Love Bites (9 page)

Which triggered another humiliating gush of cream into her sex.

With a growl, he sank his fangs deep, the sudden hot sting startling a gasp from her throat. She’d known he was going to bite her, but somehow she hadn’t expected it just now. Morgana bucked, jerking against his grip, but he had her pinned too thoroughly. She couldn’t move at all.

His hand abandoned her breast to seek out her crotch, his forefinger skating between slick labia to slide into her opening. He made a sound against her throat at what he found there, a triumphant growl that deepened to a rumble as he pumped deep, in and out, keeping the pace slow—goddess, far too slow as he drank in hot swallows.

Letting her head fall back against the wall, she moaned in helpless lust. The moan became a gasp as he added a second finger, thumb strumming her clit like a lute string. His body rolled against hers, branding the feel of hot, hard strength against every inch of her smaller, softer one.

This was why she’d always preferred bottling her blood. Feeding a vampire directly from her throat was too damned seductive, too much an arousing act of submission.

But Percival didn’t give a damn what she preferred. He just took her, like prey, like a mortal woman he was using, fingering her cunt as he drank, shooting her toward her peak with his erotic brutality until she . . .

But just as her climax began to pulse, he jerked his hand away. The orgasm drained away, leaving her body aching with vibrating, helpless need. Morgana cried out in frustrated protest.

He chuckled against her throat.

Her temper sparked. “Percival, you . . .” Remembering herself, she bit off the rest.

Too late. He growled, a savage rumble that vibrated against her throat. His hand slapped against her cunt, thumb and forefinger finding her clit to pinch to the verge of pain, less a punishment than a stark reminder of what he could do if she really pissed him off. She arched in shock. “I’m sorry!”

The growl deepened, the fingers tightened until, squirming in pain, she remembered his title. “Milord! I’m sorry, milord!”

Another growl, this one sounding satisfied. How could he communicate so much with such a primitive sound?

He took his hand away from her cunt and went right on feeding, until she was grateful she’d kept forgetting to bottle her blood the past few weeks. His fingers found her breast again, tugging idly at her nipple, intensifying her helpless desire. Tugging, drinking, until she planted one high heel against the wall for leverage as she ground against his rock-muscled body. She tried to bite back her moans, hoping to avoid having him deny her again.

At last his hungry swallows ceased, and he drew his fangs from her throat. For a moment she hung in his grip as he lazily tormented one nipple. “Delicious,” he purred in her ear. “But then, I knew you would be.” His voice dropped to a growl. “I still remember the way you taste.”

“You should,” she managed. “You must have drunk from me a dozen times.” But except for the first time, it had always been in emergencies, when Percival was badly injured, and usually she’d only given him her wrist. Anything else was too intimate. She was too vulnerable to him as it was.

“But not like this. And that first time, I was basically out of my head.” He rolled his hips, making her aware of his hard-on, his overwhelming strength and size against her own utter helplessness. “And speaking of things I’ve been aching to do for far, far too long . . .”

A heartbeat later, she was cradled in his arms and moving in a dizzying swoop and a couple of long strides. He dropped down on the sectional and stood her up between his thighs, only to start bending her over.

Realizing belatedly what he intended, Morgana started to struggle, more as a matter of instinct than anything else. But there was no way in hell she was going to win a wrestling match with Percival.

In a flash, her legs were trapped in the clamp of his thighs, her wrists pinned at the small of her back in one of his big hands . . .

And her bare rump was at the vampire’s mercy.

*   *   *

P
ercival gazed down at Morgana’s pale, round arse.

“Percival!” she gasped. “What the hell are you . . .”

His palm hit her backside with a loud
SLAP!
“How do you address your Master?” he thundered.

“Lord Percival!” She gasped, her voice shaking, sounding both frightened and aroused. “Sir, why are you . . . ?”

“Because it fucking pleases me, Oath Servant.”
SLAP
. “And because you damned near got two innocents, yourself, and all of us killed with your games.” SLAP. Her backside jiggled and reddened under his hand, an effect rendered even more tempting by the way she bucked and struggled. He paused to caress the silky curves, traced one finger along the shadowed cleft. “Because you’re arrogant and manipulative, and I should have put you over my knee fifteen centuries ago to teach you humility.”

“I was trying to keep you alive!” Morgana burst out, as if unable to keep her mouth shut any longer. “At least I could take dragon form, fight him with magic. You’re the best knights I’ve ever worked with, but I feared the dragon would kill you. I didn’t want . . .”

SMACK!
“Maybe you didn’t notice, but we did more damage to that thing than you did, Morgana!” Furious, insulted, he laid into her arse in a rain of stinging smacks that soon had her yelping, her feet snapping out in kicks.

“I couldn’t lose you!” she cried.

The anguish in her voice brought him up short. She meant that; sincerity rang in her voice, along with a need and pain that didn’t sound like the controlled, arrogant woman he knew.

Percival felt a stab of yearning for something more than the collar and the kink—a desire for an emotional connection to Morgana, the woman who had been his obsession for so very long.

Instantly, his instincts for self-preservation revolted at the idea. Damned if he was going to give Morgana le Fay an opening like that.

Again, he started smacking her round, tempting arse until she bucked and squealed.

God, he loved spanking a beautiful woman, particularly one who had submissive tendencies she’d never acknowledged. A single-tail might be more frightening when used with skill, paddles might deliver more sting, crops and canes might inflict more painful marks the girl would remember for days. Chaining a sub might render her more intensely helpless than simply holding her wrists pinned.

But nothing beat putting a woman over your knee if you wanted to make her aware of your greater size and strength, of the fact that you had her and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.

Then there was the potential for giving the sub a really great headfuck as you forced her to realize that being held helpless aroused her. Too, there was the interesting fact that if you really knew what you were doing, you could make a sub come with a skillful spanking.

Percival knew what he was doing.

But while he was at it, he was going to make damned sure the head-fuck only went one way. He was most definitely not going to let Morgana under his skin. This was about sex and revenge and teaching a certain arrogant witch humility.

Percival lowered his aim to come up under her arse, so the impact vibrated right through her bum to her cunt and clit. He gave her five carefully measured smacks, just hard enough to make her shudder and writhe.

“Ooh!
Lord Percival
 . . . 
!
”

Yeah, she’d definitely felt
that
, all right.

He stopped spanking her in favor of tracing his fingertips over her round, pink arse, enjoying the heat building beneath her skin. Licking the blood off his fangs, he savored its hot flavor, so rich and seductive. Morgana tasted delicious, shimmering with magic despite the collar. Evidently the device only kept her from accessing her power, for it was definitely still there. Mageverse energy burned in her blood with an intensity that made the Jack he’d had earlier seem like a white wine spritzer by comparison.

No mortal tasted so rich. Hell, few Majae had blood that shimmered with the kind of power Morgana le Fay had. Some of it was her age; the older a witch was, the stronger her magic, as if she stored it up like a battery to feed the lucky bastard who sank his fangs into her delicate throat.

Bottled blood just didn’t give the same kick. It sure as hell never gave him a raging cock-stand. Percival had rarely been so hard in his life. Some of it was the way she looked at him, with those pretty green eyes so wide and helpless. Anxious with a kind of erotic edge that made his balls draw hot and heavy.

God, he wanted to fuck her. Just throw her down on her back and cram his cock into that juicy pussy, pump hard and deep until he blew his load and filled her full.

No,
he told his clawing lust.
I’ve been waiting for this too damned long. I’m not going to rush it. I’m going to savor every last thrust, every last second of bringing her to her knees. By the time dawn rolls around, she’s going to know who she belongs to. She’ll call me ‘my lord’ and
mean
it. She’ll
beg
 . . .

God, the thought of Morgana le Fay begging him made his cock jerk and buck against his zipper until he wanted to free it from its uncomfortable prison in his jeans.

Instead he started spanking her again, varying the force and speed, pausing in between swats to make sure the nerves had time to recover instead of losing sensitivity. Morgana squirmed, tried to kick, but he had her thighs clamped between his, her arse raised high, a perfect, juicy target, so he could stimulate her clit with each blow.

And it was working. Every breath he took smelled of wet pussy. Percival grinned, watching her body’s helpless, shamed writhing.

God, he’d never done anything so hot in his life.

*   *   *

D
ammit, he’s spanking me like a child,
Morgana thought, panting, as her rump stung savagely from the blows of Percival’s relentless palm.
I shouldn’t be getting so wet
.

But the furious mental lecture did no good at all. Pleasure reverberated through her nerves despite the hot pain blistering her arse. She tried to suppress her jerking bucks, but her body absolutely refused to obey.

While Percival loved every flinch and quiver.

There could be no doubt he thoroughly enjoyed her helpless struggles, not considering the size of the bulge pressed into her hip. The man felt as hard as a broadsword.

Finally he paused in those merciless, measured swats. “If I didn’t know better,” Percival drawled, “I’d think you were enjoying this spanking almost as much as I am.” Sliding one finger into her pussy, he purred in pleasure at what he found. “God, you are wet.” He added a second finger. “Why, Morgana le Fay—do you have a streak of masochism buried beneath all that arrogance and ice?”

Her face burning in a furious blush, she made no answer.

His hand hit her rump in a blow so hard, it wasn’t even remotely erotic. She shouted in startled protest.

“Your Oath Master asked you a question, servant,” Percival snarled. “Are you hiding a streak of masochism beneath that arrogance?”

“No!” she cried. But it was less a denial than a desperate prayer.

“I warned you not to lie to me, witch,” he snapped, and cut loose in a furious rain of swats that had her kicking and squirming in the prison of his thighs. When he finally stopped again, shamed tears ran down her face, and her cunt was swollen and hot with helpless lust.

“Now, once more,” Percival asked in that icy tone that meant you’d better not push him one inch further. “Are you a masochist, Morgana?”

“Yes!” The word burst from her, leaving her dumbfounded. Where the hell had
that
come from?

“Good.” Percival sank two fingers into her pussy, pumped deep. “Because I am most definitely a sadist where you’re concerned.” And he found her anus with his cream-slicked finger and slid it deep, stretching her ruthlessly.

M
organa jerked in helpless reaction to the forefinger thrusting deep in her arse. “Ahhh! Per . . . Lord Percival!”

“Very nice. Very tight.” He added the second finger, scissored them apart, tormenting the snug channel. She gasped at the hot sting. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were a virgin. I’m going to have a very good time fucking this. And I’ll make sure it hurts.”

Morgana shivered, picturing it: Percival’s big body pinning hers as he forced his thick cock deep in her rectum, grinding in ruthlessly.
Oh, Merlin’s balls,
she realized, appalled.
He’s right—I do have a masochistic streak.

She’d always recognized the edge of cruelty in Percival. He usually controlled it with ruthless discipline, but if an enemy pissed him off enough, he’d make the poor bastard wish he’d never been whelped. Marrok might be bigger, might flare into berserker rages, Cador might be mean as hell, but it was Percival who really scared the shit out of her.

Percival could break her. Make her lose control. She couldn’t afford that, because her control of herself was the key to controlling her power. If she lost that, everyone might end up paying the price.

And yet, she needed him. Needed him even though he seemed ruthlessly determined to crack her open like an egg. She needed him because she knew he and his team would do whatever was necessary if she did lose it.

He released the clamp of his thighs around hers and pushed her off his lap, releasing her wrists and dumping her onto the floor. Some remnant of chivalry had him catching her shoulders before she would have crashed to her knees.

Percival came to his feet in a towering male rush, looming over her. Breath caught, Morgana watched as he unzipped his jeans and shoved his black boxers down to free his erect cock. Horned God, it looked huge—ruddy and thick and pearled with a bead of pre-cum.

“Open your mouth,” he snapped. “You’re about to get your face fucked.”

She licked her lips, automatically reaching for him. She’d always loved giving blow jobs, had prided herself on her ability to drive her lover insane.

“Did I tell you that you could use your hands? Put them behind your back.” When she hesitated, startled, he snapped, “Now, Morgana!”

Hesitantly, she obeyed, just as he grabbed a fistful of her hair and aimed his cock at her lips. “Open.”

Dazed, she obeyed, and he filled her mouth in a rush of stone-hard flesh. He hadn’t been kidding about fucking her face; he gave her no chance to use her skills, rolling his hips in ruthless thrusts that made her gag more than once, eyes tearing in helpless reaction.

If she’d thought she could get away with it, she’d have knocked him on his arse, mounted him, and impaled herself on that thick shaft.

She’d never been so hot in her life.

*   *   *

P
ercival knew he was being an utter bastard. This was not how a Knight of the Round Table was supposed to act, even with an Oath Servant who’d pissed him off as thoroughly as Morgana had.

Yet when Percival looked down, watched his big shaft sliding in and out of her helplessly open mouth, felt her lips and tongue caressing him, the wet cavern of her throat stroking his length—he didn’t give a damn about chivalry. All he wanted was to go on fucking Morgana’s face.

Especially with those green eyes turned up to his. The emotion in her gaze wasn’t mere submission; it had a feral edge, as if he’d somehow triggered something primal and animal in her, something that called to the dominant beast in him.

“That’s right, suck your lord’s dick,” he growled, scarcely aware of what he said. “Use your tongue and lips to please me well enough, and maybe I’ll let you come.” He drove in a deliberately hard thrust to make her gag. “Or maybe I won’t.”

Percival hoped she didn’t realize the hand he’d wrapped in her hair was shaking.
Who, exactly, is being taught a lesson in this particular scene?

He was going to ream her so hard she’d walk bowlegged for the next week.

Heat began to pulse in his balls, and he knew he was about to spill. For a moment he considered pulling out and shooting all over her face and glorious tits . . .

But no. He wanted to come inside her, to claim her so deep she’d never get him out again.

“Swallow,” he growled, as the climax boiled up the length of his cock. “You drink it all down, witch.”

He came so hard his knees almost buckled at the shuddering hot pulses. Staring down at her, he drank in the sight of Morgana kneeling at his feet and suckling his jerking shaft like something out of his darkest fantasies.

When he was finished, he felt hollow, as if he’d blown the contents of his very soul into her.

And worse, she knew it.

There was a look in her eyes, as though she’d beaten him, even if her arse was red and swollen from the spanking he’d given her, and frustrated arousal wafted from her pink, glistening pussy. Despite everything he’d done, those sharp green eyes had spotted the moment his knees had almost given way.

Oh, fuck that.
It did him no good to put a collar on the little bitch if he let her top him through his own damned dick.

Percival was damned if he’d fail the mission Arthur had given him. He’d served the man long enough to have a fair idea what his Liege had intended when he’d ordered the witch to give him her Oath.

Percival was supposed to make damned sure that Morgana le Fay quit playing stupid games with the lives of those who followed her. Which meant that by the time the sun was up, he’d better make sure he was her Master.

And that she bloody well knew it.

*   *   *

L
amb’s wool formed a thick, soft padding inside the wristbands’ tough black leather. Gleaming steel D rings jingled every time she moved her arm. He’d attached chains to the cuffs that led to a rather sinister hook in the ceiling, but he hadn’t drawn them taut yet.

“Is that too tight?” Percival asked, eyeing the cuffs critically.

“No.” She swallowed, acutely conscious of her own nudity. She wore only her collar, cuffs, stockings, and stilettos—plus, of course, the shackles clipped to the eyelets in the stone floor. The steel rings were more than shoulder-width apart, forcing her to stand with her high-heeled feet spread wide. Given that, and the fact that he obviously intended to chain her with her arms over her head, she didn’t believe it was a pose she could hold for long.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t sure he’d care. Morgana knew she’d pissed him off by showing her triumph in the aftermath of that blowjob.

Brainless. Absolutely brainless.
Because now he obviously intended to demonstrate who was the bottom here—and it sure as hell wasn’t him.

It looked as if he had more than enough equipment to give that demonstration. He’d marched her down the stairs to the honest-to-God dungeon in the basement. She wondered who’d conjured it for him, since it wasn’t her work: stone walls illuminated by torches that cast light over gleaming cherry spanking benches and a Saint Andrew’s Cross. Not to mention assorted attachment points for chains.

And then there was his toy rack.

Despite her best intentions, Morgana’s gaze skittered over to the back wall yet again. Floor to ceiling cherry shelves held crops, canes, floggers, and a single-tail. There were all sorts of nipple clamps, a selection of dildos and vibrators ranging from size small to
no-way-in-hell,
butt-plugs in the same range of dimensions, and a number of other sinister objects whose purpose stumped her completely.

Morgana knew better than to voice the question this display triggered, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.

“What the hell is all this? I know you’re not bringing your mortal submissives here.”

“What makes you think all my submissives are mortal?” He grabbed the end of the chain that bound her wrists and dragged it downward, pulling her bound wrists over her head before using a steel carabineer to clip it into position. The tension on the chain stretched her body into a tight, straining line, though her feet didn’t leave the ground—quite. The position drew her back into an arch, though, forcing her bare breasts outward, so that their swollen, jutting peaks seemed to beg for a dominant’s sadistic attentions.

Her
dominant’s attentions.

Her knees were shaking. God, she was wet. Morgana could smell herself, the nakedly erotic scent filling her nose, revealing just how aroused she was.

Meeting her eyes, Percival gave her a slow, feral smile that revealed the points of his fangs. “You have very pretty nipples, Morgana,” he purred. “They look . . . edible.”

I
really
shouldn’t have pissed him off.
Morgana licked her dry lips as she watched Percival contemplate her helpless nipples with predatory interest. She remembered the first time he’d bitten her there, an act she’d never allowed any of her other lovers. But Percival wasn’t one of her lovers. He was her dominant. Her Master.

Morgana heard herself start to babble, but she couldn’t seem to control her runaway tongue. “Don’t dominants and submissives do some kind of negotiations in those clubs?”

“Of course. I’d never play with a sub otherwise.” He shrugged. “I ask about any physical limitations, what she will and will not do, fantasies and fears. Her safeword.” His gaze hardened. “But you’re not a submissive. The oath you swore lets me do as I damned well choose with you, while you gave up the right to set limits.” His grin was downright nasty as he eyed her hard nipples. “Oath Servants don’t get a safeword.”

She considered telling him he was a bastard, but judging by the glint in those cold gray eyes, he was just waiting for her to give him an excuse.
Sorry, Percival, I’m not quite that dumb
.

When she managed to resist the urge to say something inflammatory, he walked over to the shelves and started plucking out assorted objects, including a pair of clamps, a flogger, a riding crop, a butt-plug, and a tube of lube. He arranged the toys on a tall wheeled wooden table he then rolled to within easy reach.

As Morgana contemplated the table uneasily, Percival stepped over to her until his bare chest almost touched her naked nipples. Her eyes jerked up to his as he crossed his massive arms and proceeded to loom.

Morgana swallowed, entirely too aware of the sheer size of the man—his height, the way his chest seemed to fill her field of vision like a wall, the chiseled shapes of hard muscle and snaking veins. A lock of blond hair fell over his eyes as he stared down at her, giving him a hint of softness at odds with the inhuman hunger in his gaze.

He looks so strong, so indomitable. As if he could solve any problem.
She wished he could solve hers. Wished she could tell him everything.

She’d come so close to confessing everything to him so many times over the years, but in the end she’d held her silence. Yet now, wearing his collar, utterly vulnerable, she had the remarkable thought that maybe she could trust him. That unlike everyone else she’d loved, he wouldn’t reject her, wouldn’t turn his back.

Not now,
her libido hummed.
I’ll tell him later, deal with his rage later. Right now I want his passion.

Her gaze dropped without her conscious intention down to his groin in the soft, well-washed jeans. His erection jutted boldly against the fabric, so brutally long and thick that she shifted uneasily on her high heels.

Yes, later would be soon enough.

“You look delicious like that,” he said in a dark, deep rasp. “All strung up and helpless, with those long rose nipples just begging for my teeth. God, I want to bite you.”

She forced herself to lift her chin and met his gaze. “You’ve always been something of a sadistic bastard.”

The humor vanished from his eyes, and he snagged her chin between thumb and forefinger. “That is not the way an Oath Servant speaks to her Master. You would do well to beg my pardon.”

Morgana, you idiot
.
You had to go and push
. Despite the cool fear breathing down her spine, she met his gaze, refusing to let her own falter. “I will not beg your pardon when I speak nothing but the truth.”

She expected him to explode in the kind of furious male rant that would hand her a psychological victory, no matter how Pyrrhic in terms of her reddened arse. Instead he smiled, revealing the sharp points of his fangs. “Yeah, I figured it wouldn’t be long before you had to see how far you could push me.” He stroked his thumb along the length of her jawline to the frantically throbbing carotid. “The answer is, of course, not very fucking far.”

Wrapping his fist in her hair, Percival jerked her mouth up into his kiss. There was nothing sweet or tender about it. It was a furious male conquest of a kiss, all teeth and thrusting tongue, forcing her jaws wide, a rough reminder of the way he’d used his cock. One fang scratched her lower lip, and he drew it into his mouth, sucking the blood from the tiny, stinging wound.

By the time Percival drew back, she was shaking, the chains jingling, as if mocking her attempt at defiance. His hard gaze bored into hers, daring her to drop her eyes as he slowly bent toward her arched breasts.