by Sharon Page
She was so aroused she was slick, creamy. She blushed at the wet, sucking noises his finger made as he plunged it in and out.
“Lovely. You’re ready for me.”
She nodded, unable to speak.
“Not quite,” he murmured. His thumb rubbed her nub, again and again. Good—it was so incredibly good. Of their own volition, her hips lifted, rocking into his hand. He rubbed. And rubbed. Each stroke left her dizzier. Each pass had her soaring higher. She clutched at the fur throw. Her hips pounded helplessly. She was growing more and more tense, and she feared . . . something would have to burst . . .
Something did. In a wave of pleasure, in a mad pulsing of her muscles, an explosion of light behind her closed lids and a rush of liquid heat through her body. She bucked. She tore at the bedclothes. With her eyes shut tight, she arched beneath him, her body moving beyond her control. Wave after wave of delight claimed her. Oh, oh, heavens.
When the waves finally stopped crashing over her, she fell back, weak and tingly, onto the bed. Dazed, Amelia opened her eyes. The first thing she saw was Dante’s self-satisfied grin. “Did I please you?” he asked. “I intend to please you so much more....”
He parted her limp thighs, pressing them wide apart. His penis pointed at her most intimate place, and that made laughter bubble up inside her. Nervous giggles that popped into the steamy room like the trapped air in champagne. She felt intoxicated. He lowered to her, the sweet, rounded head of his member touching her private place. It pushed between her wet lips. She had gasped at his finger, and now she was paralyzed by the sudden invasion of the taut head, the thick shaft that followed.
Splaying her hands, she pressed them to his hard chest. Stopping him. “Oh,” she gasped.
Lovingly, his lips played against hers. Each soft caress of his mouth helped the pain ease. “I’m sorry, Amelia. This will hurt when I break your maidenhead, but just this time and just for a little while. I think it’s madness that it has to hurt you. I promise I’ll do everything in my power to give you an orgasm that will make your discomfort worth it.”
“All right,” she whispered. She tensed, but she trusted him.
He eased forward and she winced. Her fingernails drove into his broad, strong back. She was hurting him, and she didn’t mean to, but she couldn’t stop.
His hips pushed forward and she cried out. He backed off. But she knew there was no point in delay. “Just push into me,” she whispered.
He kissed her hard at the same moment he thrust. Pain lanced her, making her head reel, and she gouged his flesh so hard she must have left scratches. He stayed motionless. She felt him inside, filling her. She felt so full of him. His crotch was tight to hers. They were joined.
Slowly, he moved back, and she felt the unfamiliar stroke deep inside her; she felt every sensation of it. Then he pushed in once more. This time it didn’t hurt so much. She relaxed a little beneath him.
He pumped in again, and she bit her lip. He drove faster; he pushed even deeper; he filled her more. He cupped her bottom and lifted her to him, thrusting slowly, deliberately, and with such restrained power it stunned her.
She tried to lift to him. It was good now, the pain a memory, and all she wanted now was to reach up for him, take him inside, and hold him there.
Dante lifted her hips higher, so she couldn’t move, so she was at his command. He thrust faster and faster.
She clutched his back, now slick with sweat. She had her legs wrapped around him, and she held on tight. He breathed faster, panting now, and she could see the exertion in the harsh set of his mouth, the tension of his arms.
“Yes,” she whispered, trying to pump against him when she could barely move at all.
Then he moved, shifting so his shaft stroked her nub, still swollen and aching from his caresses. He stroked over and over, until she was a brainless thing, until she was nothing more than tingling delight moving with him. Push to him. Take him. Harder. She realized she was gasping it aloud. “Harder. Please. Yes.”
Her toes curled, her fingers scratched, her hips arched, and heaven dropped down to gather her up. Dimly Amelia saw Dante tense over her. She heard his roar of pleasure. She felt his hips collide with hers and stay motionless. She felt heat. She felt utterly joined to him.
Then she slipped back. Gasping. Whirling. In her heart and soul, she was dancing, though she was still lying upon a bed.
Dante fell off to the side, and he gathered her close. She was hot, sticky, aching, but deliriously happy and spent and sated.
“You should sleep a little,” he advised, kissing her mouth gently. “Then we’ll travel.”
“To be married,” Amelia managed to whisper.
“In my heart, we already are,” he said.
Dante pushed open the cottage door and stood on the threshold. The blizzard had picked up, and the world was a blur of white. He strained, listening for the sound he’d heard while he got dressed inside and Amelia slept under the fur covers.
He’d thought it was hoofbeats; now he wasn’t certain. No one could be riding in the woods through the heavy snow. Had it been footsteps?
It didn’t matter if his family caught them. She was essentially his wife now: He’d taken her innocence; he owed her marriage. He wanted her, he loved her, and he was going to have her, and his family could be damned—
Dante.
He jerked to the right. He tried to stare through the snow, but it fell as dense as a plaster wall. He thought he’d heard someone call his name. A gentle breathing came from behind him—Amelia was sleeping.
He should go back to her. But the urge to go outside and search for that sound was something he couldn’t quell. He wanted to find out who had called his name. Hell, it was like a compulsion. It would be madness to go out. What he should do was help Amelia dress so they could get to the carriage and begin making their way to Gretna.
But he stepped forward. Who in blazes could be out there? Was his father planning some kind of ambush, prowling up to them through the snow? His father was a proud man, one with a volatile temper, but Dante didn’t believe his father would plot to hurt Amelia.
Hell, if his father tried, Dante would do anything to protect the woman he loved.
Suddenly, a dark form materialized in front of him. It was a man, clothed in a sweeping cloak that covered his entire body and a black beaver hat pulled low.
“Who are you?” Dante shouted. Where in the hell had this man come from? Even in the storm, he should have seen the man approach.
Come to me, Dante.
The deep voice growled in his head. No one could speak in someone’s mind. But he took a step forward. His feet were moving against his will. He gripped the door handle, but he couldn’t stop his legs from taking steps, and as he moved through the thick snow, he pulled the door closed.
He had to protect Amelia. From what, he didn’t know. He had an overwhelming sense of danger. He had tucked a pistol in the waistband of his trousers. Drawing it out, he leveled it at the dark figure. The man was backing up, and for some insane reason, he was striding after the man, though he was telling his legs to stop moving.
They had moved ten feet away from the cottage. Twenty feet. Then they were far enough that the cottage was invisible, hidden by thickly falling snowflakes. Amelia, stay safe, he thought.
Suddenly the black cape whirled in front of him; then it just . . . vanished. It flapped again in his peripheral vision. Dante spun in that direction. He was turned in circles, aiming at his target, only to have it disappear.
“Stay still, damn it,” he growled. His heart pounded. Not in fear, but in anticipation of a fight, in the rush of energy and excitement that came before confrontation. Hell, he was aroused by it. Almost as sexually primed as he’d been for Amelia.
Yes, Dante.
His hand jerked back, so hard he felt his wrist almost snap. Stunned, he loosened his grip on the pistol. It dropped into the snow.
The man materialized a heartbeat later, taking shape right in
front of his stunned eyes. The man stood almost seven feet tall. Dante saw long dark hair, whipped by the storm’s wind. Glittering eyes that reflected the white snow. Full lips that seemed inhumanly red.
He recoiled, but the man’s arms wrapped around him. He couldn’t break free.
I have watched you a long time, Dante. The voice filled his head like a choir’s song would flood a church.
He struggled. He tried to free his arm to throw punches. The man hissed, his mouth opening wide. Two fangs glinted. Then the man swooped down to him, and those long, curved teeth plunged into his neck.
2
Five years later
Christmas meant a tremendous amount of work. A dozen additional guests would arrive today, Christmas Eve. All the rooms must be cleaned and aired, the beds made with freshly laundered sheets, the grates swept out and readied for blazing fires.
But despite an aching back and sore arms and the feeling she would drop to the floor in exhaustion and never get up, Amelia did not mind the work. If she wasn’t busy, she would think of Christmas five years before. She would remember that one wonderful erotic night with Lord Dante. She would remember the horror of waking, of finding him gone, then of learning he had vanished. He had left his home; he had disappeared; he had abandoned her.
After five years toiling as a servant—for a ruined woman could no longer be a governess—she tried desperately not to think of that night. But it haunted her in her dreams.
She dreamed of the smooth silkiness of Dante’s sweaty skin under her palms. She remembered how he had gripped her bottom and lifted her to his every deep thrust. The wonderful feeling of being filled by him. The glorious feeling of an orgasm . . . heavens, it had felt like flying. At night, she would touch herself in a small cot in the attic room, stroking herself to silent climaxes again and again. But nothing had ever been as wonderful as that night with Dante.
And he was gone. His father, the Earl of Matlock, had insisted Dante had run away—probably to the Continent—rather than be saddled with her as his wife.
Sighing, Amelia set down her bucket of water. She got on her knees, gripping a scrub brush, and got to work on the dirty floor. This was her life now. She had dreamed of marrying the man she loved; she had hoped for children. She had loved being a governess and watching Dante’s brother and sisters learn. But she would never teach children again. Never have babies of her own now, for no decent man wanted a ruined woman. She was Cinderella in the fairy tale, but with an unhappy ending. She hadn’t ended up with her love; she’d ended in the cinders.
“Amelia.” One of the other young maids stood in the doorway, a folded piece of paper clasped in her fingers. “Mr. Jones gave it to me.”
Llewellyn Jones was one of the guests. From the dreamy look on the maid’s face, the girl had noticed his handsome dark looks and vivid blue eyes. Amelia hastily unfolded the note. His strong hand had penned one line. Meet me at the kissing bough.
Her heart leaped at the pleasure of seeing Mr. Jones and at the fear of going near the mistletoe again. She avoided the kissing bough like the plague. It made her think of Dante.
Dante struggled within the block of ice that held him. He had barely enough space in the frigid tomb to wiggle his shoulders. But even though Amelia was aboveground, he could hear her. He could hear her laughter. For five years he had been miles away from her, but in his thoughts, he had always been able to hear everything she said. She hadn’t laughed once, until now. She was happy.
He had to get the hell out of the ice and see her again.
Had she waited for him? Did she understand he’d been dragged away against his will?
Amelia kicked up snow as she walked. She and Mr. Jones trailed behind the rest of the party. They were gathering greenery to decorate the house on Christmas Eve. The gentleman would cut the Yule log; then it would be loaded upon a sleigh. It was a chance for the gentlemen guests to display their strength to the giggling young ladies. As a lowly servant, Amelia should not be here. But Mr. Jones had specifically asked her to come; he had requested permission from the earl. She had no idea why the draconian earl had been so amenable. It made her wonder who Mr. Llewellyn Jones was.
Five years ago, she’d watched Dante cut down the Yule log. It made her heart ache hopelessly to remember how he’d looked with his sleeves rolled up, a grin on his beautiful lips. Mr. Jones smiled at her. She briskly walked down the path away from him. “I should gather some greenery for decorating inside tonight,” she said. It was customary to bring in rosemary, bay, and holly on Christmas Eve.
Mr. Jones offered his arm. Hesitantly, she placed her hand in the crook of it. She was scared to touch him, scared in case she felt something for him. She knew Dante would never come back, but she never wanted to open her heart again.
Mr. Jones took charge, leading them through the snowy woods. Between the bare trees, she glimpsed the moss-covered stone walls and thatch roof of the cottage. She couldn’t bear to go there. She tried to pull him back. “No,” she managed to croak. “Let us go a different way.”
The tall Welshman stopped. His blue eyes gazed softly at her. “Miss Watson, I did not insist you come with me to collect decorations for the house. I had another reason. It is about the disappearance of Lord Dante.”
“What? You know something of that?”
“It is my belief that the young lord did not vanish of his own accord.”
“What do you mean by that? You mean he was . . . hurt and taken away? Or killed?” Her heart stuttered and she felt instantly sick, dizzy. For five years, she had wanted to believe Dante was alive. Even if it meant he had betrayed her, she wanted to think he was safe . . . somewhere.
“I believe he was attacked. His attacker then took him away.”
“Is he alive?” Amelia clasped Mr. Jones’s arm. “Do you know where he is? What happened to him? Who took him?” Dante had been strong. A very good shot—she had seen him practice. How could someone have overpowered him?
Mr. Jones laid his hands on her shoulders. “You are so lovely. You might very well be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
That startled her. She wore a plain gray wool cloak over her dull servant’s gown and an old cast-off bonnet. Yet his gaze held hers with such tenderness. No one had looked at her like this—not since the night she’d shared with Dante in the cottage. She drew back from Mr. Jones’s touch. “Please, tell me what you know.”
“I don’t know how to explain this to you, Miss Watson. Have you heard of vampires?”
“You mean the undead? I’ve heard tales of them, scary stories told to frighten us around Allhallows Eve.” She stared at Mr. Jones’s serious expression. Surely this couldn’t be true. “You cannot think he was attacked by vampires? Such things aren’t real.”
She whirled and ran away—from Llewellyn Jones and from the cottage and all its memories that pierced her heart. Jones followed her. He caught her, making her walk with him, and he told her who he was. A slayer of vampires. He told her story after story to prove such creatures existed. They moved deeper into the woods, away from the jolly party of ladies and gentlemen who were gathering greenery and collecting the Yule log. There, in privacy, Mr. Jones slipped his arm around her waist. “I’m sorry to shock you with all this, but everything I’ve told you is the truth. My father was a vampire slayer who hunted the beasts throughout Transylvania and the Carpathian Mountains. I grew up knowing such creatures existed. One tried to attack me when I was a young boy.”
“Truly?” She shivered as he solemnly nodded his head. Could this really be true? She had believed Lord Dante had loved her, and when he’d vanished, she thought she had been deceived—she thought she had been foolish and gullible. But if she now believed Mr. Jones, it meant Dante had not left her willingly. It meant her trust and love had not been misplaced.
She didn’t know what to do. Tears gathered and threatened to break free. She fought them. “You think he is dead. If this is true—if a vampire caught him—would he not have had
his blood drained, his body left there?” It made her sick to even say those words.
“I don’t think he was a vampire’s victim. I suspect the vampire changed him. Made him into one of them.”
Her legs trembled beneath her. Mr. Jones scooped her up and held her to his chest. He was warm and broad. But she was thinking of Dante. He might be alive . . . no, not alive, a vampire. Something predatory and terrifying. She could not believe it.
The afternoon sun dropped completely, sucking the last, lingering purplish orange light from the sky. Snowflakes began to drift down to the hushed world. A world so quiet, Amelia could hear her every labored breath.
Mr. Jones ran his hands up and down her back, stroking her, and he whispered soft, soothing words. She desperately needed something—or someone—to cling to. So she grasped his coat and leaned against his chest and let him hold her.
Dante heard her sobs. Each one struck him like the tip of a needle driven deep into his flesh. He could hear a man’s deep voice murmuring to her, begging her not to cry. I have not known you long, the man said. His voice echoed eerily in Dante’s head. The man’s voice was low and filled with longing. Dante knew that tone of voice—it was the hopeful, vulnerable rasp of a man in love.
Just a week, the man continued. But I know that I love you, Miss Amelia Watson. I intend to take you away from this—your sad memories, the drudgery of your life as a servant. I intend to ask you to marry me. But I know, as much as I want you, admire you, love you, I cannot ask you now.
Love? Amelia? Hell, what was going on? For five years he had hungered to return to her, and she was going to be the wife of someone else? She had forgotten him. She had fallen in love with another man.
