. Her breath trembled in her throat. Had she pushed him too far? Did she care if she had? Nothing mattered in this heated exchange except that she held onto it with all that she was. Held on and demanded that whatever this night might bring would be on their terms and not purely his.

  His finger dragged the sheet over her breasts and she gasped, not quite believing that, despite her words, he planned to continue with his original plan of humiliation.

  “Alas, you are right.” The mocking words held no apology. “I have no honor. I take whatever I want without compunction or compassion and I want you, Morana. There’s nothing you can say or do to avert your fate in this matter.”

  Chapter Seven

  Alexius slid the satin over her breasts but couldn’t tear his fascinated gaze from Morana’s outraged face. Since she had awoken, he’d inhaled the fear, the shock and the disbelief emanating from her, and that was as he had expected.

  He wanted her to fear him. She needed to fear him and by the devil, if she had any sense at all, she’d forgo her inflated pride and beg for mercy.

  But now, as he prepared to lay her bare for his inspection, to punish her for his personal humiliation three years ago, her scent of primal terror splintered. Instead, anticipation drenched the candlelit chamber. Anticipation and anger threaded throughout the heady, intoxicating aroma of her arousal.

  “If you don’t untie me,” her voice was breathless, uneven, and stoked the glowing embers of his lust, “I shall lie here as if I’m dead.”

  He laughed, a shocking sound that echoed around the chamber, around his skull, and he clamped his lips together before another such involuntary weakness escaped. But amusement hummed through his brain at her choice of words, at the haughty look on her face, and the defiance shining in her beautiful dark eyes.

  “I think not.” He traced the tip of his finger around her erect nipple, just to prove his words true.

  He felt her tense beneath his touch, saw her jaw lock. Deliberately he tweaked her rosy peak between thumb and finger to elicit a reaction.

  Her breath exploded between gritted teeth. “Do your depraved worst. But I swear you’ll gain no satisfaction from arousing my lust this eve.”

  Never had a woman—or man—spoken to him in such a manner. Not since he had been immortal and his life before this existence was one he blocked from his brain, for there crouched insanity.

  “What makes you think I require
your lust?” He offered her a sardonic smile while he continued to tease her swollen nipple and the blood thudded the length of his rigid cock.

  Her lip curled. “Your pride.”

  How intriguing. How true. He forced a derisive laugh. “I don’t give a damn whether you enjoy our coupling or not, my love. We are here for my satisfaction only.”

  “Then fuck me now.” Her scornful glare scorched his retinas. “And wake me when you’ve finished rutting.” With great deliberation, she closed her eyes and relaxed her arms so they fell back against the crimson satin sheets in an attitude of complete submission.

  Rage pumped through him at her casual dismissal, at her assertion she would feel nothing, do nothing, but it was more than rage, more than inarticulate disbelief. More than mere wounded pride.

  His fangs throbbed, and he imagined sinking into her neck, draining her, swallowing her rich life blood and the fantasy consumed, blinded, erased reason.

  How dare she so completely dismiss him?

  Why did he care?

  He had fed again this eve, before coming to her room. Fed? Fuck, he’d gorged so Morana’s scent would no longer tempt him beyond endurance.

  Yet the hunger raked through his guts, shredded his control, ripped out his mind. And all because she refused to succumb to his will, to tremble at the sound of his voice. To play the game by his rules.

  Savagely he ripped the sheet from her body and an aromatic whisper of pure feminine desire escaped the satin confines. She remained as still as marble, her skin a lustrous pearl against the crimson blood of his sheets, her loosened hair cascading over his pillows like a black river of damnation.

  Rutting. The word tormented him. A personal affront although it had been decades, centuries, since a human’s word had the power to offend.

  Except for three years ago when Morana had told him with scathing disdain that she found him wanting.

  She lied. She wanted him. Back in the alley, she had wanted him. Earlier this night in the assembly rooms, her frustrated arousal had bathed them and even in the carriage, as he took her solely for his own pleasure, she had wanted him.

  He stepped back from the bed. Focused on her face, and saw how she struggled to keep her lids lowered. He heard the rush of blood through veins, felt the rapid pound of her heart and soaked in the denied desire that emanated from between her luscious thighs.

  And he waited.

  Morana clutched the last remnants of her control with desperate ferocity. What the fuck was he doing? Why wasn’t he mounting her and using her like the cheap whore he thought she was?

  Her eyelids ached to open, to see what he was doing. Was he even still in the room? Or was he by the bed, watching her in a deathly silence?

  A shiver raced across her skin, although the room wasn’t cold. She concentrated on keeping her eyes shut, using every ounce of energy she possessed. And still they sprang open in blatant mutiny.

  The duke’s mesmeric green eyes captured her. He was standing by the bed, and offered her a mirthless smile before he tugged his cravat free and tossed it across the nearby chair.

  “You were saying?” His voice was mocking and he raised one eyebrow, waiting for her reply.

  Mouth dry, she watched him but he appeared in no hurry as he leisurely unbuttoned his coat and sent it the way of his cravat.

  “I’m waiting.”

  She struggled to make sense of his question. What had she said? She couldn’t recall. All she knew was she had to resist until he released her from her silken shackles.

  The candlelight bathed the duke in a golden glow as he pulled his white lawn shirt over his head. Involuntarily her pussy quivered and her heartbeat quickened as she feasted on the sight of his magnificent shoulders and tautly muscled chest.

  Gods, she wanted him. And she hated that she wanted him when he refused to grant her even one small concession.

  One knee on the bed, he leaned over her, bracing his weight on his hands as he imprisoned her between the sculpted perfection of his biceps. His dark hair tumbled across his brow and brushed the corded planes of his shoulders. Her fingers clenched as she fought the desire to recall how it had felt back in the alley when she’d plunged her hands into that silken mass.

  “Does this silence mean you submit to my will?”

  Yes. She would submit to anything. If only he would slake the ravening lust tearing her soul apart.

  “Never.” She breathed the word into his face, knowing he could see how she lied but knowing also that he needed to hear her admission from her lips.

  Shadows weaved across his face. She thought she saw a cynical smile curve his mouth but instantly vanish, as if it was simply another illusionary shadow.

  “Never, Morana?” He lowered his torso, melding chest and breast and the sensation was primal, elemental, more than she had dared to dream. “I fear you face grave disappointment.”

  She tugged uselessly on her bindings, fingers clawing. His head was so close, his hair a tantalizing mystery waiting to be explored. Yet she couldn’t reach, couldn’t touch; couldn’t exert her will.

  “I’ll survive.” She hissed the words into his mocking face. “I’m used to grave disappointment, Your Grace.” His title spilled from her lips, a foul curse.

  He leveled upright and a chill of rejection skimmed across her nakedness. She tried to remember she wasn’t going to respond, wasn’t going to show him how much she needed his touch, but instead she writhed in fruitless frustration, as the muscles in her arms screamed at their prolonged torture.

  “Tell me of your grave disappointments, Morana.” With a featherlight touch, he brushed errant strands of hair from her cheek, and then continued to trace the outline of her ear, her jaw, the seam of her lips.

  She shook her head violently. How dare he caress her in such a way, when he kept her tethered like a wild beast?

  His finger continued along the column of her throat, and his forearm slid sensuously against the straining muscles of her shoulder.

  “Tell me.” His voice was persuasive.

  “I’ll tell you nothing while you keep me prisoner.”

  He shifted on the bed, his lean hip settling more comfortably against the dip of her waist. From this angle, she could knee him in the ribs. With any other man, she could be certain of breaking bones and rendering him helpless while she escaped. But with the duke she was certain of no such thing.

  But that was not the real reason she didn’t try to disable him. It was because a despicable part of her did not wish to escape his dark entrapment.

  “Did your lover abandon you to this fate?” His tone was conversational. They might have been speaking of an evening recital.

  “Certainly not.” She tensed as his finger explored the contour of her breast, circling, ever decreasing, inexorably centering toward her aching peak.

  “Did your protector die, and leave you no other choice but whoring?”

  She reared off the bed, infuriated she couldn’t slap the arrogance from his face, wrench the words from his throat. “I’m not a whore.”

  “Then why did you act like one in the alley?” His finger slipped from her breast, trailed along her rib cage. “You straddled me like the cheapest strumpet and fucked me as if squalid alleys and nameless strangers were all in a night’s work for you.”

  The condemnation in his eyes blazed through her, causing heat to stain her cheeks and shame to bloom through her heart. But why should she be ashamed? He had acted no better than her. And yet, because he was a man, he would never see the hypocrisy of his accusation.

  She fisted her hands, although she was rapidly losing feeling from her shoulders up. “I thought you were someone else.”

  Satisfaction stabbed through her as shock registered in his gaze. She could never wound his feelings as he could hers, but his ego was a fragile thing, easily damaged.

  “You—what?” His words were low, incredulous. He clearly doubted the veracity of his hearing.

  “I was waiting for another.”
That much was true. “I mistook you for him.” And so was that.

  “And when, precisely, did you realize your mistake?” He no longer caressed her but instead loomed over her, a conquering warlord on the cusp of deciding the fate of his captured slave.

  She gave a breathless laugh at the image although there was nothing amusing in the situation. She had always believed a mortal could never kill her, and yet in this moment, that certainty trembled on the precipice of doubt.

  And still she couldn’t summon the terror such a catastrophe should engender.

  “When I allowed you to enter my body, without severing your spinal column for such conceit.”

  Let him think she exaggerated. It made no difference.

  His lashes swept over his eyes and for a second she was distracted. Such long, luxurious lashes for a man. So decadent. So…strangely familiar.

  He looked at her, and she forgot the eerie sensation of familiarity because there was nothing strange about it. She knew these eyes because of the innumerable dreams she’d had during the countless nights since they had first met.

  “Are you a spy, Morana?”

  Again she laughed. A spy? How delicious he should think so.

  “If I am, I could scarcely admit such to you, could I?”

  “I could entice you to admit anything to me if I put my mind to it.” His finger resumed its exploration, circling her taut stomach, teasing her navel, and yet he did not follow the progress of his venture. His gaze never left hers. “What of your fiddler? Is he the assassin, once you have ensnared the enemy with your deadly charms?”

  How close to the truth he was.

  “Thanatos lures our victims to their fate.” She had the urge to laugh again, but didn’t know why. Didn’t know why she was telling him this, except for the fact it didn’t matter because even if he believed her, there was nothing he could do about it.

  Gods, she was dizzy. She tried to flex her fingers but they had disappeared without trace.

  “He plays well.” A fleeting scowl marred the duke’s features. “Too well for a mere street fiddler.” His eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you are an obscure member of the gentry after all.”