Silken Rapture (Princes of the Underground 2)

Shhhh. Do not fight me. You are my prisoner, and I will have you whenever I choose. Now, take your pleasure, lovely.

Climax shuddered through her, delicious and sweet.

She panted in the aftermath. Sweat glazed her body. She stared at the flames, her eyelids heavy. Just before she succumbed to sleep she had the presence of mind to pull on her glove, jerk up her panties and lower her gown, in case Margaret returned. Afterward, she curled up on the soft couch and sank into slumber.

She became aware of two things at once, as though the two phenomena were somehow one—a warm tongue licked and laved her fingers, and her sex ached with longing. In her sleep-addled brain, it was as though the mouth on her fingers was stimulating her pussy, as well. It felt so good, it took her a moment to realize her bare hands were being touched and she experienced only a dark, rich pleasure.

How could that be?

She struggled in the dream—although it really didn’t feel like a dream. It didn’t feel like waking consciousness either, though.

Her fears and doubts were erased completely at the erotic sensation of a sharp incisor gently scraping against the fleshy pad of her forefinger. She whimpered and felt the tooth again, only to be followed by the sensation of being submersed in a warm, sucking mouth. She twisted her hips and climaxed, the quality of her orgasm sharp and tigh

t, making her crave more.

She lay on her belly, her bare breasts and ribs pressed against the plush velvet fabric, her nipples hard and painfully erect. He was behind her—she sensed him perfectly. She wanted desperately to turn around and see her lover’s face, but her neck felt so heavy…and her hands—she pulled on her wrists—they were restrained at her lower back. Her clit twanged in sharp arousal and wild anticipation when she felt his weight press down on the cushions behind her. Her fire-warmed skin thrilled to the sensation of his hands on her hips and bottom, molding her flesh to his large hands.

He spread his hands on her buttocks and parted them. She wiggled in his hold, resisting the power of his gaze. His palm swatting her ass cheek sounded like a cracking whip in the still room. She increased her struggling, but he held her easily.

He spanked her again. She heard him chuckle behind her, the sound both sinister and gently amused at once.

“I can read your mind,” he said in a roughly accented voice. He matter-of-factly lifted her bottom off the couch with his forearm and swatted her again, making the tender flesh sting. “I’m only doing it because you like it.”

The smack of skin against skin stole her breath. She went entirely still when he flexed his arms, lifting her lower body farther, swinging her hips slightly off the front edge of the couch. He held the entire weight of her lower body in his grasp. Her eyes went wide when he held her in place with his forearm. He lifted one foot onto the couch—she could feel his hard, muscular leg next to her hip and outer thigh.

Oh my God, she thought, eyes going wide, when she felt his cock probing her pussy. He began thrusting, using the power of his arms to take her weight, demanding entry. She cried out in mounting excitement when he pressed the first four inches or so of his length into her, fixing himself in her flesh. He placed both hands on her hips and slid her pussy along the length of the shaft as he flexed forward. The skin of his pelvis slapped against her bottom, his balls kissed her wet tissues, yet he cushioned the weight of his thrust with his powerful hold on her lower body.

The last thing she heard before an orgasmic rush of blood pounded in her ears was his grunt of primal satisfaction.

He howled in pleasure as he erupted yet again at Isabel’s farthest reaches. He couldn’t seem to stop fucking her. It was as if he were determined to make up for all the centuries of abstinence in regard to sexual intercourse in two nights. Just when he thought he couldn’t come another time, he grew hard for her again. He’d filled her with his semen, just as he had last night.

Truth be told, it was as if he was in heat…as if he was mating. That made no sense, however. The Sevliss princes were soulless. They were sterile. They did not take mates. They could not.

He had not forgotten Isabel as they’d searched the tunnels this morning for some sign of Morshiel, although he’d successfully set aside the electric memories in order to see to his task. Even his failure at catching the scent of Morshiel and the Scourge had not diminished his need.

Last night had been a grave error, but he’d been so weak…and suddenly, she’d been there. So beautiful, so powerful. He couldn’t do the impossible, like Aubrey. He couldn’t change the direction of gravity with his magic, or grow fields of the exotic mulberry underground.

He was nothing but a beast in human clothes.

Once he’d tasted Isabel Lanscourt, there had been no going back. The truth might be wrenching, it might be sad, it might be infuriating…

…but it was the truth, nonetheless.

He wished the wolf aspects of his human form wouldn’t make it so that his cock grew so swollen after climax. He longed to draw out of her tight, sweet hold. He wished he could see himself spilling the last of his seed on her smooth, satiny skin. He longed to see it on her belly, too, and her breasts and her lips.

Savage that he was, he couldn’t help but crave to mark her again and again, put his scent all over her, fill her to overflowing with his seed.

He panted for air, standing next to the couch, her hips and buttocks clutched in his hands, his cock still erupting inside her, vast waves of pleasure ebbing, but slowly.

Silence settled around them.

After a few minutes, she stirred and mumbled. Regret lanced through him, but there was nothing he could do. He knew his cock was stretching her, knew he was too large for her delicate body, but he could not withdraw.

He would not have left her, even if his penis had not grown swollen in its post-climactic state, locking him to her. Words of comfort eluded him. What could he say that would soothe in these circumstances? He’d taken her blood, knowing what she was. He’d mingled their essences, knowing what he was.

It was ludicrous for him to want to comfort her, given what he’d allowed to happen. He’d taken her prisoner, and now he’d taken her as his own. There could be no baser crime in the human world. The knowledge that what was between him and Isabel Lanscourt was something ruled by a different order and morality than the human variety didn’t help alleviate his guilt.

He kept her in place with one hand and stroked her with the other, his touch the only way he could think to soothe her. His fingertips thrilled to every new patch of sleek, perspiration-glazed skin. She stilled beneath his touch, and he knew she was hyperaware of his hand…knew it because their minds, their very senses, were one in those taut moments in which he comforted her.