by Nina Mason
“What are we having for dinner?”
“Pheasant in brandy sauce. It’s a specialty of my housekeeper’s.”
“It sounds yummy.” She turned back to him. “And after dinner?”
“I thought I might show you the dungeon.”
“Oh?” Fear flickered in her heart, but she refused to let it catch fire. “What’s in the dungeon?”
“Use your imagination.” He stepped toward her. “Can I pour you a drink?”
He moved down the long table toward a butler’s tray full of bottles and decanters. Sadly, the tails of his coat prevented her from checking out his ass. In those painted-on breeches, his backside had to be well worth a gander.
“What’s your poison?” he asked.
“I’m not particular.” Nerves made her smile. “Anything wet will do.”
Looking her way, he picked up a decanter filled with golden liquid. “What about whisky? It’s a Highland single-malt. The best I can afford.”
“That sounds perfect.”
While he filled the glasses, she drank in the view. Holy crap. The man wasn’t just hot, he was sex personified. Longing’s sweet fire blazed between her legs. Had she been wearing panties, they might have burst into flames. She wasn’t, though. To ravage her, he need only lift her skirts. He set down the decanter and picked up the glasses. As he came toward her, their cut-crystal facets twinkled in the firelight like tiny diamonds.
“Here you are,” he said, handing her one.
She took a gulp. The burn in her throat paled beside the fire in her loins. A downward glance told her he was just as turned on as she was. It also provoked a sweltering surge of longing.
“We could always skip dinner,” she suggested.
“Aren’t you hungry?”
“Yes, but not for food.”
She couldn’t believe she was being so forward. At the same time, she rather liked this new emboldened version of herself. Fare thee well, Gwyn the Meek; come on down, Gwyn the Bold. She set a hand on his arm, delighting in the bulging bicep beneath his sleeves. He was all man. So what if he was into kinky sex? As long as he didn’t hurt her, bring it on.
“If we go forward, it must be on my terms.”
“I see,” she said, playing the coquette to cover her anxiety. “And just what do your terms entail?”
“I’ll assign you a role to play and you must stay in character at all times.”
Fear hardened her stomach as she saw herself on all fours with a bit in her mouth. “What if I don’t like the role you assign?”
He waved a hand, a dismissive gesture. “Then suggest another.”
That sounded fair enough. “I’m willing, provided there’s no hitting involved, or anything to make me feel crappy about myself.”
“What about blood drinking?” He sipped his Scotch. “I promise to be gentle.”
Blood drinking? In The Knight of Cups, the experience was depicted as highly erotic for the donor.
“Will I have a safe word? In case things get out of hand?”
She knew about safe words from reading erotica.
“Of course.”
Gwyn sipped her drink as she racked her brain for a word that was both appropriate and meaningful. After rejecting several possibilities, she came up with one.
“Mercy.”
He gave her a funny look. “Is that your safe word?”
“Is that okay?”
“As good as any, I suppose.” He shrugged and took a drink. “Now for our roles. You’ll play Miss Brown, the lady’s maid, and I will be the laird of the castle who’s just caught you en flagrante delicto in the stable with two of my grooms.”
“Two of your grooms? My, how inventive you are.”
A pleased grin bloomed on his face. “I’m a writer, remember?” The smile wilted. “Or, used to be anyway.” He took a breath and another drink. “If it would help you get into character, I’d be only too happy to describe what I witnessed in detail.”
She fought the urge to smirk. “If that’s what does it for you, go for it.”
He crossed his arms, placed a finger against his jaw, and looked toward the ceiling. “As I recall, you were on your knees in the hay with one groom before you and one behind. Both were delighting in the moist heat of your orifices. Are you getting the picture?”
She was. In glorious Technicolor. “How efficient of me to pleasure three gentlemen at once.”
An inquisitive eyebrow shot up. “Three?”
“The two grooms plus yourself.”
When he clasped her face with both hands, she stiffened in surprise. He turned her head and pressed his lips against her neck. His hair tickled and he smelled of leather and soap. Tiny spasms of ecstasy went through her. Reality fell away. She forgot everything except his mouth, his scent, and the passion raging inside her.
“What shall I call you?”
“My lord.”
His hands swept to her waist and took hold. He pulled her against him, letting her feel the solid heat of the body beneath the clothes. As she pressed her pelvic bone against his crotch, the feel of his hardness turned up the heat between her legs.
“My lord.”
Her voice was breathy and strained. She rubbed his erection, reveling in the power she had over him. The moan he released made her clit pulse and her nipples tighten. Her whole body hummed with need. She’d never wanted any man this much. She was in his thrall, ready to do whatever he desired.
A clearing throat broke the spell. He tensed and pulled away.
She staggered backward, blushing. Holy crap. If that was any indication, the sex would be absolutely mind-blowing. Not that she knew what that felt like. Up until now all her lovers had been selfish. She’d never even had an orgasm that wasn’t self-inflicted.
Mr. Brody stood in the doorway in full eighteenth-century livery. “The meal is ready, my lord. Shall I bring the food in?”
“Aye, Gavin, do,” Leith said. “We were just about to ring.”
She was about to ring all right, but not for the butler.
As the butler departed, her lord and master met her gaze with a sizzling spark that cracked the whip on her already galloping desire. “Shall we take our seats?”
The long mahogany table was big enough to seat twelve, making the two place-settings at the far end seem rather lonely. The one at the head of the table was meant for him, presumably, so she made for the other.
In a blink, he was behind her chair, pulling it out. As she swept into her seat, he bent over and again pressed his mouth against her neck. He flicked his tongue across her flesh, sending heavenly shivers through her body. The nip of teeth that followed made her jump in surprise.
Her old friend whispered in her ear: You’re playing with fire, with something you don’t understand. If you had any sense, you’d run like he’s the devil himself, which he probably is.
No, he was the faery knight she’d dreamed of meeting all her life. She wasn’t going anywhere. She grabbed the artfully folded cloth napkin from atop the stack of gold-edged plates and spread the cloth across her lap.
He grabbed the ewer of red wine at the top of his place-setting and filled her goblet. After filling his own, he replaced the ewer and took his seat.
They drank their wine in silence, the air thick with sexual tension. God, she wanted him. She also wanted to know what to expect when they reached the dungeon. She opened her mouth, ready to inquire, but stopped herself, remembering his dictate.
I will assign you a role to play and you must stay in character at all times.
She couldn’t think how to ask about the dungeon as Miss Brown, so she decided to leave the topic for now.
Her thoughts drifted to the film rights. Miss Brown couldn’t very well bring that up, either. Not that she was ready to. Her chances of persuading him were much better if he read the screenplay. Tomorrow, she’d try to find a way to print out the pages. Luckily, she’d stored a back-up cop
y on her cloud drive, which she could access from the computer in his library if the opportunity presented itself.
The silence was growing oppressive. So was her bodice. The damn thing was laced so tight she could hardly breathe, let alone eat. She pictured herself in the dungeon, naked and strapped to a table with her legs apart. He stood over her, bare from the waist up. His rakishly disheveled hair framed his face in a way that made him even more appealing. His perfect torso glistened with sweat. His stare was fixed on her sexual organs, which lay open to him like an oyster on the half shell. His raging hard-on embossed his painted-on breeches in a delectably explicit way.
“How do you like the wine, Miss Brown?”
As the fantasy evaporated, she picked up her napkin and dabbed her damp décolletage. “I would enjoy it more, my lord, if I knew how you planned to punish me for what you witnessed in the stable.”
“Patience, Miss Brown.” He sipped his wine and licked the flavor from his lips in a way that made her ache. “All will be revealed in due course.”
Mr. Brody brought in a tureen and proceeded to ladle cream-colored bisque into the gold-rimmed china bowls before them. The smell of seafood reminded her she was hungry for more than sex.
She kept her focus on her bowl until the butler left the room. Risking a glance at Sir Leith, she found him staring at her. Her face heated as their gazes met with an electrical charge.
Pulling her gaze away, she picked up her spoon and dipped the bowl into the soup. Acutely aware of his every movement, she slurped the hot liquid, which tasted richly of crab, sherry, and cream.
“I want five million,” he said, “plus final approval of the script and the lead actors.”
She choked, spewing soup across the table.
“That’s right, Miss Morland. I know who you are and why you’re here. I found your backpack, you see.”
Gwyn was stunned speechless. That he had her backpack was both good and bad. Good because she hadn’t lost her things, including the picture of her parents. Bad because he’d learned her reason for being there before she was prepared to show her hand. Plus, he’d seduced her knowing all the while what she wanted from him, which seemed underhanded somehow. Not that she’d been all that above board herself.
“Why are you bringing this up now?”
“It seemed a good idea to get our business out of the way before we become lovers.”
She quivered at the word lovers. At the moment, she wanted him more than she wanted the film rights, but she also wanted him to like her script.
“Did you read it?”
“I did.”
“And…?”
“If I thought it was shite, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, now would we?”
She met his gaze, still smoky with desire. “Pounds or dollars?”
His eyes hardened. “Is that a trick question?”
“What do you mean?”
“If I say I meant dollars and you’re willing to pay pounds, I’m selling myself short.”
Mr. Robbins had authorized her to go as high as seven million pounds. She tried to think what her father might have done in the same situation. He’d always been fair when negotiating with writers, always put people before the bottom line. Others in the industry called him soft because of his equanimity and maybe they were right. He’d certainly been weak when it came to his second wife. Maybe if he’d shown more mettle he’d still be alive today.
“Three million pounds.”
“Four, plus final script approval.”
Guilt and triumph warred within her as she drank her wine. If she agreed, Mr. Robbins would be proud, but her father wouldn’t be. And neither would she. Sir Leith might never write another book and the studio would probably make record profits on the film.
“Before I give you my answer, tell me why you’ve never written another book.”
He heaved a sigh and shook his head. “It isn’t from lack of trying, believe me.”
“You have writer’s block?”
“Aye.” His voice was clipped. “A crippling case, as it happens.”
She glanced around at her sumptuous surroundings. “How can you afford all this?”
“I can’t.” Pain flashed in his eyes. “And the castle and my staff are suffering for it.”
“You’re broke?”
“Aye. And in debt to my ears. I lost my investments in the banking meltdown.” He set his big, warm hand atop hers, and looked at her with pleading eyes. “I can’t lose Glenarvon, Miss Morland. I just can’t. It’s all I’ve got left of who I was.”
Her heart ached for him. The poor man. He’d survived the slaughter at Culloden only to be enslaved by faeries and, upon his return, learned of his wife’s vicious murder. He’d lost everything that mattered to him, every scrap of who he’d been—except Glenarvon. And now, cruel fate had conspired to take that from him, too. She couldn’t live with herself if she cheated him out of his due.
“Six million. Plus final script approval.”
Withdrawing his hand, he finger-raked his hair. “That’s very generous of you. And very kind.”
She smiled. “It’s the least I can do to repay you for saving my life.”
He looked at his soup. “I didn’t do it to profit.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I’d think less of you if you had.”
Gaze still downcast, his countenance gravened. “Don’t think too highly of me, Miss Morland. It’s not in your best interest.”
“I can decide what’s in my own best interest, thank you very much.”
Arching an eyebrow, he met her gaze. “Can you? I’m not so sure.”
Her smoldering indignation caught fire. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He emptied his glass, grabbed the ewer, and glanced toward her half-empty goblet. “Do you fancy a topper?”
“I don’t know,” she said hotly. “It might not be in my best interests to get plastered in the company of a pervert.”
“It isn’t, I assure you.” He filled her glass anyway, and then his own. “And as for the pervert remark, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, eh?”
Gwyn gulped her wine. She didn’t want to get drunk, just to take the edge off her inhibitions. She was sick to death of shrinking from fun. She’d never roller skated or ridden a bike. She was too afraid of falling, of getting hurt. Her only adventures had been the ones she’d read about.
Now, here she was with a gorgeous, yet dangerous, man—the embodiment of the fictional character she’d fantasized about for years. Granted, she’d never seen herself strapped to a table in his BDSM dungeon, but she was more than willing to expand her horizons.
To a point.
“Do you promise not to hurt me?”
“It’s not about inflicting pain, Miss Morland.”
“No?” She boldly held his gaze. “Then what is it about?”
“Self-control.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“You’re not meant to.”
The butler came in with the main course and dished the food onto their plates. When Sir Leith began to eat, she followed suit. The pheasant tasted a great deal like chicken, though with a denser texture and gamier flavor.
“I’ll e-mail Mr. Robbins tomorrow about our deal,” she said. “We do have one, right?”
“Aye, lass. We have a deal. As long as my barrister finds nothing objectionable.”
She took a gulp of wine. She’d wanted this so badly for so long and yet it felt anti-climactic somehow. Deep down, she knew why. She’d pursued a career in filmmaking because of her father. He’d been taken from her too soon and following in his footsteps was her way of holding onto him. A ghost, however, couldn’t keep her any warmer at night than her books and movies.
Neither could success.
But the man beside her could—if she played her cards right. What was a future in Hollywood compared to the magical life she could have h
ere with him?
Oh, dear. She pressed a hand to her breast. She was galloping ahead of herself again. Time to pull back on the reins. She was ready to marry the guy, and they’d barely finished the main course.
Mr. Brody returned to clear the dishes. As he left the room, Sir Leith rose from the table, picked up his goblet, and took the wine to the fireplace. Gwyn turned in her chair so she could see him. He was looking at the portrait of his wife.
“You resemble her a bit, you know,” he said
“Do I?”
“Aye. Something around the eyes. And your size. She was a wee sprig of a lass as well.”
Gwyn did not know how to feel about what he’d just said. She wanted him to want her—but for who she was, not because she reminded him of his dead wife.
Chapter 6
Leith’s gaze might have been fixed on Clara’s portrait, but his thoughts were on the lass at the table. There was something about her that drew him in, all the more reason to take pains to see her solely as a sexual object. He’d expected her to meet his proposal with considerable reluctance, not acquiescence, and now felt conflicted.
On the one hand, he wanted, rather ruthlessly, to make her his plaything, to tease and toy with her like a cat with a mouse. On the other, he must tread carefully, must keep his heart locked up tight, must not let her get under his skin the way he’d allowed Faith to do.
That wouldn’t be easy, given how badly he wanted her. Even now, he yearned to sink his fangs into the pulsing vein on her neck while sinking his cock into the juicy tautness of her muff. Just thinking about it damn near made him come off.
Clenching his fists, he blew out a breath. “What are your hard limits?”
She cleared her throat. “That’s difficult to say until I know what you intend to do.”
He took a minute, biting his lip as the stable fantasy replayed in his mind. “May I spank you?”
“No.”
Damn. “May I tie your hands?”
“Yes, as long as the restraints aren’t too tight.”
Good. Bondage was non-negotiable. “What about suspension?”
“I’m not sure what that is, but I’m open to anything that isn’t painful.”
