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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Carnal Games
Copyright ã 2003 Titania Ladley
ISBN: 1-55410- 047-X
Cover art and design by Jane Sommers
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
Published by eXtasy Books, a division of Zumaya Publications, 2003
Look for us online at:
www.zumayapublications.com
www.Extasybooks.com
Dedication:
To my handsome hero, Dan: Thank you for your undying love and devotion, and for being my gallant knight. And to my three children, Tara, Zachary and Ryan: How lucky I am to have such precious, supportive children. I couldn't have done it without you all.
Prologue
She writhed in bed. Sweat beaded across her naked breasts. The erotic dream eluded her, slipping away yet again. Her hand was plunged into her panties, and with her palm, she rubbed her swollen lips with a frenzy, fighting to bring back the pleasure. A sticky cream filled her hand, and she smeared it along her inner thighs, up into the trim thatch of curls over her apex. It was there, the release, just beyond her grasp, and even in slumber, the usual frustration set in. Would she ever be able to achieve an orgasm?
Ah! She sighed inwardly as she felt her body move back into the irresistible embrace of the fantasy. He was with her again, tall, wide of shoulder, narrow of hip. His darkly handsome aura mesmerized her, sending a pure aching jolt to her crotch. He was poised above her, his face obscure in the moonless darkness, his warmth enveloping her like lava. He rose up, gripped her legs and brutishly flipped her onto her stomach. The jolt pleased her, further inflamed her sheath, and she knew she could take the torture no more.
She was ready for him, ready for him to ravish her and bring her to that ever elusive pinnacle. She was, once and for all, eager to rid herself of that damnable virginity.
The feel of his bare chest against her back was utter bliss. He was an animal mounting her, she the mare, he the brute stallion. Her breasts were pressed into the patch of wildflowers he’d found her in, the nipples taut gems abrading over the aromatic foliage. She moaned as the sensation elicited a gush of wetness between her legs, where, just now, he probed her with his thick rod.
His warm breath was ragged in her ear, an owl hooted in the far-off copse of woods, the rush of the night breeze blew across her singed skin. One hand tugged at her hair while the other cupped her tit almost painfully, his thumb rubbing frantically over the areola. Shards of pleasure washed through her. She lifted her buttocks to reach for him, to urge him to finally take her, to plunge into her womanly softness from behind.
“Now,” she demanded with a whimper. “Take me now!”
She felt the tip of his hardness brush her heat, explore the damp folds of her outer passage. Now on all fours, she rocked her hips against him, savoring the tingly jolts that enveloped her as his organ slid in and out between her legs, yet evaded entrance.
“Now, please,” she begged. “Stick it in and make me come.”
She heard his thunderous chuckle behind her—or was it truly thunder she heard? The sound rumbled about her at the same moment the delicious sensation of being filled, overtook her. But her head snapped up. And the zap that nearly hit her wasn’t the sexual gratification she’d longed for for so very long. A jagged bolt of lightning streaked to the ground, striking mere feet from her.
She heard the scream and awakened to realize it was her own. A Texas storm raged outside her cottage window. She was lying on her stomach, the blankets wadded at her feet, her body covered with a thin sheen of perspiration.
And she was more sexually frustrated than she’d ever been before.
Lightning cracked outside, thunder rolled, the howling winds whipped against the eaves. Tatiana Petrov waited for her breathing to return to normal, then she reached for the sheet and yanked it over her bare skin. She rolled onto her side and prayed for the dreams to return. Yet she needed her sleep, for tomorrow, it would be a long journey, indeed, in order to attend the ceremony. She desperately wished she didn’t have to go through with that farce of a wedding.
She forced down the hatred she harbored for her meddling grandfather. It was his fault. All his fault that she’d sunk to the level of secretly planning to marry a convict on death row, just to provide her grandfather with the marriage certificate he was so obsessed with. She’d show him, that bastard. She’d show him who was truly in charge of her life. But she wasn’t going to waste one single wink of sleep on the old codger.
Placing her palm on her pillow, she inhaled the tempting aroma of her own juices wafting up from her hand, intermingled with the fresh scent of Texas rain.
Ah, now that was better, she thought on a sigh.
Tatiana finally slept as the storm raged on around her.
Chapter One
“I ain’t answerin’ no more of your goddamn questions!” inmate Powers spat. His beady, dark eyes speared Sam Phoenix. “You’re gonna make a fortune on that book, and all’s I got to look forward to is a fuckin’ cold grave.”
Sam shifted in his seat and levelly met the evil stare with his own cool green one. “We had a deal, buddy. Remember? You promised me you’d help me write about what’s inside your head, and I promised I’d supply you with all the smokes and special snacks you could stand…until your day arrives.”
“Yeah, until my day,” the convict snarled. His callused hands gripped the edge of the Formica table that separated them. “Do you really think, asshole, that a few more drags off a cigarette and some extra Doublestuff Oreos are gonna make me feel any better? I’m gonna die, for fuckin’ sake!”
Yeah, and whose fault is that? Sam snorted inwardly. But he saw the need for a pep talk—a privately egocentric way of getting what he needed from this murderer. He glanced at his recorder to ensure it still churned. “Readers want to know what motivates a man like you, where you’re coming from, why you did what you did,” Sam explained yet again. He could see he wasn’t getting anywhere, and dreadfully, he felt the book deal slipping through his fingers. “It could be your own way of making amends with your victims’ families,” he lectured, “to help people comprehend, even in a small way—”
Royce Powers leaped to his feet. The rickety wooden chair snapped sharply against the slab floor as he leaned across the worn table toward his sudden enemy. Like a rabid wolf, drool dribbled over his scarred bottom lip. His eyes were bloodshot and narrowed. Sam noted the filthy, greasy locks of sallow hair, the multipierced ears with rows of gold up and down the cartilage, and the bulging forearms covered with tattoos, wrists bound by cuffs and chains. This was the epitome of the hardened, bitter criminal, he thought as he hurriedly checked the tape recorder yet again. Quickly, he jotted down a few more descriptive notes.
“Help?” Powers shrieked, trembling with his anger. “I’m the dead man walking. Why in the fucking hell would I want to help them? I’m the one who’s gonna be dead in two week’s time, you bastard!” When Sam continued to scratch on his pad, Powers roared, “Look at m
e, you motherfucker!”
Sam’s gaze rose again to meet the snake eyes as he was instantly assaulted by the odor of foul breath. “I’m looking,” he said in a tone that had come out far more sarcastic than he’d meant. Glancing over at the snoring guard in the far corner, his chair tipped back on two legs as he lounged against the wall, Sam knew, for the moment at least, he was his own protector.
The assault came before Sam had even a split second to ponder his retreat. Like a lion, Powers soared over the table and leaped atop Sam, sending the two thumping to the floor together in the chair Sam had been sitting leisurely in, only seconds ago. His notepad went sailing across the room, and Powers yanked the ink pen from his grip, straining against the handcuffs. Sam swung a right out in time to send the intended weapon off like a torpedo. Struggling to wiggle from the fallen chair, for it and this nut were keeping him at a pinned-in disadvantage, Sam lifted his legs and sent Powers sprawling to the concrete. Blood splattered on the gray floor like a crimson flower as his nose smashed into the hard surface. When Powers raised his head and stared incredulously at the hand that was filled with blood, Sam scrambled out of reach.
“Hey, man,” he coaxed, hands up to ward off and calm the deranged man. “Just take it easy.”
Powers, ill at the sight of his own blood, peeled himself lithely from the floor—despite the hindrance of the handcuffs—and growled as he stalked Sam like prey. Sam watched in silent amazement as Powers did a series of belching motions, as if he were experiencing indigestion.
“Guard!” Sam called, knowing the inmate was beyond reason.
Powers rounded on him, fists tight at his sides, the wrist chain taut across his hips. His ash-green prison uniform was now bludgeoned with streaks of red. “You…sonofabitch!” he bellowed as he continued to dry heave.
“Guard!” Sam repeated as he put the table between he and the hunter. Powers barreled over the top of the table yet again, and went airborne. He landed before Sam, just as the guard began to rouse. Vaguely, Sam could hear other men as they entered, shouted and drew their weapons. But he was too late to step out of reach. Before he knew what the screwball was about, he was seized by the upper arms. Looking deeply into the crazed eyes of a murderer, Sam watched in shuddering horror as the madman vomited, spraying his tailored Armani suit with the vile contents of his stomach.
Shoving the man with renewed force, Sam groaned, “Oh my God!” Instantly, at the sickening odor that assailed his nostrils, he felt his own stomach roil. As the guards took control of Powers, Sam quickly stripped himself down to his underwear. “You’re a sick bastard,” Sam accused, wishing he had a bottle of room deodorizer spray and a huge potent vat of bleach to dunk himself in.
The warden, Freddy Wallace, a rotund man with an egg-shaped face and pocked cheeks, waddled in. “Get ‘em to solitary!” he barked. “And get Mr. Phoenix some clean prison garb to wear while we clean up his clothes and this terrible mess. Chuck, did you hear me, man?”
Chuck, one of the prison guards, nodded, but stood transfixed by the sight of the famous author.
“Chuck Mansfield!” Freddy roared, his bulk wiggling like pudding.
“Yes, sir!” Chuck snapped himself out of his star-struck, catatonic state. “Right away, sir.” He spun into quick action, for the warden was a madman himself. “Come on, you piece of shit.” Chuck immediately adopted a tone of authority as he and another guard shoved the prisoner out into the rear hallway behind the holding area. Yet another sentry entered, hands clad in latex gloves. Obediently, he scooped up Sam’s soaked suit, shoved it into a plastic bag, wiped the blood clear of the floor and spritzed the air with a deodorizer.
“My apologies, Mr. Phoenix.” The warden turned as the guard handed him a bundle of clean clothing before exiting. Trudging forward to stand before the renowned author—and, oh, how he was agog with the famous writer who never failed to top the bestseller’s list—he extended the chalk-green wad toward Sam. “I told you he was a bomb waiting to blow. Now I wish I hadn’t given permission for you to sit virtually unattended with him. Here,” he indicated the clothing. “Put these on while I have my men send your suit to the laundry. We’ll have it dry-cleaned to the best of our ability. If it should be ruined, I’ll see that it’s replaced.”
The warden’s slightly scolding tone nagged at Sam as he briefly thought of the guard who’d been posted in the room with him. A lot of help he’d been. Hell, he could have been killed before the guard had awakened from his damn nap. Snatching the clothing, he replied, “No need to worry. And I’ll wait here, work on my notes…if it’s not too much trouble.”
“Not at all!” Freddy smiled broadly. His pudgy face resembled a huge wad of raw dough. “I’ll send in some refreshments. In fact, if you care to, you can dine with me in my quarters after your clothing is returned.”
Sam pulled the inmate shirt over his head, his dark hair ruffled rakishly over his forehead. “That’s quite all right, and after that disgusting scene, I’ll pass on the refreshments. I wouldn’t mind the peace and quiet to gather my thoughts, though. Hopefully, I got enough to complete the manuscript.”
Disappointed, the warden pivoted like a duck and waddled to the door as a guard immediately opened it for him. “If you should change your mind, you need only inform one of my safeguards. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Phoenix,” he mumbled. “My pleasure, indeed.” He rolled through the door and had it bolted behind him.
Sam sighed heavily. What an ordeal. But it was one of the hazards of the job. Research and interviewing couldn’t always be done from the comforts of your computer. Donning the cotton pants, he went to retrieve the notepad and pen that had flown under the snoozing guard’s chair.
Righting the seating, he settled at the table to collect his thoughts, and did his best to ignore the memory of that sicko’s vomit spewing out all over him. He shivered and rewound the tape recorder, then scribbled upon the crumpled notepad. But within minutes, the key rattled in the lock and the door was swinging open again.
Already done with his clothes? he mused, pleased.
But it was no attendant returning his suit to him. No sirree. It was the sweet death of him, he decided, stunned. And his flaccid sex hardened instantly, all thoughts of his book deal and Powers forgotten.
***
The drive to San Cuero Prison had been a pleasant one. She had rolled down the windows of her vintage black nineteen-thirties Chevy pickup truck and sped up the county road, her unbound blonde tendrils flowing madly in the breeze. The sun had been high, bathing the willow oaks, sycamores, salt grass, and bushy bluestem in a warm gold glow. There’d been the honeyed aroma of the lavender Texas bluebonnet, and the sweet scent of hay from a nearby farm. She’d heard the squall of a great horned owl just before it swooped into view, it’s dark brown and mottled gray wings spread wide as it soared over the rolling plains.
“I feel for you, Horny,” she whispered, fascinated as the bird landed upon the dried limb of a crooked fallen tree. Jerkily, his square head twisted from side to side. “Frantic, homeless, unsure where your next meal is coming from. Forced to beg and pilfer. And then, just when you get comfortable with your life, some horrid beast comes to shake your world and force you to become that person again, that kid reduced to selfishness and stripped of self-respect.”
With a sigh, she tore her gaze from the owl just as it took flight. It dove instantly to attack an unsuspecting rodent.
Though she was now twenty-six, Tatiana knew no amount of time could erase the nightmare of the first ten years of her life. Her runaway mother had drug her from alley to park bench, from cardboard box to homeless shelter after homeless shelter. Back then, she’d already lived many years beyond her ten. It wasn’t until, alone and frostbitten, starving and near death, she’d been rescued and brought to her grandfather’s Austin, Texas ranch. Her mother, Sabina Petrov, Tania had been told, had been killed during one of her lone journeys to venture out and search for food.
Tania had never seen her ag
ain, but had never forgotten her. Nor would she forget the repeated story her mother had told her of her grandfather disowning her after she’d gotten with child. And though Tania now lived on his estate—and in fact, served as his ranch foreman—she’d never forgive him, never allow him to make excuses for essentially killing her beloved mother by sheer neglect and hatred.
She sighed. It was all part of the game he played. As was this crucial trip to the prison, in a roundabout way. Fraught with emphysema, Mikhail Petrov was certain his demise was near. Therefore, in his usual bullish manner, he’d demanded that she marry immediately and, ASAP, produce him heirs. Well, Tania had found her own furtive way of dealing with the controlling, manipulative old hoot: secretly marry a prisoner on death row, present the valid marriage certificate to the old bastard, then get on with her life as a content widow after the lethal injection procedure was complete.
It was the perfect answer to an imperfect dilemma.
Though Mikhail—or Mik, as Tania called him—lent her protests a deaf ear, marriage just wasn’t for her…and it certainly wasn’t happening in her lifetime. A leak-proof roof over her head, chow in her belly and a warm blanket at night were all the things in life she needed…well, that and her beloved ranch. And in order to keep the bare necessities in her life and the cardboard boxes away, she always did what he demanded of her—yet simultaneously kept the cantankerous tyrant at a distance. And kept the men at a good distance, too, she thought with firmness. After all, why get herself into the same situation her mother had been in? Involvement meant eventual babies out of wedlock—since marriage was definitely out of the question—and the only babies she cared to keep in her life were the fillies and calves, kittens and chicks that inhabited her ranch.
A lump formed in her throat as she neared the prison. If that old man ever threw her off the ranch, whether by reason of pregnancy or refusal to marry, her life would be empty. Done and over. She’d simply die—just as her mother had. Which was why it was necessary to fulfill her obligations to The Sovereign One, yet stand true to herself in the process.
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