“Follow me, please,” a petite, Moroccan woman requested when she exited the change rooms. She followed the uniformed woman to a chamber sectioned off from the rest of the salon. The word, ‘hydro’ brought relief. Okay, she thought, she could do cheese. In fact, she looked forward to what was undoubtedly champagne and strawberries in fragrantly warm, bubbling water.
The therapist steered her away from the hot tub though towards a room signed “Rasul.” Following instructions, she hung her robe, stepped out of the slippers, and entered the room through a frosted glass door. The therapist had since left, and Sophie was alone in what must be the most decadent steam room, she’d ever seen.
Steam clung to the atmosphere of the room, making it comfortably hot. Music streamed in through hidden speakers. In the middle of the room was a small, square plunge pool, decorated in mosaic tiles and above them. The ceiling mimicked the night’s sky where thousands of tiny lights twinkled in a multitude of colors.
“What do you think?” Sylvain asked from behind her. He’d stepped into the room and was wearing only the baggy shorts that surfers wore. Her gaze raked over his chest noting the long, lean torso, and rippling muscles as he moved towards her. Her eyes moved up towards his broad shoulders and strong neck. The enticing vein throbbing with his blood made her fangs hurt and they dropped. Then she made another mistake and looked at his face. The man was too good looking for his own good. For a moment, she wondered why on earth she was there with him, half-naked, and across the Atlantic.
“What is this?” she inquired.
“A rasul,” he replied. “Although not Moroccan, this is the nicest one I’ve been too, and whenever I visit this hollow, I try to find time to come here. It is relaxing, although I don’t think I’ll be doing much relaxing after seeing you like this.”
Sophie ignored the scorching touch of his eyes as they swept over her body and thanked the Goddess that she’d had the forethought to shave and have a pedicure done recently. “Well it certainly is an original way to end a date.” Sophie tried to detract from the predatory gleam in his eyes as he took her hand and led them to the built-in marble seats.
“Who said anything about ending?” Sylvain stated before he dropped his head and took her lips with his. The room was hot, but her insides were hotter. He tasted of cumin, mint, and the sexy thing that hot dreams were made of. She heard herself moan and he used that opportunity to slip his tongue into her mouth. Tongues battled, pulling, and sucking while their lips locked together as though they wanted to breathe each other in. Dieu! This was heavenly.
Sylvain continued his oral assault while his hands brought her forward until they were kissing, chest to chest, her hardened nipples against his sculpted muscles. Darn, but if the vibrations that rippled through his six-pack didn’t turn her on even more. Involuntarily, she moved in and swung her arms around his neck, lacing her fingers in his hair, and pulled him down to her. She wanted to feel every inch of him, especially the hardness growing against her belly. Sophie moved to straddle him, bringing them even closer. Sylvain hissed as she began to move, grinding her pelvis against his. Then everything went frantic. Pushed by the unexpected force of their passion, she forgot everything, but his hands gliding down her back and cupping her buttocks to bring her further against him. The tranquil music permeating the room was forgotten and replaced by her moans of pleasure. Putting everything into the kiss, she drowned in it.
“I want you more right now than anything I can remember,” Sylvain broke away from their kiss. “But, I did promise you retribution for your earlier teasing and I’ve been looking forward to claiming it.”
Her initial caution forgotten, Sophie lay down on the warm marble in front of him. She did it slowly, deliberately stoking the fiery passion evident all over him; from his tense muscles, darkened eyes, to the erection searchingly pushing against his shorts.
“The purpose of the rasul is to relax and cleanse the mind and body. Part of the ritual is to lather yourself with Dead Sea mud.”
“Okay,” Sophie responded, wondering where this was going. She needed his hands on her and the talk was frustrating the hell out of her. “Could we save the tutorial for another day? I’m ready for my punishment.”
Sylvain chuckled at her glib eagerness. “Giving into you would not be punishing would it?” He then got up and brought over a bowl of mud. “Turn around, ma chérie,” he requested, “then close your eyes and relax.”
Sophie did as asked and waited. Sylvain, determined to tease her more than she did him, took his time to apply the stuff. By then, she no longer cared if he wanted to cover her in cream cheese. She just needed his hands on her.
He hovered over her and slowly moved her hair aside. She groaned with ecstasy when she felt his lips against the sides of her neck. Using them and his tongue, he created a trail from one side, around the back of her neck to the other side. Then nothing.
Sophie tried to turn her head to look up and see what he was doing, but he stopped her. “Uh-uh,” he chastised. “Be a good girl or it will get worse.”
Groaning in frustration, Sophie did as she was told and yelped when she felt the warm mud being applied to her neck where his lips had been only moments earlier. Sylvain continued his assault, first using his lips, then tongue, only to pull away and apply the mud with his hands as he moved down her back. When he got to her bikini bottoms, she nearly cried in protest when he moved over her buttocks, completely neglecting it. She wanted him to rip them off and touch her. She wanted to feel those strong hands cupping and squeezing her eager flesh. Only the thought that he might tease her more forced her to remain silent. By the time he’d finished her feet, she felt wired, and manic with want.
But he stopped, continuing to tease her. “I think you missed a spot,” Sophie tried for more.
Sylvain chuckled in appreciation. She felt the heat radiating from his body and coming closer. He hadn’t allowed her to turn he head so she couldn’t see where he was. “Turn around, ma chérie,” he whispered into her ear. His hot breath made her want to whimper. The huskiness of his voice gave her a sense of satisfaction knowing that she wasn’t the only one suffering.
When Sophie lay on her back against the marble, he swore under his breath. Goddess, she was beautiful. Her nipples were erect and wanting attention, pushed against the white fabric of her bikini top. He swept his gaze down passed her delectable belly button, tiny waist, and rested his eyes on where he wanted to be most. Her bikini bottoms did not sufficiently hide the delights he knew lay beneath them. Even if he couldn’t smell the scent of her sex, he could see the white fabric sticking to the moist, swollen flesh. He told his eager cock to stop twitching, trying to get out.
Sylvain grinned in derision at the madness of the self-enforced torture. Using a combination of firm, broad strokes and feather-light, teasing taps, he began applying the mud to the front of her body. There was no way in hell he was going to use his lips and tongue on her now. He’d either embarrass himself or forget about his tantric strategy and plunge into her. He knew she’d be willing, but again, she deserved better than that.
He moved from her feet upwards. When he got to her thighs, he gently parted her legs and swore. She was soaked, not only from the light sheen of sweat from the steam in the room, but from desire. He found that, for a moment, all he could do was sit back and stare at her sex.
“Dieu, Sylvain,” Sophie growled. “Looking at me like that is not helping matters.”
Desire met its match when he looked at her face. Holding her gaze, he began applying the mud to her inner thighs going just high enough to meet the line between thigh and sex, but not touching her where he knew she needed him to. The satisfaction of seeing her throw her head back, closing her vamp red eyes from him, mouth open, and fangs fully extended, was nearly enough to make up for his discomfort. Nearly ... but not quite.
Deciding that they had both had all the torture they could take, he moved upwards and stroked her stomach, stopping to place a soft kiss on her be
lly button. That act nearly undid him. Staying focused, he placed his mud-covered hands over her breasts. It wasn’t part of the plan, but he couldn’t resist. He denied himself the pleasure of squeezing her nipples, rolling the buds between his fingers and instead took the short, intense shots of pleasure he got from cupping them. Sophie gasped and arched. A brief glance at her sex confirmed that she was getting hotter and wetter for him, which was exactly what he wanted. He wanted her so consumed by his touch that she pushed away all thoughts of Sylvain and his many masks, as she put it, and only thinking of him, Sylvain—the man!
Fortified by his mental dialogue, he applied the last of the mud to the area above her breasts, enjoying her involuntary squirms to move up so that he was touching her breasts again. Application complete, Sylvain bent placed his face above hers, their lips barely an inch apart. Sophie looked at him, waiting for the next move. He chuckled and placed a chaste kiss on her lips. On cue, steam stopped entering the room and rain swept down from the ceiling.
Sophie gasped in surprise. “Did you do that?”
“Nope,” Sylvain replied, sitting down beside her. “That’s all part of the rasul.”
Sophie gave the ceiling a closer inspection. Her vampire vision detected dozens of tiny sprinklers amidst the lights. “Talk about a cold shower,” she exclaimed. She grinned at Sylvain, “You obviously timed this whole thing. But, Dieu, it isn’t cold enough. You have some talented hands there, cher.”
“I aimed to pleasure,” Sylvain retorted. “Glad I managed that. The rain is about to stop and I don’t want to leave the room like this. I don’t think the beauty therapists can handle it.” He glanced wickedly down at his crotch.
Sophie followed his gaze and cleared her throat. It was feeling decidedly dry. “What do you suppose we do about it?” she asked in anticipation.
“I’m, getting into the pool,” Sylvain emphasized the ‘I’. And darn it, he did. “It’s cold enough to minimize things a bit.”
And that, thought Sophie, was Sylvain gaining the upper-hand. He’d well and truly exacted retribution for her teasing.
Chapter 8
Sophie sat on the bed, waiting for her husband. She’d arrived hours ago at the Dubois plantation, accompanied by a nun and the casket or trousseau the church had bestowed on her. It was one of the caskets from which had sprung the myth about the Coffin Girls. Strangely, anxiety was not something she’d felt then. When she had been introduced to her fiancé, Pierre, his kind brown eyes had welcomed her, although his manner had been all business. He was one of many gentlemen of French descent who had visited the Ursuline convent to peruse the available wives. The act was humiliating. Some gentlemen openly leered at them and Sophie felt that the only thing stopping them from ‘testing the goods’ was the presence of the nuns. Others were like Pierre - all business and a few, too few, were shy.
Her husband’s brown eyes had sent messages of comfort since her arrival when she had stepped from the carriage, into the plantation mansion, and throughout their hurried wedding ceremony. The nun was anxious to return to the convent in New Orleans, having many ‘brides’ to dispatch still, but she would not leave Sophie with Pierre until they were joined in the eyes of the church.
On the discovery of her empath abilities, the disapproving nuns had first called a witch to bind her powers, and then had enlisted her for the New Orleans sea voyage. It was all business - moving the girls in, drilling them with the importance of grace, virtue and love of God then moving them out as swiftly as possible. She couldn’t scan his emotions, so she went with what she saw. She thanked her good fortune for having captured the attention of one of the good ones.
After having met the staff and endured a rather formal dinner with her new husband, she was led to her room. It was a lovely room, befitting a lady of the house. Whilst not as grand as her childhood room, it was a far cry from those she had inhabited since her mother’s --grotesque execution. Sophie felt tears spring to her eyes. Her mother had dreamed of love, marriage, and children for her daughter. Given the circumstances that had led to her marriage, she doubted that her mother would be happy now. When the Ursuline nuns in France hand-picked girls to marry the French colonists and accompany them to the New World, there was little choice given to the girls. The country-side was fraught with blackguards and unprotected girls barely made it to the inside of the convent without losing their virtue violently. The nuns had subjected them all to ‘checks’ of their virtue, a demeaning physical examination that Sophie would rather forget. Sophie had therefore braved crossing the Atlantic and squared her shoulders against any angst she might feel. Being a secret empath and with the buckets of trepidation being felt from the other girls all around her, forced ignorance was survival tactic. There were a few exceptions to the angst-ridden girls. Another two, Anais and Veronique, were filled with the same steely determination she had to see this as an opportunity to begin again and put aside the horrors that they’d been subjected to as young girls. The three of them became friends during the cold and dreary months at sea. Anais and Veronique had recently married, and once she was married too, she would be able to visit them. Sophie fiddled with the damask coverlet spread over the bed and smiled; that was one distinct advantage of being married.
The other aspects of marriage made her stomach clench. The warm brown eyes of her husband had disappeared after the brief, chaste kiss that sealed their union, and in its place was something cold, calculating. The kiss in the church as Madame Pierre Dubois, a new bride, had been her first. Sophie touched her fingers to her lips, noting nothing different about them. Maybe she’d repulsed her new husband? Frowning, she looked down at her body. She was petite, but well formed – thanks to all the manual labor she’d been subjected to at the convent. Her hair had been washed, perfumed, and styled in blonde ringlets that flowed down her bare back. The blue ribbon decorating her hair matched the ribbon in the diaphanous nightgown her husband had gifted to her via the housekeeper. If she repulsed him physically, then why did he marry her and give her the gown? Sophie shrugged. She was being silly. It must be nerves and her inexperience making her feel this way.
A breeze through the open doors touched her bare shoulders. Curious, Sophie moved to the window. The view was a marvel. An expanse of land spread out from the mansion towards the river. On either side of the mansion lay acres of farmland and above was a night’s sky that rivaled diamond-studded black velvet. Her new husband owned that, and as such, it was her new home. But the luxury meant little to her, she’d made a promise to her maman that she would find love and family, and thus far, whether or not that was attainable was doubtful. She wasn’t naïve, love did not come at first sight, especially with an arranged marriage, or in this case, bought bride. But, she held onto the hope that love could grow in the relationship she had just entered into. To not have that hope would be to break her promise to her maman.
Sophie was so engrossed in her thoughts and in the view that she didn’t hear the door open.
“Good evening, Sophie,” he greeted her formally. Sophie noted that he avoided her gaze and looked at the room instead. Her hands became clammy and her mouth went dry.
He made his way to the bed and patted the space beside him, gesturing for her to join him there. Squaring her shoulders, pulling oxygen in deeply, she did as he bid. She looked up at him expectantly and was met again with gravity.
“As my wife, you will have financial and societal security,” he began.
The air in the room was tense. Sophie had expected a certain level of anxiety; perhaps even from him, but there was something else going on. She wished she knew him well enough to ask what was wrong. After all, she’d been a bride for barely a day and could not think of anything she might have done to offend him. The stern expression on his face indicated that to do so would not be a good idea. More nervous now, she let out a meek, “Thank you.”
“In return, I ask for your loyalty and trust.” He looked up at her, wariness pronounced. “I have the right to punish
you should you betray that.” He ignored Sophie’s sharp intake of breath, “But, whether or not I do so is in your hands and hope that I do not need to resort to such methods.”
Sophie looked down at her damp, shaking hands, and she clenched the night gown between them to off-set the moisture. “You have my loyalty and trust,” she assured him. “I am a woman alone in a strange country. If I were to betray you, it would be foolish as I have nothing and nowhere else to go.”
“Yes,” Pierre nodded again, “there is that, which is precisely why I asked for a bride from the convent. What I have to tell you tonight will be a test of that loyalty and how you react will determine the nature of our relationship whether I can trust you or whether I should punish you to evoke that trust.”
Heart pounding, Sophie gulped and bobbed her head a fraction. Pierre seemed to consider what he was about to say, leveraging her with a gaze that was no longer grave, but steely and determined. It was a look that told her that he meant every word he said and one that made her heart speed up yet again, her go hands clammier.
“I will share my wealth and my name with you, but I will not share my body,” he stated.
Shocked, Sophie looked up at him. “I don’t understand?”
Supernatural Seduction (Book 2 of the Coffin Girls Series) Page 10
