Forever Midnight

by Kate Hill

  “Keep rubbing. Keeping licking. Keep…keep…” She could scarcely talk anymore. Her breath came in harsh gasps. Heat enveloped her entire body. Blood pounded beneath her flesh and her heart knocked hard against her ribs. Suddenly another idea struck her. Something she’d never felt but knew would be incredible. “Between…my…quim…”

  “Uh?” She heard the laughter in his inarticulate question. He couldn’t use words of course. His lips and tongue were far too busy with her clit.

  “Between my…quim and…bottom. The flesh…there. Oh, there,” she moaned. His thumb found the soft, sensitive skin of her perineum. He pushed upon it gently. He stroked and tickled it with feathery touches while his fingers thrust into her pussy, his tongue lapped her clit, and his free hand pinched and caressed her nipples. Maggie couldn’t endure anymore. With a shriek that left her hoarse, she came, writhing and bucking, her body misted with sweat, her wrists straining against the silver bonds.

  The orgasm seemed to last forever. As it ebbed, she lay, panting and drained, enveloped in darkness but decadently fulfilled.

  He freed her hands and stretched out on the bed beside her, gathering her to his chest as he stroked her hair and kissed her forehead.

  “I love you, Maggie,” he whispered.

  “I love you, too, Samuel.” Sighing with contentment, she cuddled close to his warmth.

  Chapter Ten

  The evening before the full moon

  Maggie tried keeping her hand steady as she raised the spoonful of soup to her lips. Her attention focused on Samuel who sat across from her, devouring a chicken leg. The juice stained his chiseled lips, making them shine. His sharp white teeth tore tender flesh then gnashed the bone in a manner that almost made Maggie jump.

  He paused, licking his lips and gazing at her with eyes that seemed to glow.

  Over the past weeks, she’d grown accustomed to dining with him. At first she’d protested sharing a table with her employer. It went against all accepted rules, but Samuel had been adamant about it.

  “You’re no longer just my servant, Maggie,” he’d said. “When and if we get through this, we will share everything as man and woman. Everything.”

  His implication filled her with joy, yet such happiness and such a promise came at a price.

  Both were paying it now, Samuel doing his best to cling to humanity and Maggie fighting to remain calm and not flee from his unsettling presence.

  “What’s the matter?” He tossed the clean bone aside and drummed his fingers on the smooth, wooden tabletop.

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re a liar.”

  Maggie drew a deep breath and placed her spoon beside her dish. “Perhaps you should lie down. You look a bit—”

  He laughed, a most humorless sound. “Lie down? My dear, I feel like I could run from here to Boston, or fight a bear. That’s the only thing I miss about having King George’s army around. A fresh supply of redcoats to clean my teeth on.”

  “You don’t mean that.” At least she hoped he didn’t.

  “Don’t I?” Samuel stood, nearly toppling over his chair. Maggie’s heart pounded when he grasped her arms and dragged her to her feet. “Maybe I can sate myself with you, instead.” He thrust his pelvis against her. The hard bulge of his cock pressed against her belly.

  “Samuel, this isn’t you. It’s the wolf. You must fight it.”

  “You’re afraid of me.” He buried his face in her shoulder and inhaled deeply. “I can smell it.”

  “Samuel, please.”

  “The last time you said ‘Samuel, please’ you were flat on your back with your luscious body wrapped around mine. Don’t you want it again, love?”

  “Yes, but not like this.”

  Her gaze held his for a long moment. His jaw tightened and he swallowed audibly. Brushing her mouth with a tender kiss, he loosened his grip on her arms and caressed her face. “I’m sorry, Maggie.”

  “Samuel. Where are you going?” She chased him to the door where he grabbed his cloak off the tall wooden rack and flung it over his shoulders as he stepped outside. “Samuel.”

  “I’m going to town. I can’t stay here,” he called, trudging toward the barn.

  Town. To the whores. The ones he paid to claw his back and heaven knew what else.

  “No.” She chased him, not caring that she wore no cloak though the snowdrifts were almost to her knees. “Samuel, don’t.”

  He turned and caught her up in his arms. “Are you crazy, woman? You’ll catch your death out here.”

  “Don’t go to town.”

  He glared at her, his teeth bared, as he carried her back to the house and placed her on the chair in front of the fire.

  “Samuel, fight this demon.” She took his face in her hands. Pouring all her affection into her gaze, she prayed he would listen to her pleas. “You can do it, Samuel. I believe in you.”

  “Maggie.” He embraced her tightly. Too tightly. He tugged away, his eyes blazing, and spoke to her through clenched teeth that were far too pointed. “I must go.”

  This time when he left, she remained in the chair by the fire, staring at the leaping flames.

  * * * * *

  A little over an hour later, Maggie walked to her room and stoked the fire there. With a last, hopeful glance toward the road leading to town, she drew the heavy drapes and undressed. Barefoot, wearing only her shift, she removed the pins from her hair and shook out the thick, black tresses. Sitting at the foot of her bed, she brushed her hair and wondered what Samuel was doing. Part of her didn’t want to know while another part of her wished she’d had the courage to demand he vent his passion on her. Of late their lovemaking had been incredibly wild, sometimes a bit frightening, but always fulfilling. Only today had she felt any real terror of him. The wolf was almost here. Tomorrow, there would be little, if any, of Samuel left.

  At the sound of hoofbeats, she leapt off the bed and raced to the window. Samuel was back.

  Her brow furrowed upon seeing a strange chestnut horse, bathed in moonlight, standing in front of the house. The rider, tall and thin, dismounted. His hood fell back, revealing Clay Stratford’s elongated features.

  Maggie drew a deep breath, apprehension clutching her breast. What did he want?

  He pounded on the door. Something told her it was best not to open it to him—not with Samuel in town.

  She opened the window and shouted, “What do you want?”

  “Maggie?” Clay took a step back from the door and stared up at her, a leering grin on his face. “Let me in. It’s cold out here.”

  “Come back tomorrow. Mr. Whittle is not taking visitors right now.”

  “Of course he’s not. He’s in town. Saw him ride in. I can give you a little sample of what he’s doing, love.” Clay parted his cloak and grabbed the bulge in his breeches, jouncing it a few times.

  Disgusted, Maggie slammed the window shut and reached for her robe. She walked across the hall to Samuel’s room where he kept his rifle. At the sound of an enormous bang from downstairs, she nearly screamed. She was loading the bullet when Clay stepped into the room.

  “Well, what’s this?” He grinned, stepping forward and snatching the rifle’s barrel.

  “Get out of here.”

  He tried yanking the rifle from her, but Maggie was stronger than he imagined. She kicked him hard in the shin and he punched her square in the face, sending her flying onto her back.

  Blood gushed from her nose and her eyes filled with tears so she could hardly see.

  Clay dragged her onto the bed. Maggie struggled, kicking, clawing, and biting, though she couldn’t clearly discern where she struck due to her watering eyes. By the sound of Clay’s grunts and gasps, she was hurting him as much as he was hurting her.

  Suddenly he was wrenched from her. Wiping her eyes, she saw Clay on the floor, his face and clothes ripped from her nails, his eyes unfocused as he struggled to his feet. Samuel stood over him, his legs spread apart, his eyes glowing and his teeth bare
d. He growled, the sound not quite human, not quite animal.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Samuel bellowed, dragging Clay to his feet and punching him before he could reply. The blow sent the younger man crashing into the window. Glass broke and Clay nearly fell out.

  “She’s a whore.” Clay pointed a trembling finger in Maggie’s direction. “She invited me—”

  Clay raised his hands to defend himself, but he was no match for Samuel.

  Samuel grasped him by the throat and flung him out the door. He pounced, wolf-like, landing in front of Clay.

  In his terror, Clay rolled backwards, down the flight of stairs. He landed with a crash at the bottom. Maggie stood in the doorway of Samuel’s room, her heart pounding and her head throbbing, both from Clay’s punch and the terror that Samuel might do something drastic.

  “Whoever touches my woman dies,” Samuel snarled, leaping down the steps and landing in a crouch. Clay staggered out the door, bleeding and limping.

  “Samuel,” Maggie shouted.

  He glanced at her then back at Clay. He headed for the door and Maggie did the only thing she could think of.

  “Samuel, help me.” She dropped to her knees, covering her bloody face with her hands. Better to play the part of a weasel, just for a little while, than for Samuel to tear Clay apart and have the entire village chasing him down.

  He raced up the steps and pulled her into his arms. Carrying her to the bed, he placed her on it.

  “Let me see, sweetheart.” He gently moved her hands from her face. “I think the bleeding has stopped. I’ll get some water.”

  She nodded, wiping blood on her hands as he left. Thank the Lord he hadn’t murdered Clay outright, not that the vicious swine didn’t deserve it. Moments later he returned with a bowl of water and a clean washcloth. Tenderly, he bathed her face.

  “Your nose doesn’t appear broken,” he said.

  “I think I’m fine.”

  “I should have killed the son of a bitch,” Samuel growled, picking up the chair and hurling it across the room. The wood splintered.

  “Will you stop it,” she shouted. “I’ve had enough for one night, damn it.”

  Maggie leapt out of the bed and stomped toward the door. He caught her arm and tugged her to his chest.

  Staring at her with blazing eyes, he shook his head. “I’m sorry. I’m—”

  Drawing a trembling breath, Maggie wrapped her arms around his neck. “If you have excess energy, Samuel Whittle, burn it in a way we both can enjoy.”

  His lips parted and his breathing quickened. His cock pressed against her belly. “Haven’t you had enough excitement for one night, Maggie?”

  “I see.” She gritted her teeth. Rage overcame any fear left over from Clay’s attack. “You’ve spent yourself in town with those harlots.”

  His brow furrowed and he growled. “What are you talking about?”

  “You think I don’t know about the whores, Samuel? Don’t forget, I’m the one who washes the blood and disgusting perfume out of your shirts. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the scratches on your back that you just happen to receive on those nights nearer the full moon.”

  “You’re right, Maggie.” His lip curled and his broad chest expanded with each agitated breath as he threw off his cloak. His boots, breeches, waistcoat, and shirt followed. “I did go to town to rut the hell out of the roughest whores money can buy, but I didn’t do it this time. I left with a cock harder than a bayonet and a need so great I felt like ripping off my own skin. Why? Because all I could think of was you.”

  Maggie licked her lips, her pulse racing and her gaze fixed on him. God, the man did things to her she’d never imagined possible and couldn’t find the words to explain.

  She wrapped her arms around him, one hand buried in the hair at his nape, the other clutching a handful of his tight buttocks. In panting whispers, she said against his lips, “Then fill me with your hard cock and rut the hell out of me.”

  Samuel swept her into his arms and claimed her lips in a kiss that stole her breath. He walked to her room and placed her on the floor by the fire. While she shrugged off her robe and tugged her shift over her head, he licked and stroked the length of her legs.

  Maggie sprawled on her back, her breasts heaving with each excited breath as he licked the joining of her thighs and hips then took one of her nipples in his mouth and sucked deeply.

  She ran her fingers through his hair and clutched his shoulders and back.

  “Hard,” he demanded.

  She sank her nails into his flesh and raked as he entered her with a swift thrust and howled, a sound that both thrilled and terrified her. It was pure and wolfish, though the body covering hers was warm and distinctly human male.

  “Oh, Samuel,” she gasped when he pulled his cock out of her and rolled her onto her stomach.

  Clutching her hips, he hauled her against his erection, pushing and rubbing it against her bottom cheeks. Maggie’s fingers gripped the carpet as he entered her from behind. Inch by marvelous inch, the hard, velvet-skinned rod slid into her.

  As he pumped, she thrust her bottom backwards, matching his rhythm.

  “Yes, yes, oh, yes,” she cried.

  He thrust faster, harder, driving her hot, throbbing body headlong into orgasm. Maggie’s world turned black. She pulsed from head to toe, her wet, quivering pussy so wonderfully full of him.

  Suddenly he released a howl that sent carnal ripples down her spine. He stiffened and came, his hands tight on her hips, his ragged breath filling the room.

  Maggie collapsed on the carpet, Samuel atop her. After a moment, his warm, wet tongue lapped from her nape all the way down her spine. The action was sensual, animal-like, and she smiled with bitter joy. Unless their plan succeeded, this might be the last night they ever spent together.

  Chapter Eleven

  Muffled cries of agony sounded from the hidden room below Whittle House.

  Maggie placed her sewing aside and stood, pacing in front of the parlor fire. Her hands twisted and she whispered prayers for Samuel and for herself, that she would find the strength to help him break the spell.

  A glance at the clock told her it was nearly eight. The moon had risen hours ago, but just within the past moments had she heard the evidence of Samuel’s change taking place, of the wolf taking over.

  A particularly ferocious bellow caused her to jump, her pulse skipping. That afternoon Samuel had chained himself in the room below. Maggie hoped the new cuffs would hold him. Paul waited with him, his rifle loaded with the silver bullet, just in case.

  The pounding of hoofbeats outside momentarily blocked out the growls from below. Maggie raced to the window and glanced out. Fear struck her like a fist. Edgar Stratford, the reverend, and a large group of townsfolk armed with rifles, muskets, and torches stopped in front of the house.

  “Whittle. Samuel Whittle. We’ve come for you, you murdering son of a bitch,” Edgar roared.

  Maggie dragged on her cloak and stepped outside. Lifting her chin, she stared, unfaltering, at the crowd and said, “Mr. Whittle is not here.”

  “Where is he?” shouted a man from the back.

  “I’ll tell you where he is,” bellowed Edgar, his face pale and eyes shining. “He’s prowling the countryside like some rabid animal. He’s out for more blood, just as he was out for Clay’s.”

  “What are you talking about?” Maggie demanded.

  “You know, slut.”

  “Edgar,” snapped the reverend, glancing at Maggie with concern in his eyes.

  “Explain yourself, sir,” Maggie stated.

  “When my boy Clay came here last night to ask Whittle about additional purchases from our shop, you were waiting for him. You slithered over him with your evil body and carnal touches and when he finally succumbed to your power, Whittle nearly tore him apart.”

  “That’s not true,” Maggie shouted.

  “Isn’t it? When my boy came to me last night, he was cut and bruised like a man who�
��d survived a battle. He told me Whittle said he’d kill any man who touched his slut.”

  “Clay broke into this house last night and attacked me.”

  “Liar.”

  “Why would she lie, Edgar?” the reverend asked. “I feel for you in your hour of pain, having just lost your son, but Clay had a tarnished reputation with the ladies of the town.”

  “This is no lady,” Edgar roared. “She’s a demon’s concubine. A dark witch for the man-wolf to hump.”

  Maggie’s eyes widened and she trembled. “What do you mean Clay is dead?”

  “That demon Whittle killed him.”

  Maggie drew a sharp breath. “No. It’s not true.”

  “The boy got drunk and drowned in the lake, Edgar,” the reverend said. He glanced at the crowd. “All of you know it’s true.”

  Several murmurs of agreement passed through the group.

  Edgar’s pale face reddened with fury. He shook the torch gripped in his fist. “He died of fear. Terror that the beast who calls himself Samuel Whittle would come after him and finish what he started last night. That’s what drove him to the drink.”

  “What drove him to the drink was his unquenchable thirst,” the reverend snapped. “You know he had a weakness for women and whiskey, Edgar.”

  “You bastard.” Edgar turned his rage on the reverend. “And you call yourself a man of God. There’s a demon right here in our town and you protect him.”

  Terror rose inside Maggie as the crowd roared, their fear almost tangible. For years they’d been terrified of Samuel and the stories of his curse. Even if Clay’s death had been accidental, it was a fine excuse to rid themselves of Samuel.

  “My boy is dead.” Edgar glanced at each of the faces surrounding him. “Yours might be next. Or maybe your daughters. Rutted by the wolf and made to carry his evil whelp.” The crowd uttered a collective gasp that urged Stratford on. “I’m going to scour this wilderness, find him tonight, and kill him. Are you with me?”

  “We’re with you,” the crowd bellowed.