Blood Curse

7 Coming

Beneath her skirts, her bottom was round, plump, and quivering.

Raven had swiftly changed positions, tossing her gently on the bed so she lay on her tummy, and he stood beside the bed with his trousers hanging off his hips and the paddle in his hand.

He brought it down, stopping just before the flat of the paddle struck her rump. Coming that close, anticipating the way her generous arse would jiggle when he struck, he was rock-hard again. Even though he’d just climaxed so hard he’d thought his brains would melt.

“No,” she cried. “I can’t do this.”

“You can,” he murmured. He gave her a light tap with the paddle.

Hell, if he could do it, she could. With Jade, he had been whipped regularly, flayed all over his body. The idea of being hit again had made him darkly angry. But having Ophelia spank him had surprised him.

It had been playful. Fun. Erotic.

But she was tense with fear, and he had to make her melt.

He gently caressed her curves with the paddle. Having her spank his rear had kept him from going mad for the scent of her blood. It had also given him a reason to keep his face away from her curious gaze, so Lady Ophelia couldn’t see how his fangs had launched out when he got aroused again.

With her, now, he was more than just sexually excited, more than hot and aching to pummel her sweet little ass. The tempting aroma was stronger than ever.

“You aren’t spanking me,” she whispered. She was twisting to see behind.

“I’m touching you without my hands. Fondling your lovely arse with the paddle.”

She quivered at his words.

“Like it?” he murmured. He gave the lightest tap with the wood, making her bottom tremble under her gown.

“It—it tickles.” She giggled.

He tried a firmer spank. This was what he enjoyed. Being in charge.

“No, I’m not ready to be spanked yet. I’m not. I’m just not. Please, please don’t?”

He needed to command her, but not frighten her. “More caresses,” he promised, and he ran the paddle over the globes of her bottom.

She giggled. The sound of her delight rang in his ears. If he closed his eyes, he could remember the sweetly desperate way she had protested that she was not ready to be spanked yet. It touched his heart, brought a smile to his lips.

Savoring the soft, silvery sound of her laughter, he set down the paddle. He laughed, too, and that made hers go on, until she hugged herself, smiling beautifully.

He was a man who no longer had any reason to smile, yet it was impossible not to laugh with Ophelia.

Their game had to end for the night. Dawn was close and she was tired. As much as he hungered for the chance to apply the paddle to her luscious derriere, he had to wait. He had to let her sleep. And he had a pressing reason to stop now.

Hunger.

He had to satisfy it. Now.

Lifting the paddle from her bottom, he said softly, “That’s enough for tonight. You need to sleep.” Grasping her wrist, he quickly helped her sit up, then released her. Shirtless, he had his trousers pushed to his thighs, revealing his enormous erection. He saw how she tried to look away from his cock, but her gaze always riveted back to it.

He ruthlessly pushed his hard prick down and struggled with his trousers until he fastened them over the bulge. “Let me take you to your bedroom and tuck you into your bed.”

She erupted into giggles again. “How can you say that—offer to tuck me into bed so sweetly—after you were going to spank my bottom?” But she finished her laughter with a yawn, which set her giggling again.

He held out the paddle for her, so she could grasp the handle. Pulling on it, he whisked her to her feet. She swayed on her slender legs, obviously exhausted. Yawning again, she put her hand over her mouth.

Not caring about the pain that went through him, Raven lifted her into his arms and carried sleepy Lady Ophelia to her bed. There he helped her undo her dress, and gave her privacy to slip on a nightgown he had acquired for her. He had gotten it from a madam who ran a brothel for vampires.

As he drew the covers over Ophelia, she gave him a smile that speared his heart. Her smile was so adorable it touched him. She glowed like a woman in love.

He was supposed to win her love. Why should it feel like he’d been kicked in the gut?

Returning to his room, Raven noticed the cobwebs at the ceiling, the coldness of the room since he never needed a fire, and the sense of emptiness in it even though it was filled with furniture. It was as if the room had no soul either.

He pulled on his shirt, swiftly fastened it at the collar, and shoved its tails into the waistband of his trousers. He had no time to worry about the lonely feeling of his room. He could not go back to Ophelia and watch her sleep. He couldn’t stay with her.

Another wave of hunger hit him, so fast and hard he had to grab the bedpost. His fingers gouged into the wood. Inside, he seethed with hunger and lust.

He wanted her neck. Wanted to sink his fangs into it. Wanted it now.

Cursing, Raven ran down the corridor, passing the door to Ophelia’s room. He forced his legs to keep moving. Launching over the banister, he jumped off the stairs and landed on the tiled ground floor at the foot of the staircase.

Raven pulled on a cape, grasped a silver-tipped walking stick, and headed out the door, locking it behind him. His destination was the docks. He would reach them just before the first glow of daylight touched the sky. Many people would be out, beginning their working day. He had little time until full daylight came, and he ran the risk of being burned to ash by the sun’s rays.

He had to satisfy his hunger as quickly as he could.

Ophelia couldn’t sleep. Snuggled beneath her soft sheets and warm counterpane, in a new silk nightgown that Ravenhunt had given her, she felt utterly exhausted. Truly, she couldn’t even keep her eyes open. But even when her lids dropped and shut tight, she couldn’t fall into sleep. Her wits whirled.

She had spanked Ravenhunt’s bare bottom. She could still hear the soft thwacks in her head and the hoarse, rough rasp of his groans. His aroused groans would stay with her forever. She’d never heard a man sound like that—

Well, she had, at that naughty club or brothel, or whatever it was.

She had never made a man sound like that. Moaning, groaning, with excitement. She had never made a man feel pleasure. When Raven had climaxed, with his face showing such agony and his hand gripping his erection hard as his hips jerked . . .

Oooh. It had been a stunning sight.

She had made this beautiful, strong, sensual man come, as he had called it. She had made him laugh with delight, and when he’d done so, he was breathtakingly handsome. Deep lines had ringed his wide mouth, and crinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes, and his laugh had been throaty and masculine.

She’d giggled in earnest, soft helpless giggles, until she was consumed with mirth, with a warm happiness in her heart.

She was laughing with joy. Those moments of sexual play had given her true joy. She’d forgotten that he’d kidnapped her; forgotten she was required to do something against her upbringing and her breeding: give up her innocence to a man she would not marry.

Though, in a way, she already had given up her innocence. She still had her maidenhead—but she was hardly naïve and unknowing anymore.

As he’d tucked her into bed—such a sweet thing to do—she’d asked, “How can I make love to you without killing you?”

“You don’t have to worry,” he’d answered. “You will be free.”

But how could she not worry when she hurt him each time she touched him—?

Ophelia’s eyes suddenly opened wide in her shadowy bedchamber. She sat up, her covers tumbling down. Ravenhunt didn’t say he wouldn’t die. Heavens, surely he wasn’t willing to sacrifice his life to save her?

That would be insane. He barely knew her. It wasn’t as if he could actually care about her. How could he? Love was something that built. That took time to grow.

Why would Ravenhunt be willing to give his life for hers, when he barely knew her? What sort of man did that?

A hero. A noble knight of old.

He had saved her life once already. He had been struck with two pistol balls for her. As amazing and strange and improbable as it sounded, the man who had kidnapped her had become a hero to her. More of a champion for her than anyone had ever been.

The glowing coals in her fireplace gave the room a soft glow. Ophelia was groggy with the need to sleep, but her mind would not stop. Why could she not stop questioning him and simply give her body to him and believe him when he said she would be freed?

But could she do it if the price was to kill him?

She had to know—

The door creaked softly. That must have been responsible for the breeze, for her windows were shut tight.

A shadow moved, filling the doorway with darkness. Just as on the first night, it was Ravenhunt. He leaned against the frame with his arms crossed. His broad shoulders stretched across the opening’s expanse, his eyes lost to the shadow. Only the prominent lines of his face were revealed by the fire’s glow—his high cheekbones, his blade of a nose. But this time instead of being filled with fear, she sat up. She pushed off the covers. The instant after she did, she knew what she was doing. She was welcoming him.

She wasn’t afraid of him. Not anymore. But she was afraid for him. “Is taking my power going to kill you?”

“Always blunt and direct, aren’t you?” he countered from the shadows.

“Why do you never answer my questions?”

A deep laugh came out. “We both throw questions at each other and never answer them.”

“Are you risking your life to save me? Why?”

“I’m not. Neither of us will die.” There was the soft creak of the door frame as he straightened. He prowled into the room. “You should be sleeping. I came to make sure you were.”

“Shouldn’t you be asleep? Aren’t you tired, too?”

“Not yet. As I told you, I often stay up all night, and go to sleep at dawn, then I sleep away the day, and wake at twilight.”

He sat on the edge of the bed.

Questions collided in her head, and she was definitely dazed with tiredness. Why did he want to take away her power? What would he do with it?

Oh God, did he want to use it?

Why hadn’t she pushed him for answers? It seemed, since he had captured her, her brain had ceased to function. When she’d been a prisoner at Mrs. Darkwell’s, all she’d had was time to think, but with Ravenhunt it was as if she were finally pulling cobwebs off her brain.

She wanted to put questions into words, but he came to the edge of the bed. “Sleep,” he said softly.

Deep and soft, his voice flowed into her thoughts. She wanted to obey. Ophelia fell back, her head landing on the pillow. Her hair fanned out around her—she’d forgotten to braid it for sleep. It would be tangled, but she was too tired to care.

So tired. But something nagged at her thoughts. Something she couldn’t quite grasp but that wouldn’t let her sleep. “I still don’t think I can sleep.”

“What you need is to be exhausted—to have your body worn out and your mind thoroughly tired, too. Too tired to think but satiated and happy.”

Heavens, she had never felt more exhausted in her life, but that did not help her sleep. “How could I do that? My head is spinning. I’m so tired, yet I cannot sleep.”

“I have the perfect solution.”

Ravenhunt came to the bed, and brought his hand forward. He reached into a pocket, drew something else out. A snap of his wrist made it uncoil. It was a length of black rope.

“Close your eyes,” he murmured. “Concentrate only on what you feel.”

“A—are you going to tie me up?”

“Not yet. I want to show you how enticing a rope can feel.” His voice flowed like rich, amber honey. “Think of nothing else but what you feel.”

She did as he asked. She fought to think only of the soft touch of one end of the rope over her cheeks. He drew soft circles that tickled. The rope was not scratchy and rough, but soft, as if made from velvet.

The end of the rope slid across her upper lip.

Ophelia gasped. Little bolts of lightning seemed to sizzle on her lip. He traced the shape of her mouth slowly with the dangling rope.

He was just touching her lip with the velvet length, but it made her throb and ache between her thighs. Heat flared there. Moisture pooled. She wriggled her hips.

“Lift your nightdress.”

She couldn’t resist the hoarse, dark command of his voice. Almost as if they were acting on their own, her hands clutched the skirt of her nightgown and she tugged it up. Her eyes were still closed, but cooler air brushed her thighs. The curls at her pubis were exposed.

The rope touched her inner right thigh. Up it went, and she sighed, almost sobbed, as she felt the caress on her skin.

She felt like marble coming to life—as if she’d been cold stone for her whole existence, and finally she was beginning to feel.

He possessed a master’s touch. Smooth and soft, the rope stroked around the intense, tingling place between her legs, first in agonizingly slow caresses that made her shiver, then in faster slaps that made sensation streak though every inch of her. Ravenhunt tapped the top of the aching nub and she cried out. Her achy, throaty squeal flew up to the dark ceiling.

Something built in her. Her hips jerked with the sensations. She arched up, trying to lift her hips to tease her throbbing, demanding nub with the rope.

Ophelia opened her eyes. Between his large hands, Ravenhunt had drawn the rope tight. He sawed it gently over her throbbing, yearning quim and that magical place that felt such pleasure when it was touched.

Heavens, yes.

He lightened the caress, so it barely touched her, and she whimpered. “More . . . please,” she whispered.

“Of course.”

But Ravenhunt played a maddening game with her. He stroked harder until she moaned with agony, then slowed the passes of the rope until she rocked and bucked desperately for stimulation.

“Please,” she begged, when the pressure and ache and tension built hard once more, yet he took the rope away. “Please don’t stop.” She felt as if she would go mad. She felt like a half-formed statue, ready to take shape only to have the artist put down his tools and walk away.

Ravenhunt gave a slow smile that seemed to say he had a secret she could not begin to guess. How handsome he became when he smiled. He lost the hard, grizzled look to his face, the cold austerity that made him look like an assassin. His eyes softened, and appealing lines bracketed his mouth. He became . . . beautiful.

“I wish I could touch you.” Deep and growling, his voice echoed in her thoughts, as if he could speak directly to them. “I’d love to do this with my tongue.”

That brought an immediate, shocking picture in her head.

She imagined having her legs spread wide, her private parts bared. His body would lie between her legs, his head at her most intimate place, and his tongue would slick over her throbbing nub—

All her tension coiled and snapped, like a cracked whip. “Ravenhunt!” she cried, in desperate agony.

But this wasn’t pain. It was as if a cold, unbreakable shell around her had cracked, and pure fire was pouring out. Her body arched as all her muscles tightened in exquisite glory.

It was so good. Pleasure swamped her, pleasure like she had never known. She cried, laughed, sobbed, knowing nothing but pleasure.

He watched her though the journey, through each happy, lovely twitch of her body. It eased, and she relaxed, limp and boneless, into the bed.

“Now, you’ll sleep. I promise,” he said.

Just as she was about to fall hazily into sleep, she whispered, “I didn’t know a rope could do that—could feel so wonderful rubbed against me.”

“You have to trust me, Ophelia. In this type of sexual game, I’m an expert. I always use ropes in sex. No matter how I do it, I want to build your excitement. I want you to dream of me stroking you with ropes. Or spanking you. I want you to anticipate each teasing touch against your round, voluptuous bottom. Each stroke will make your cunny clench, and will send throbbing pleasure right to your clitoris, my dear. I believe I can make you come just by spanking your bottom.”

Heavens, heavens. Her heart thudded, even as she floated in delicious pleasure, even as her lashes drifted shut.

The bed creaked as he stood. Softly he said, “I will return to you when I wake, but it will be late in the day. You should rest until then. Go to sleep.”

Satiated and tired, Ophelia knew she would finally sleep, but she could not wait until tomorrow.

I told you having an orgasm would give you a good sleep. I’ve left something for you in the kitchens. I’ll be up when it is evening. Remember, you haven’t been spanked yet.

—Ravenhunt

Sitting on the edge of her bed, in the robe Ravenhunt had left for her, Ophelia shivered—that was nerves. Then quivered. That was desire.

Heavens, what was she thinking? She didn’t want a spanking. But then she imagined him standing in front of her, almost naked, sporting a huge erection and carrying a paddle.

She squirmed on the bed. Actually, she did rather want a spanking. She wasn’t afraid of it anymore.

Ravenhunt’s strong, slanted handwriting flowed over beautiful notepaper, which was the color of thick cream and just as smooth. Why did he want her to go to the kitchens? They were in the basement.

Basements in ancient houses held dungeons. And those had iron shackles—

Ridiculous. Ravenhunt had specifically written kitchens, not dungeons.

She knew it was already afternoon. The mantel clock and sunlight peeking around the drapes told her. She had slept for hours.

It had been years since she’d spent a whole night in wonderful, undisturbed slumber. It never happened at Mrs. Darkwell’s. She’d always woken in the grip of a nightmare.

Ravenhunt had acquired slippers for her, too. Delicate satin ones and they sat on the floor by the bed. She slipped her feet into them, then padded downstairs.

Curtains had been drawn back throughout his house to let in light. Last night, when they had come back in from the brothel, everything had been closed up, dark and forlorn.

That was how he lived—cut off from the world in a darkened fortress.

He behaved like a prisoner. Just like she had been.

The house was brighter with daylight coming in, but it was still quiet, so eerily so that it made her shiver. A house of this size was never silent. There was always noise, even just the patter of footsteps or the hushed chatter of family or servants. The sense of being almost completely alone gave her a creepy feeling, as if she were the only person alive in London.

She wasn’t, of course. Ravenhunt was sleeping upstairs.

Ophelia made her way down stone steps to the basement. The ceiling was low, the walls formed of large, thick stones. Large wood beams crossed over her head, and she made her way to an open door through which light spilled. Wonderful smells poured out from there—a sweet aroma that must be the fresh fruit, along with the rich scent of roasted meat, and a yeasty tickle to her nose that promised bread.

She hurried into the preparation area of the kitchen.

An enormous feast waited for her, spread out on a wood worktable.

She found baskets of fresh breads, pastry on plates, a cold roast beef sliced for her, and bowls filled with grapes, oranges, and one incongruous-looking pineapple, complete with its spiky skin and leaves. A piece of paper was held in place with an uncut, exotic yellow lemon.

My apologies. The meals today will have to be cold. I hope it is adequate.

Adequate? It smelled spectacular, and with all the color, it was like a lush painting. There were no servants; Ravenhunt had prepared all of this himself. For her.

Sex made a woman hungry, too. She was thoroughly ravenous. Planting her bottom on a stool with a worn seat, Ophelia drew a plate toward her. She took one of the buns, tore it, and ate it in great chunks. Gooey, delicious fresh bread was her absolute favorite.

For days, she had been too nervous, apprehensive, and afraid to do more than nibble when he brought her food. With a feast in front of her now, she ate like a madwoman.

Then she frowned. When had she ever seen him eat?

Not once, actually. She’d just assumed he ate food before bringing it to her.

What if he didn’t? There were beings—creatures or demons—who did not eat. She knew that from Mrs. Darkwell’s house. Some demons survived on blood. Some survived on souls.

He had told her he had special powers to heal. He was not normal, just as she wasn’t.

Squirt. She’d pushed through the peel of an exotic, delicious orange, and shot herself in the eye with juice.

She’d been incredibly dense. Not about the orange—about Ravenhunt.

He was going to take her power by making love to her. He had to know witchcraft, or he was a wizard, or a demon with magical powers. From her time at Mrs. Darkwell’s she knew such creatures existed.

Could she make love to him without knowing who he really was?

Men could make love to a lady without any questions. They could do it without love, affection, or thought. But she wasn’t like that.

Or was she?

Last night, when Ravenhunt had stroked her with the velvet surface of the rope until she . . . um . . . came, she hadn’t cared about questions or who he was. She had lived for each sizzling moment.

Sex with him made her feel alive.

And she wanted more.

Except right now she had to wait for Ravenhunt.

Ophelia finished her meal, then she went back up to the ground floor and wandered through the house. It was so still and quiet and shadowed it was like walking through a tomb.

She discovered a piano beneath white Holland covers, but didn’t dare uncover it. Every room was shut up, never used. Ravenhunt stayed in his room all afternoon—she didn’t hear any sound from it, though she didn’t open the door or even knock. As he’d told her, he wasn’t going to come out until it was night.

Finally, she went back to the kitchen, where she ate more and drank the rest of the wine.

She twirled her empty glass in her fingers. Wine made her feel more lighthearted. She decided she wanted more of it, too.

Ophelia found a supply of dusty wine bottles in the basement. Daringly she uncorked one and poured a glass. It was a rich, hearty, heady red wine.

She was just biding her time until she would have sex. That made her feel naughty. And wild.

Ophelia took the bottle to his dining room. It was not swathed in covers, and it had been dusted and tidied, but it was obvious it had not been used for ages, except for when she had eaten in it. Why didn’t he eat here? Why did he live so alone?

“I no longer feel like a prisoner,” she whispered.

As if to celebrate, she filled the glass, and sipped. Sipped and sipped until it was gone, then refilled her goblet and had more.

Two-thirds of the bottle had disappeared when an amused, deep baritone asked, “Having fun?”

A bit poddled, she met Ravenhunt’s dark eyes. “Yes.” Already, the anticipation made her feel hot and tight inside. “What are we going to do tonight? Are you going to spank me?” She felt wanton and giddy to even ask such a thing, and she twirled in a circle.

“You are foxed,” he observed.

“No, I am free.” The old Ophelia, prisoner of Mrs. Darkwell, would have never asked such a thing as casually as she had done. She was no longer quiet, retiring Ophelia. “So what are you going to do to me?”

“I have a few ideas,” Ravenhunt said.

She was more than just a little foxed. Lady Ophelia was drunk. A strange feeling welled up in Raven. Disapproval and the need to give her a lecture on being more careful.

His reaction was what it would have been for Frederica, his sister. He shook off the feeling. Ophelia drunk was good for him. It would make her seduction easier.

But he couldn’t completely lose the sense of feeling protective of her.

Ophelia was naïve but she had strength, too. He admired it. Her strength and courage made her more than just a pretty young woman—it made her beautiful.

He wasn’t in love with her. He had been in love with his fiancée. He knew what the emotion felt like—an obsession to have and possess a woman.

Even as a marquis’ heir with the courtesy title of earl, he’d lived in fear he wasn’t good enough for the beautiful Lady Margaret, daughter of a powerful duke. He’d been afraid she would flit away to someone else—a duke, for example. To prove himself to her, he had fought a duel for her, pummeled her other suitors in Gentleman Jackson’s ring, and pursued her like a madman. His love for her had turned him from a confident, carefree young buck into a man haunted by doubt, aware of every misspoken word or unfulfilled opportunity to win her heart.

Love had leveled him. It had eroded his strength.

But once he had won beautiful Margaret’s heart, he’d felt like a king.

Then he had lost her. She’d died.

What he felt for Ophelia was just a man’s need to protect a woman. It wasn’t tempestuous or all-consuming. It wasn’t love.

But according to that blasted book of Guidon’s, it had to be if he wanted to save her. He had to fall in love with her, and he had to make her love him.

How in hell was he going to fall in love? Losing his fiancée, and then becoming a vampire, had sucked all the capacity for love out of him.

Now Ophelia stared at him boldly with bright, drunk eyes. Swaying a bit, she undid her robe, and she let it fall to the ground. A gruff laugh rose from his chest.

Ophelia was a sweet thing, and it was going to be fun to pleasure her tonight.

And somehow he had to find a way to fall in love with her, seduce her into loving him. Then he had to die while loving her.

Damn, how did a vampire who had no soul, who had a heart like ice, do that? He had to hope the answer was in Guidon’s book. He’d read it until dawn and hadn’t found any answers.

There had to be something in that damned book. Somewhere there had to be a guideline for vampire assassins on falling in love.

“You’re frowning.” Ophelia sashayed unsteadily toward him. She ran her finger around her lips. Wine had stained her lips the dark red of blood.

He fought not to think about that. He’d fed before coming to her. A quick bite, as it were.

In her pale ivory nightdress she looked almost angelic.

He had to fall in love with her so she wouldn’t be destroyed. Fall in love with her, then lose her forever. She would be free. In a way, so would he—making love to her meant he was going to finally die. He laughed, the sound sharp and bitter.

Her swaying body suddenly stilled. She frowned at him. “Do you not want to do this?”

“Yes, of course I do.” He was going to die—it was his destiny. He wanted to make love to her as much as he could before he did.

Not caring what it would mean for him, he caught her in his arms and kissed her. Wine was tart on her lips. A jolt of agony shot through him, so strong and so unexpected, he reeled back with it, pulling away from the kiss.

The pain inflicted on him by her power was stronger.

So what was he going to do to her?

There was a lot he wanted to do. Watching her come last night, he’d wanted to slide his cock inside her, feel how creamy she was, feel her walls clutch around him. He liked to watch her come, but he wanted to make her come with his prick.

Or his mouth.

Instead Raven held up an ivory wand. The closest he could be to her was sliding the wand inside her hot, wet cunny.

“What is that?” Ophelia found it hard to speak—her words were slurred together.

“Lean over the table, love,” Ravenhunt commanded.

Doing so made her bare bottom stick out, just as his had done. “I don’t want to be spanked now.” Though actually, she felt light and airy enough that she didn’t mind the idea. “No, changed my mind. You can if you want.”

He tapped the wand against her bottom. “Oooh,” she whispered, and she wriggled her hips. She swayed her rump back and forth, then tauntingly up and down. At his laugh, she blushed, certain she must look silly, but she wanted him too much to care. “Please,” she whispered.

The cool firmness of the rod stroked over the curve of her bottom, then slid between her thighs. The length brushed her nether lips from behind. His strong hand thrust it forward so the length of it grazed along her cunny. She gasped. The cool, smooth ivory was thrillingly teasing. He worked it back and forth, until it eased her sticky lips apart.

“It’s not as large as I am,” he said.

It’s not? It seemed rather large. But even with her wits fogged by wine, she remembered seeing Ravenhunt without his trousers and his erection had seemed startlingly enormous.

“I’m going to put it inside you, beautiful one,” he murmured. “If it hurts you, tell me.”

She nodded. But with all the wine sloshing about inside her, she couldn’t feel pain at all. Gently, he slid the thickness of the ivory wand between her lips. The tip touched her entrance. She should be shocked. But she ached to be filled.

“Please,” she whispered.

She was so tense, so filled with anticipation. Aching and throbbing inside. The wand went inside her, and she felt a twinge of pain. She winced, but it vanished swiftly.

Then there was nothing but pleasure, silky pleasure sliding through her whole body.

He stroked the wand in and out. She rocked against the table, eyes closed, thinking only of sheer delight. Deeper and deeper, he went. Ophelia moaned. Gasped. Then she squealed when the wand went so deep that shocks raced through her everywhere.

His finger slipped between her nether lips, and pressed against her nub. “You can’t touch me—”

“I can’t resist.” He rubbed her there. A few firm caresses in perfect unison with the thrusts inside her.

Oh heavens. Oh goodness. Oh—!

Pleasure burst in her like fireworks. Glittering, brilliant delight raced through her every nerve. Her body thrashed against the table, as it danced to sheer ecstasy. The climax ravaged her. She wailed in glorious agony. He quickly moved his fingers away from her, and she didn’t need his touch there anymore. But the climax was so intense . . .

Her sex was clutching at the wand inside her, pulsing around it. Ravenhunt kept thrusting it, and the pleasure went on and on. Her legs were weakening—

She couldn’t help it. She grasped his arm. She needed to touch him. Ached for contact. A huge jolt of sheer agony shot through her where her fingers gripped his forearm. Ophelia screamed with it.

He roared with pain. Ophelia fought to let him go, but her fingers wouldn’t obey. He grasped her hand and pulled his arm free.

She jerked her hand away from his. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. Tears burned in her eyes, dripped to her cheeks.

He draped her robe around her. “It was not your fault.”

In front of her eyes, he licked the ivory wand and her jaw dropped.

“This way I can taste you,” he murmured. “Don’t worry. Tomorrow night, we are going to have to ensure you don’t touch me. It hurt you this time, as well as me. Tomorrow we have to tie you up.”