Ultra Strokes

by Delilah Devlin

  Grimvarr’s lips twitched. And there in his dark eyes, she saw a glint of humor. Something that eased the stiffness of her back. There was a sly wit beneath his brutish appearance. Intelligence beyond his prowess on the battlefield. And a lambent heat in his cool eyes that spoke to her across the silence. He wasn’t asking for surrender. Rather, he sought her cooperation to achieve a common goal. He was saving her pride. A concession as a sign of respect. Could she offer him no less?

  Slowly, Edwina reached for the ties at her shoulders and pulled at the soft knots, beginning to disrobe. “We should save the best wines for the harvest celebration in the fall.” There, she’d told him she no longer objected to this union.

  His mouth stretched slowly, and he too began to strip. In minutes, they stood nude, gazes raking the other’s frame until she took the initiative and slipped backward onto the mattress.

  He followed, coming over her, bracing his weight on his arms, his glance sliding down her narrow frame, then up again, and centering on her mouth. “You have a generous mouth.”

  She sniffed, pretending more confidence than she felt. His weight pinned her to the bed. “It is large.”

  “I am large, and one day you will understand how perfectly we suit.”

  He said it with a crooked smile, but she was breathless, too excited to wonder what he meant, because he bent toward her and rubbed his mouth against hers. His kiss was softer than she’d expected, but demanding all the same, lips slanting and drawing on hers, waiting until she followed his circular motions, acceding to the kiss.

  When his teeth bit her lower lip, she gasped and his tongued entered her, surprising her. His tongue slid along the meat of hers, lashing it, rimming her teeth.

  They kissed with their eyes wide open—her eyes crossing from the nearness, his smoldering. Without thought, she tightened her lips and suctioned on his tongue.

  A groan passed from his mouth into hers, and she gave it back, at last closing her eyes and simply feeling the way he patiently prodded and licked, awakening something inside her—a curl of heat, deep inside her womb.

  He was large and brutal, this she knew from the stories she’d heard, but he was also terribly insistent—and he would make sure she enjoyed this, whether she wanted to or not.

  And suddenly…she wanted. Desperately. Again, she remembered him breaking from the line astride his warhorse, his body frighteningly large, his dark hair fluttering from beneath his conical helm. She’d felt a shiver of unwanted attraction and tamped it down. He’d looked like a Norse god come to life, but she’d feared he’d be every bit as brutish. And yet, here he was, set on seducing her.

  By the time he drew back, breaking the kiss, she was breathing hard, her nipples hard points catching in the fur of his chest. She wanted to rub against him, to chafe in the silky curls.

  His hands framed her face; his thumbs caressed her bottom lip. “Tonight, we find our pleasure, Edwina. Tomorrow, we can war.”

  She felt as though a great weight had lifted—the weight of her responsibility to herself to resist. As though something broke inside her, warmth rushed through her. The promise in his eyes was seductive. He made pleasure seem possible. Even inevitable. She swallowed and gave him a nod.

  His reaction was swift, a one-sided smile, an even more smoldering gaze. He scooted down the bed until his head hovered over one small breast. She slid her hand between them, covering it. He tugged her hand away then lowered, sticking out his tongue to stroke the nipple.

  She gasped as her areola dimpled and the tip tightened. He aimed breath in a narrow stream, cooling the wet bud, then kissed it, sucking it into his mouth where he teased it with his tongue.

  Heat swept over her skin. Gooseflesh prickled. Her legs moved restlessly, trapped by his weight as he moved to the other breast and renewed the sweet torture.

  Her head thrashed, so many sensations bombarding her—the rasp of his beard, the pull of his lips, the liquid spilling from inside her… How had he brought her to arousal so quickly?

  Again, he moved downward, his tongue tracing her ribs, dipping into her navel, then lower still. When his face was above her mound, she bowed upward in alarm. “What are you doing?”

  “What I must,” he said, his voice rasping.

  “’Tis sinful,” she gasped as his tongue stroked her outer folds. Sinful, but oh so pleasurable.

  He raised his head to give her a narrow stare. “You would not have barred your gates against your husband if you feared Hell.”

  “I barred my gates against a barbarian, knowing God would understand.”

  He grunted and bent over her again, parting her with his fingers.

  Good Lord, why was he looking there? She slipped her hand between them to cup her sex. “I am already wet. You have accomplished what you sought. You can enter me now.”

  His head shook, as did his chest. Was he laughing at her? With her free hand, she sank her fingers in his hair and pulled. But he would not be dislodged. He pulled away her hand, and his mouth burrowed between her folds; his tongue stroked her entrance.

  “Sinful,” she whispered. But, oh, it was also glorious. Her hips bucked when his thumb rasped across the sensitive knot at the top of her folds. “Oh, please, please stop.” But her hands clutched his hair, pulling her to him, anchoring him there, because now, she was desperate for the release his efforts promised.

  When his lips latched around her hard knot, she whimpered. When two of his thick fingers entered her, she bucked. But he held her still, drawing hard on her knot, fingers pumping inside her. Her back arched and she cried out, darkness closing around her vision.

  When she came back to herself, he was kneeling between her thighs.

  She waited, spellbound, as he came over her and began to push inside her.

  Although she was wet, her quim burned as he stretched her, shallow thrusts breaching her then sinking deeper with each steady forward push. She slid her heels up the mattress, curving her hips to accept his thrusts. Glancing between them, she watched, fascinated with the sight of his thick shaft disappearing inside her. Tension built inside her womb again.

  He made a growling sound, and she glanced up. Passion tightened his cheeks. A deep flush was spreading there. His eyes were losing their focus, becoming smokier, his lids falling. He was finding pleasure, intense pleasure, if the quivering of his arms and shoulders was any indication.

  And suddenly she felt powerful, no longer the conquered one. Her own motives began to disintegrate beneath the blistering heat they built. There was pleasure in surrender, but it went both ways.

  “Stop,” she whispered.

  He went still, his gaze falling to her face. Slowly he pulled free of her. His chest billowed around deep breaths, and he held himself on his arms above her. “Did I cause you pain?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

  She shook her head. Then without saying a word, she reached down and slid her fingers around the base of his cock, all the while marveling at the thickness, the steel-like firmness wrapped in warm, supple skin. She pulled him forward, fit his head against her entrance, then glanced up to meet his gaze. “I am not sorry I barred my gates to you.”

  He held still, his gaze studying her face.

  “Had we met in a normal fashion, I would have dismissed you as I have a dozen suitors before you. I have had little respect or need for a man. And I suppose my first husband spoiled something inside me.”

  His eyes closed for a moment, and then he speared her with a hot look. “I will never dishonor your trust in me. I will never strike you. You know these lands and your people. I will listen to your counsel.”

  Her eyes filled, knowing they were speaking their private vows. That this was the true consummation of their union. “I will honor you. I will try never to disagree with you in public, and I will trust you with my property as I will trust you with my body.” And then she offered him a smile. Her first.

  His smile was warm and beautiful as he entered her. And this time, there was no discomfort,
no burning, just a luscious fullness that spread upward, filling her chest with hope for their shared future. This burly knight, this dark barbarian, was only a man who wished a home. A place of his own. Well, perhaps he only wanted the respect and stature being lord of the keep would bring, but wasn’t it her role to make him appreciate the other things she brought?

  Starting now. She raised her head and bit his shoulder, hoping she hadn’t read him wrongly.

  His swift, tight smile was followed by a blazing glare. He captured her hands, drawing them up and together, holding them easily as she writhed beneath him, her movements seeming to incite him. His own measured thrusts grew harsher, deeper, and she reveled in the violence, meeting his darkening gaze with a narrowed one of her own.

  “Our passions are well matched,” he growled.

  She jutted her chin, unwilling to bend enough to agree.

  Abruptly, he pulled free. In an instant, he rolled her, forcing her with his hard hands to her knees. His cock nudged her entrance then thrust, impaling her, and she groaned, coming up on her arms and twisting to give him a quelling stare.

  His laughter filled the air, and she turned toward the wall to hide her own grin. Their lovemaking was becoming a contest. One she found she relished.

  A smack landed on her backside, and her quim tightened around him even as a fresh wash of fluid drenched his cock. With a glide of his finger on her small nubbin, she went rigid, pleasure exploding.

  Moments later, he gave a shout. His motions slowed then stopped. They both hung there, their bodies still connected, ragged breaths punctuating the air.

  A kiss landed on her shoulder. His face nuzzled into the corner of her neck. “Well played, milady.”

  She shook her head, no dismay creeping in to sour the moment. “You have won, it seems.”

  A chuckle shook her. Rather than withdraw, he held her hips as he brought them to the mattress then spooned his body around hers. She rested on his thick upper arm, inhaling the scent of sex, his musk, surrounded by the man. Captured. In his thrall. And happily so.

  *

  The next morning, Grimvarr held her hand as they entered the hall. Lord Alred was already seated on the dais breaking his fast. Everyone stared as the couple crossed to take their places at the head table.

  She knew what they saw. Her cheeks were still rosy from having awakened with him hard and sliding inside her. His face bore the expression of a man who had been well pleasured. Together, they exuded an aura of sensual ease. They were lovers.

  Geade glanced up from his table and raised his glass, a silent toast. Relief was apparent in his smile.

  Grimvarr made of show of helping her take her seat then lifted her hand from her lap, turned it, and kissed her palm. Edwina’s eyes filled at the tender gesture. Still bent over her hand, Grimvarr offered her a smile, one filled with wicked promise.

  Beside her, Lord Alred lifted his beaker of mulled wine. “To a glorious siege!”

  The Butler

  ‡

  Grant came with the fine fieldstone house I’d purchased with my first, fat royalty check. One of the many amenities the previous owner had willingly dumped when she’d decided she was tired of cold Virginia winters and purchased a villa in Italy.

  Something I’d never understood—how a servant could be passed from one owner to the next along with a deed. But Grant was a “legacy”—a fourth generation butler at Parker House.

  I remember reading through the inventory of buildings and barns, tractors and horse tack, and then stumbling when I came to one name, Grant Preston. “Seriously, I own a butler now?” I’d asked the lawyer who drew up the contract.

  “You’ve bought his contract. It’s yours to break, but understand that if you do, you’ll have to purchase the remaining years.”

  “That sounds like indentured servitude.”

  “It’s how it’s done here, ma’am.”

  I’d learned later that he’d exaggerated. Grant was responsible for the language of the contract. He’d insisted on the verbiage with his previous employer, his way of assuring himself long-term employment in a highly fluid and dying career field.

  And Grant had no interest in finding employment anywhere else. He’d been raised at Parker House. He was as much a part of the house’s history as the yellow stones and old furnishings. The three storied, twenty-one room house was his home, if not in name. I’d come to understand that the first week after I’d moved in. I’d purchased every stick of furniture along with the house, but when I’d mentioned selling pieces to replace them with more modern furnishings, his back had stiffened. And after listening as he’d regaled me with every story behind every piece I wanted gone, I’d relented. How could I sell history?

  It wasn’t until I’d retreated, deflated, to my rooms that I realized he’d manipulated the conversation. Very politely and with a small, seemingly genuine smile, but I hadn’t been willing to douse the light of pride that shone in his eyes when he’d spoken. A simple maple desk chair had somehow become a treasure I’d be gauche to remove, cruel even. I didn’t want to disappoint him.

  At first, when I realized his game, I was angry. But as he slowly “educated” me regarding the history of the furniture and the house, and then gently but firmly guided me to an appreciation of the surrounding lands I’d purchased, I’d grown amused. Admiring, even. Grant was the true treasure of Parker House. Its living defender.

  Not that he didn’t understand the need for small changes. The claw foot tub in my bathroom might have been used by a famous movie star or a president, but I’m short, and using stairs to get into the deep thing wasn’t practical. I wasn’t a bath sort of person anyway, so the tub was moved to another bathroom, and he oversaw the construction of a large shower, tiled with natural stone from the fields, a lovely thing with nozzles at different heights to assure my pleasure.

  When he’d let me see the final result, I’d blushed, realizing he’d had it fitted to my measurements, and the colors of the stones reflected my blonde hair and gray eyes. He’d personalized it to me, and I had now become an integral part of the house’s history.

  However lovely and subtle that manipulation had been, I wasn’t ready to concede the larger battle for control of the house. Especially after he’d introduced me to the “butler’s buttons.”

  “If ever you should need me, you’ve only to press one of these buttons,” he’d said, indicating a small, metal rimmed beige button fitted in every light switch beside the doors of every room, beside my new shower—plus, one beside my bed. “A bell rings inside my quarters and in the kitchen area.”

  I’d nodded, at first thinking there was no way I would summon a man like Grant with the press of a button. How demeaning must that be?

  But he’d looked expectantly, an eyebrow raised. “It’s for your safety. This is a large house. You’re unfamiliar with its quirks. And I’m here to see to your comfort and well-being. If you’re hungry or not feeling well, don’t hesitate to call me.”

  His tone had been even and slow. Did he think I wasn’t intelligent enough to follow the conversation, or was there something else he was trying to relay, ever so politely? His job was to see to my comfort. The comforts I began to imagine were likely ones he’d be appalled to provide.

  However, the weeks that followed impressed upon me just what a jewel Grant really was. He didn’t hover, and yet seemed to know what I needed the moment it popped into my mind. A cup of tea, a stack of towels beside the heated pool, meals ready the moment I decided I was hungry, and served with an easy quiet grace, that I quickly acclimated to the luxury of having someone see to my needs. Clothes disappeared from the floor where I left them when I bathed and were returned to my closet, freshly laundered and pressed, as if by magic. And for a girl who just a couple years ago had lived in a one-room apartment that had seemed impossible to keep tidy, Grant’s constant oversight of the cook and the maid didn’t go unappreciated.

  Neither did the man himself.

  While I worked i
n the library, seated at a Georgian writing desk Grant had moved to the window at my request, half my mind was consumed with the new story I was writing, the other half was distracted by my butler.

  He’d worn a cashmere sweater over dark trousers today, rather than his usual “uniform” of pale dress shirt beneath a dark jacket. The sweater had hugged his upper torso lovingly. The sage green color was a perfect match for his eyes. Something I hadn’t noticed until this day. And my mild attraction suddenly became a more troublesome problem.

  Grant was a handsome man. Not in any garish overstated way, but his eyes were kind, his hair thick and dark, and his jaw firm, with a wedge of a dimple at the center of his chin.

  After I’d accidently described my hero in the exact same way, my workday was sunk, as instead of writing the next chapter of my Capitol Hill thriller, I wrote scene after scene of smutty encounters between my hero and his Girl Friday. Scenes I’d never be able to use unless I decided to hop genres to write erotica.

  I swiveled in a slow circle, eyeing the bookcases filled with books I’d never read, past the deep leather couch and arm chairs that showed a little wear, but were beyond comfortable. I wondered if Grant liked this room. Whether he’d read the books. I could imagine him sitting there, his feet on an ottoman, wearing his sage green sweater, and with a lock of his dark hair escaping to dangle over an eye. I wondered what he’d look like when he really smiled—a wide smile, not his usual small, polite smile. Whether his chest was hairy. More and more, his lean frame drew my eye. He was tall, well-built. What did he look like naked?

  Swiveling again, I stopped as I eyed the metal-rimmed button beneath the light switch. If only I had the nerve…

  Grant stepped into the doorway, one of his small smiles curving his perfect, firm lips. “I was passing by, is there anything I can do for you?”

  He rarely asked anymore. Was simply there, with whatever I needed. Hearing his voice, so deep and even, I was filled with the almost overwhelming urge to ask him to give me an orgasm.