by Colette Gale
Jane bit her lip as her flesh seemed to become even more engorged at the very thought of her fingers touching it. She placed her three fingers over the top of her mons and stroked the triangular shape of her digits down over her pip, then dipping them inside the hot cavern of her cunt…and then, without meaning to, without realizing she was doing it, she brought her hand back up and over her straining nether lips as if it were an itch she couldn’t keep from scratching.
“No!” cried Akenov, his voice sharp and harsh before she could do it again. Before she could bring herself to the peak of pleasure. “Stop.”
Jane snatched her hand away and looked at him. “That was three,” she whispered, licking her lips nervously. “Only three strokes. My lord.”
“But you didn’t wait for me to count,” he replied, watching her with those dark eyes. “Jane, my love, you didn’t wait for me to count.”
“I’m sorry,” she said on a half-sob. What would he do to her this time? “Please…”
He rose from the tub. The water sluiced from his magnificent, muscled, lightly-haired body. His arms and shoulders were beautifully sleek from the water, and steam rolled off his skin from the heat. His thighs were the size of tree trunks, the muscles defined, the legs covered with dark hair. But her eyes went to his cock. It was massive, straining and purple, corded with wild, desperate veins. The knob of its head looked nothing short of decadent, with a tiny pearl of stickiness glinting at the tip.
Jane gave a soft moan of delight and need. Her mouth watered and her hands shook with lust. “Please,” she whispered. “Oh, please, my lord.”
“I cannot tell you how badly I want to hear you say that, my enchantress. And how badly I want to plunge inside you.”
His cock was so close she could feel its heat. Her quim throbbed, red and hot, ready to take in his long, thick length. Her chest heaved as he came closer, her head felt light.
It had been too long since she’d felt the fullness of a thick cock inside her. Since she’d been pumped and filled, stroked with such a glorious tool.
He stood in front of her, the purple knob of his erection inches from her sprawled torso, from her pink-tipped breasts with their sharp, hard, ready nipples.
“Touch yourself,” he said. “Not there,” he added with a snap as she reached between her thighs again. “At your tits.”
Jane reached up to feather her fingertips over one nipple, her eyes focused on his cock. He curled a large, powerful hand around it and she felt her mouth go dry as he pumped himself…once…twice…
She touched her nipple, feeling the corresponding pleasure shoot to the place between her legs.
“Pinch. Hard. I want to hear you gasp,” he said in a half groan. His eyes were cloudy and glazed and he held his cock tight in a large, powerful hand. “Do it, Jane, or I’ll punish you.”
She pinched and twisted and he pumped and jerked, and suddenly, with a low cry, he came. His seed spilled over her breasts and torso in a shiny, pearlescent arc that landed warm and musky on her skin.
Jane was panting by now, her own eyes glazed. She reached between her legs, needing to feel herself, to bring herself over the edge, to reach that same hot peak—
“No.”
His hand whipped out like an iron manacle, closing over hers and pulling it away.
Jane looked up at him, half hopeful, half desperate. She could smell her own musky need mingling with the scent of his release, feel the painful throbbing of her clit pounding for attention.
“No,” he said more quietly. “Jane.” He knelt in front of her spread legs, and she couldn’t hold back a whimper.
She sprawled back on her elbows, her breasts upthrust, his cum glistening on her skin. She could feel the warmth of him over her burning, ready, swollen flesh, and she waited, her breath rough and unsteady. Yes.
He gripped the insides of her thighs firmly and settled them wide. She opened like a blazing red flower to him, dripping and engorged.
Jane held her breath, her entire being focused there, between her legs—there, on him, on his hands, his eyes, his mouth…
Oh, God, please…
He lowered his face slowly. She heard him draw in a breath, smelling her, felt his fingers shiver against her thighs. She nearly came right then, nearly tipped over the edge in one great pulsating release…
She felt his breath, hot and rough as he bent closer. She strained up toward him, trying to lift her hips—but he held her in place.
Please…
His mouth was close, his lips as full and red and glistening as she imagined her own nether lips were.
Akenov looked up at her through her parted thighs, holding her gaze, and lowered himself to her. She quivered, her breath stuttering, and then, just before he settled there—there, where she needed him—he paused.
“Jane,” he said in a calm voice, his words whisking like light fingers over her steaming cunt. “You are mine now. Do you understand that?”
“No,” she whispered. She could hardly comprehend his words; her brain and body were so filled with blazing need. “I…oh, God, please…”
“Jane. You’ll never see Zaren again. You’re mine.”
She tossed her head to one side, her body straining and yearning. Her entire world was focused on his mouth, her quim, and the infinite distance between them. “Please…my lord…”
“Tell me. Tell me you are mine. Tell me you love me.”
“No,” she breathed. “No…I…love…Zaren. Oh, please, my lord…” She felt his heat so close—so very close. But still, nothing touched her but his warm breath and the promise of relief. “Please.”
His fingers tightened on her, and she felt the rough pad of his thumbs making small, erotic circles on her sensitive inner flesh. “No,” he said. “I’ll not share you, Jane. I’ll not share any part of you.”
He stood abruptly, moving away in a rush of cool air—and just as cool of a mood.
“Don’t even think about touching yourself,” he said before she even moved a finger. Though she had, of course, immediately wanted to. And as soon as he made that command, her quim twitched desperately and she felt even more tight and ready and needy.
He watched her with a dark, furious expression, his eyes scoring over her slick, engorged labia. His gaze lingered. She felt the weight of it, and her body tightened accordingly, painfully—but she dared not move other than to attempt to steady her breath.
“I don’t share, my lovely enchantress. Especially not you. I’ll share no part of you. Your body, your thoughts—nor your heart. Until you give up your beloved Zaren,” Akenov sneered, “until you learn to forget him and to love me—and only me—you’ll have nothing.”
With that, he stalked over to a small cabinet and yanked open the second drawer. When Jane heard the soft metal clinks, she shuddered and shoved her hand between her legs.
Quickly, she touched herself with a fast, sharp stroke, but he turned before she finished and she snatched her hand away.
Akenov saw her and his eyes grew hard as flint. “Always resourceful, always stubborn, my dear, aren’t you? I suppose that must be one of the reasons your Zaren loved you—but then again, he doesn’t love you anymore, does he? It’s a shame he tired of you so quickly. It’s a shame he didn’t understand how lusty you are, and how a woman like you can’t be confined to one man. Or one woman.” He stepped closer, a tangle of slender chains hanging from his hand. “Except for me.”
Jane shivered as he held up a small, flimsy, metal cup with a smaller indentation on one side. It was engraved beautifully; a delicate piece of metalwork. But she knew what it was.
“Please, my lord,” she whispered. “I’ll…pleasure you very well.” She reached toward his cock, which had begun to lift and fill once more.
“Oh, you will indeed,” he said, and brushed his thumb gently over her cheek. “But not until I’m certain you’ll be pleasuring only me.” He allowed her to touch his cock, and she felt the answering shiver go through him.
&nbs
p; But then he turned away so that his stiff rod slipped from her hands. “Kneel up, Jane.”
Heart thudding, palms damp, she rose up on her knees and remained obediently still as he fastened the silver cup over her quim. His fingers brushed her swollen lips, sending shocks of sharp pleasure through her. She moaned a little and bit her lip, but he ignored her discomfort.
The little metal shield was even more restrictive than the one Queen Zenovia had made her wear, for there was a slender intention that fit over the ridge of her clit’s hood. Jane would have no chance of slipping her finger—or, as Akenov had done before, the flat of a knife blade—between cup and flesh to reach the tiny pearl so tightly protected.
“There, now,” he said, stepping back. “That’ll do. Now come here, Jane.”
He was still naked, and he drew her body close to his so that they were flesh to flesh, curve to muscled ridge, silky skin to lightly furred.
His cock prodded against her thigh and Jane closed her eyes, trying to imagine it deep inside her, thrusting and pounding—hoping that somehow, she could tip herself over the peak by simply willing it.
That didn’t happen, but neither did he take his own pleasure—at least a second time. Jane was fully aware he’d already spilled his cum on her, for it had dried into salty, musky patch on her torso and breasts.
Instead of finding his release, Akenov laid them both down on the generous bed and tucked her body in front of his in an intimate position that reminded Jane of the way she’d slept with Zaren.
But this was not her husband whose hand curled over her breast from behind, caressing her nipple just enough that she couldn’t sleep…teasing her enough that her body remained just aroused enough for discomfort, but not enough to gain satisfaction. His powerful thighs bundled up behind hers, strong and covered with wiry hair, his warmth seeping into her. And the insistent heat of his iron cock, pressing at the heart-shaped cleft of her arse, tilting like a turgid lance against the delicate chains that held her in limbo.
No, it wasn’t Zaren who slept behind her, holding her like his mate.
And as she struggled to relax, to forget about the regular, painful twinge of her clit, of the tight, hot engorgement of her quim, and the sharp, needle-like point of her nipple, Jane blinked back tears and wondered where Zaren was…what he was doing…and if he ever thought about her.
— IV —
It had been a nightmarish mishmash of days for Zaren.
At some point, he’d awakened with burning lungs and gritty eyes, weak and hardly able to move, sore, aching—and then he’d learned that his wife was gone. And that he’d almost burned in the fire that nearly took her life, and that when she somehow escaped from that fate, she’d run off.
Run away from him.
Run off with Lord Akenov.
His heart was shattered, for the last words he’d spoken to her had been unforgivable. The stricken, desperate look on her face would be forever imprinted on his mind. He couldn’t close his eyes, couldn’t sleep, without seeing her bald shock and the deep, horrible grief that dulled her emerald gaze.
How could he have hurt her so deeply?
He’d meant to save and protect her, to help them escape…but instead, he’d driven her away.
The only thing that gave him hope was that she hadn’t seemed to believe his repudiation. At least at first.
But the way she’d begged him for forgiveness, tears sparkling in her eyes…the very thought of this degradation of the woman he loved—because of him, her own husband!—made his stomach constrict and churn. He’d done more to hurt her, to destroy her, than anyone else—Kellan Darkdale, her fiancé Jonathan, the cold-eyed tribal leader back in the jungle—even more than the High Chieftain Zenovia with her lustful ways.
“I see you’ve recovered,” said that very woman now as she gazed upon him with a cold expression. “Lord Hampstead.”
It was all Zaren could do to keep from roaring at the Amazonian queen and launching at her; from pulling her limb from limb for what she’d done to them.
What she’d done to Jane.
What she’d forced Zaren to do to Jane.
He gritted his teeth and controlled the feral snarl that would have warned the muscular woman just how much trouble she was in.
“Your maidservant was a good nurse,” he managed to say in an even tone, utilizing the proper English accents he’d learned since returning to the home of his parents. “Without her, I would not be standing here yet.”
That was true, at least, for without the black-haired Ullie’s skills, Zaren might not be alive. And for that, he acknowledged, he would have to be thankful to the queen—for at least now he at least had the chance to make things right with Jane.
If he could find her.
But of course, he could give no indication that he cared a whit about Jane or her whereabouts—or even her well-being.
“Now that you are healthy, Lord Hampstead—or, what did my misbegotten slave call you? Zaren, was it?” Zenovia’s voice was icy and filled with contempt. “Whatever shall I do with you?”
Zaren, long used to reading the subtlest of body language from his decades in the jungle, saw and scented fear and grief—as well as anger—rolling from the statuesque queen. That made her very dangerous.
“I have no wish but to return to my home in England,” he replied.
She lifted a brow, began to speak, then halted. “Begone. All of you!” she cried, gesturing sharply to the courtiers and others who lingered in her court room. This wing of her opulent palace, at least, had survived the fire. But the scent of smoke still lingered, along with that of the burnt flesh of those who had not escaped in time.
The only reason Zaren knew Jane had done so was because of an urgent conversation he’d heard between Ullie, the maidservant who’d nursed him back to health, and Zenovia before they realized he’d regained consciousness. A great skill used by many wild creatures—including Zaren—was the ability to feign death or to lay so still one’s breath or heart beat could not be observed.
The two women had believed he was dead or at least unconscious, and thus spoke freely in his presence.
“It must be very important what you wish to say to me that you would banish them all,” Zaren said in the arrogant British lord’s tones that still felt strange to him. But he was like one of those quick, colorful lizards that bounded from tree to tree—chameleon, Jane had called them. And like the chameleons, he would adapt to the situation as needed. He would do whatever he must in order to survive—and to find Jane.
Just as she had done.
A stab of agony tore through his insides, more vicious than any panther claw raking over his flesh. Would he ever be able to tell his wife how much he understood and appreciated and was humbled by her sacrifices and selfless acts—all for him and for their life together?
Zenovia’s eyes narrowed craftily. “I have other plans for you, Lord Hampstead. Or, more accurately, my sister does. She has different tastes than I. I believe she’ll find you quite an asset to her side of the kingdom.”
With a grand gesture, she waved, and two shimmering curtains parted to reveal a woman who was the queen’s twin—or at least a sister who looked startlingly like her: nearly as tall as Zaren and lanky, with long, lean muscles. She had eyes that glinted like amber gems, large, well-proportioned breasts, and a full, sensual mouth.
She wore a similar style of clothing as Zenovia: a single-shoulder-baring toga that skimmed the tops of her knees, tall boots, and golden bands around her arms. Unlike the queen, she wore her pale blond hair unbound in long, rippling waves that fell over her shoulders and brushed the dark red toga.
“Lord Hampstead, meet Mendiara. She would like to offer you a position in her court.” Zenovia smiled, meeting Zaren’s eyes with hooded ones of her own.
He understood that any sort of argument or demurral would create at the very least suspicion, but quite possibly his imprisonment—or even death. Just as when Captain Holt had kidnapped and brought J
ane here to Zenovia, thinking he would walk away the victor and wealthier for it, the captain too was taken by surprise—and under the control of the women of Amazonia.
Thus, Zaren merely turned his attention to Mendiara, adopting a bland, faintly quizzical expression. He must tread as carefully here as he had done while attempting to catch the lethal bindimong snakes in the jungle.
“A position?” he replied, and instinctively allowed a flash of appreciation to light his eyes as they swept over the woman. He smelled her essence from here: one of strength, arrogance—and sensuality. She was a different animal than her sister.
“Indeed,” Mendiara replied in a husky voice. “I’ve been looking for someone just like you, Lord Hampstead.”
Just then a tremor of warning shot down his spine, and the hair at the back of his neck prickled. Someone had moved in behind him.
A threat.
Zaren remained smooth and unconcerned, and didn’t bother to turn and look. But he felt the stir of the air, and knew danger was very close by. He would have to play this very carefully if he meant to stay alive.
“As I’m recently unfettered,” Zaren responded, emphasizing the last word with the slight disdain of his British accent, “I’m quite certain I could find a suitable reason to delay my return to England.”
The imminent threat eased, though it did not dissipate, and he knew he’d passed some sort of initial test. But he sensed there was more to come, for even though Mendiara hardly flickered a glance toward who—or what—was behind him, she did make the subtlest of gestures that would have been missed by anyone other than Zaren and his ingrained animal instincts. Most likely, he thought, someone stood behind him with a sword or bow and arrow, ready to cut him down at the slightest provocation.
“Excellent,” replied Mendiara, glancing toward the curtain from behind which she’d emerged. “Gidaro, perhaps you could…hmm…evaluate Lord Hampstead for our position.”
The silk shimmered again and from behind it emerged a tall, broad, muscular man. His skin was smooth and tanned to a beautiful honey-brown, and though he was bald, he sported a trim, neat blond mustache and beard. His eyes were an unusual aquamarine shade, and he had hands as large as plates.
