Lustfully Ever After (18 page)

“So you’ve come to see The Ogre,” he said, a note of bitterness in his deep voice as he stopped at last in front of her. “Does he disappoint you?”

Kit took that as permission to look more closely. She
was
, at first, disappointed. His silver-streaked mane of black hair was striking, but his face was unremarkable, even bland, like a… yes, like a mask, as indeed it was, she realized; an illusion Mrs. Thorne must have provided, for Kit detected no personal magic in the man himself.

“Yes, I
am
disappointed,” she said. “I came to see the true man, beast and all. The man who watched me from the cliff. If I am to help you, and if…,” she took a great daring leap into the truth, “…if I am to achieve my own deepest desires, there must be no deception between us.”

His mask wavered just slightly; out of sympathy Kit looked away and pretended not to have already seen what he tried to hide. Not until he was ready to bear it. The cruel scars descending from his left temple along his cheek and neck and down under his collar evoked compassion in her, not revulsion.

“I will begin the revelations myself,” she said, knowing that he had never been deceived by her disguise. “First this.” She unbuttoned her jacket and shed it, along with her muslin shirt. “And this.” The inner cotton bindings came off, freeing her breasts, their rose-tinted nipples tightening into thrusting points as he watched. “Not yet enough?” She bent and wriggled free of breeches and boots, and the stockings beneath, feeling her
naked buttocks flush in the heat of his gaze. Then she straightened and turned to expose her full womanhood, slick dampening folds beneath a light furring of russet curls. “Enough now?” she asked, with all the challenge she had projected that moonlit night by the sea, and even more.

“Enough!” he said sharply, stepping back, though now she felt from him a surge of need pent up so long that it towered like a giant wave suspended above them.

“Not quite enough,” Kit said. “Your turn now for revelations,” and before he could prevent it, she reached up to his cheek below the eye patch and brushed the long scar with a touch so light, so tender, she doubted he could feel it, though he grasped her hand and pulled it away.

“Do not bait the lion in his cage,” he grated, his grip tightening until it was painful.

“It is the lion I came for, both man and beast.” Kit expertly extricated her hand. “I am strong enough to bear your anger and sorrow, as well as lust—but I must begin with the lust, or go mad!”

Before he could resist, she dropped to her knees and reached out to the mighty bulge in his trousers. His growl of warning turned to a growl of quite another kind as she swiftly unbuttoned his garments and freed his demanding flesh. By the time her mouth was on his cock, sliding over all that could fit of its great length and thickness as her hands worked at the rest, he had given in to deep groans and rasping breaths. His hands wove deeply through her hair and pressed her face ever harder into his raging need.

The giant wave crashed over them. Kit’s ears rang with sounds like thunder and the screeching of sea birds combined. Her own need was still great, but elation at her new master’s release buoyed her up, and indeed it was mere moments before
his desire began to revive. He pulled her to her feet, then crushed his mouth against hers and ran his hands roughly over her body, arousing her to the edge of pain. She scrabbled at his clothing until it was all in a heap along with hers, and skin could press against hungry skin. When he lifted her so high that he could tantalize her breasts with nips and bites, she wrapped her legs tightly about him, his cock hardening once more beneath her buttocks; he forced his mouth roughly onto her aching nipples, one after the other. She could hear herself growing shrill with the desperate need for more.

He carried her through another door into a second room. Soon a bed was beneath her, lurching under her thrashing body as she opened to him, begging to be filled. He responded with more than she had thought she could hold, thrusting hard, sending bolts of pleasure into her deep, ravenous core until her own wave hit, overwhelmed her, and receded in ripples of such joy that she scarcely felt his second eruption.

In the aftermath Kit noted drowsily and with gratitude that her ogre’s long scar, and several others she had not seen while he was clothed, ended well short of what had given her such piercing fulfillment. With one hand she stroked tenderly all down his body, noting the effort he made not to wince away.

“Does it still give you pain?” she asked gently.

“No. Or, at least, not enough to signify. But…how can you stand to touch me? To even look at me?”

She wriggled onto his belly and chest. “It is you yourself I see and touch. Not merely certain parts, except when they are in a particularly interesting state.” She touched his cock, hardening yet again. Good. Let him not regret his moment of vulnerability. Better to distract him.

Kit reached up to the posts at the head of the bed. “What are these contraptions? Playthings?”

He tensed in quite the wrong way. “Cuffs and fetters. Restraints. There are times…dreams of battles…when I must…”

She could feel him retreating from her. “Well, all the better to have someone attend you who knows how to deal with them. Especially if you should wish to travel abroad, as I have always longed to do. Besides, I have also heard of such things used for pleasure. Perhaps you should show me…restrain me, punish me, have your will with me, test my strength. I might surprise you.”

She saw his arousal revive, and knew, with a prickle of anticipation, that she had succeeded. If there had indeed been a test, she was sure that by now Mrs. Thorne would know that she had passed it beyond any possible doubt.

Two nights later Kit met Jotham at the abandoned shack. She was moving a bit stiffly, still savoring the soreness. “I have a most secure position,” she assured him. “How did you fare?”

“Oh, Kit, she is the most beautiful creature!” he gushed. “Sweet and delicate…she thought all our countrymen were rough louts until she met me! They are leaving very soon for their own land, but I have hopes.…”

“Hopes? Of going with them as a footman?” But Kit could tell already that there was more to the story than that.

“Well, at first it was like that, but when I told her I was the impoverished younger son of a nobleman, and my horse and fine clothing had been stolen as I swam in the sea so that I was reduced to common rags, and I had only applied as a footman because I had seen and loved her and wished to be near her…and when she told her father she would have no other husband…”

There was definitely more to Jotham than Kit had ever suspected. And possibly a good deal less. “Can this all be truly settled?” she asked dubiously.

“Oh yes. At least…I told him that my distant cousin owns the castle by the sea, and now he wishes to see it. I was sure you
would succeed there, so if you could arrange to let them come at least into the gardens and have a cup of tea, saying that your master is not at home, my entire life will become a heaven on earth!”

Fools and their luck,
Kit thought.
And their wild, if sentimental, imaginations!

Two days later, while Mrs. Thorne served the guests tea in the castle gardens, the master of the castle was unfortunately indisposed. In fact, he was fettered to his bed, after Kit had pointed out that it was all very well to let loose the lion or ogre within, but it took even more strength of will to submit like a lamb, or perhaps even something as outwardly weak as a mouse. By then there was enough trust between them for him to acquiesce, and while tea and conversation were consumed below, Kit was in the tower making submission very much worth her master’s time. Among other delights, she had but to twitch her fingers toward a part of his body to make him writhe with remembered pleasure. If she had a few tricks, why not use them?

 

Six months later, in a great city on the continent, a wealthy and imposing figure strolled amid the demimondaine with an assured bearing that made one overlook his scars and eye patch. The sleek and charming page so often beside him inspired sighs from both men and women, but their highest awe was reserved for the lady who sometimes hung on the gentleman’s arm, dressed in the finest and most severely tailored of women’s clothing in greens and bronzes that set off her shining russet hair. Either of those companions wore especially elegant boots suited to their respective costumes. No one was truly deceived, of course, but that made it all the more entertaining.

The chambermaids were well paid to refrain from gossiping about their household, though of course they did, especially
about the rather specialized accoutrements of their bedchamber. After all, such fur-lined restraints were not unheard of in certain circles. No one bothered to relate how the lady, when the man occasionally tousled her hair and call her “My pretty puss,” would stiffen for a mere second as at an old memory. Her lord would beg her pardon, earning a fond kiss and forgiveness. “You may call me anything you like, my love,” she would say, “as long as I have such fine boots to wear.”

 

 

 

I
was lost. My guidebook’s maps were either out of date or outright fabrications, my smartphone’s GPS had claimed I was somewhere in the Atlantic before running out of power, and every set of directions I’d begged from passersby had led me further into the labyrinthine neighborhood of Puxhill known as the Gaslight District. Now, with night falling, the antique lamps that gave the area its name flickered to life, casting mocking shadows against uncaring brick walls and dark windows. I stood on the corner of two nameless streets—one little more than an alley—and threw up my hands in frustration.

My excursion had started well enough earlier. The Gaslight District had evolved out of Puxhill’s original settlement some centuries past, a chaotic tangle of narrow streets, scenic courtyards, and old buildings. It was a cultural melting pot, a unique blend of backgrounds and beliefs. During the day, you could find treasures and wonders in its tiny groceries, bookstores, and curio shops. Where it bordered the normal parts of the city, like
Caravan Street or Tuesday University, you could find popular hangouts and hotspots. My mistake had been in venturing too far off the beaten path. Camera in hand, I went searching for new and interesting shots, not heeding those who said it would be a bad idea.

“Tanya,” I told myself, “this is all well and good, but standing here isn’t helping.
Puxhill through the Lens
won’t get finished if you vanish, never to be seen again.” I squared my shoulders, pretended I’d given myself a really good pep talk, and picked a direction. I hoped I’d find somewhere still open, where I could get proper directions or use the phone. For all of its many tiny nameless streets, the Gaslight District was still a finite area in a much larger city.

Several blocks later, I wasn’t so sure. Twilight had fallen, and I hadn’t seen a single other person in ages. I pulled my denim jacket close as a chill ran through the air. All I saw were closed doors, dark windows, and capriciously dancing shadows.

The silence broke. Raised voices. Harsh laughter. A pained cry punctuated by a soft thud. Jingling chains and scuffed movements. Common sense told me to head away from what sounded like certain trouble; other instincts urged me around the corner, where certain trouble was already in progress.

Given the time and place, what I found was no surprise: five thugs, ganging up on a victim. They were uniformly dressed in steel-toed boots, dirty jeans, black T-shirts, leather jackets proclaiming them all as “Corbie Boys.” Crows of ill fortune, mobbing the crumpled figure at their feet. Without any thought for my safety, I raced forward, instinctively letting out a war cry. I pointed my camera in their direction and pressed the shutter button as rapidly as possible, the flash disconcertingly bright against the twilight. The gang members froze before scattering, unwilling to face my unanticipated threat.

I knew I’d only bought us a little time. Once the Corbie Boys realized they’d been taken in by nothing more than a woman with a camera and an ear-splitting scream, they’d be back. I offered a hand to their erstwhile target. His grip was firm and warm, and he stifled a pained groan as he stood.

While he dusted himself off, checking for injuries, I examined him, hoping I’d chosen the right side to help. He was a smidgen taller than me, and I come close to six feet in flat shoes—God forbid I wear heels. Weathered skin several shades darker than my own Irish pale, with intense dark eyes, short brown hair, and strong features. In the right light, he’d be a perfect model; I ached to shoot him in some of Puxhill’s more interesting locations. Possibly naked. While battered and bruised, he didn’t seem to have suffered overly much from the attack. He was dressed far nicer than the area called for, in a dark suit set off against expensive black loafers, a light blue shirt, and a tasteful red tie. He smiled, making my knees wobble. I blamed it on the adrenaline still racing through me. “While I appreciate the help,” he said, “I fear you’ve made some inconvenient enemies. The Corbie Boys don’t take well to challenges, and they react poorly to loss of face.”

His voice was low, cool, and utterly in control. It was liquid sex and velvet, sending shivers along my spine. I shrugged. “Then I guess we’d better not stick around. Any ideas which way we should go?”

He looked around before nodding in one direction. “That’s our best bet.”

I fell in beside him as he headed down the sidewalk briskly, easily keeping up with my own long stride. “I’m Tanya,” I said. “Tanya McCray.”

“Devin Hunt.”

“Nice to meet you. Please say you know where you’re going.”

He chuckled. “Good news and bad news, then. Yes, I know where we’re going. No, I can’t get us out of here right now.”

I stumbled to a halt, then backed up a step. “How’d you know what I was going to ask?” Well-spoken eye candy that he was, I hadn’t forgotten that he was a relative unknown, and we were alone at night in an extremely strange part of the city.