It startled her and he smiled. “Your mouth is a huge
Yes, all muscle and lean sinewy strength, and it had been shocking. “Why do you hunt vampires at night? They sleep in the day—I learned that at Mrs. Darkwell’s. They are dormant and vulnerable. Isn’t that the best time to go after them?”
There was a pause while he took off his tailcoat, then his waistcoat, and he let those fall carelessly, too. “You have to know where their lairs are. It is easier to protect the populace by hunting at night, so you can assassinate a vampire before it takes a victim.”
That made sense, but she felt there was something not quite right. “You’d still need somewhere to sleep. You would just do it in the day.”
“Since I have no servants, I just use a daybed in the study. It’s easier than having to tend to more unnecessary rooms myself.”
“Why do you have no servants? Is it because you keep kidnapping women and that’s hard to explain?”
“The hunting and killing of vampires is an odd profession. We’re supposed to keep people from learning vampires do exist. Along with other beings with special powers, like us.”
One quick whisk of his arms and he pulled his shirt off, baring his perfect torso. “It’s too cold and impersonal in here for a spanking to be any fun.”
He started off, his clothes over his arm, and Ophelia followed. In for a penny, in for a pound. She had come back with him to his house, knowing full well what she had agreed to. In that club, she’d glimpsed other things happening in the corners of the room, when she’d quickly averted her eyes from the naked stranger who was tied up.
There was one woman on a man’s lap, the skirts of her shift pushed up and her naked legs spread over his. She was leaning back with her back against his chest, and his hands were between her legs. Her bottom rose and fell on him with a rhythmic motion. They were doing something private and intimate in front of so many people, and they were doing it so they could both watch the man in the middle of the room.
Shocking, yes. But she’d felt a wave of hot . . . awareness.
Ravenhunt led her to a door at the other end of the hallway from hers. “The master’s apartments,” he said, pushing it open. “If I used a bedchamber, this would be the one.”
It was the room she’d looked in earlier. In the center was the enormous bed—it stood at the height of her waist, with a dusty canopy soaring above. The counterpane was smooth and clean, but she suspected if she struck it, a cloud of motes would fly into the air. Balls of dust gathered like tiny kittens here and there on the floor.
He strode in and opened a chest that sat at the foot of the bed. “Ah, here it is. Thought it was here.” Straightening, he had a much smaller wooden chest tucked under his arm.
It wasn’t until they reached her room that he satisfied her curiosity. He set the small trunk on the vanity table and flipped open the lid. Out of it, he took a long thing that looked like a small whip, with a black leather- wrapped handle, and a long leather strap that dangled. Next he withdrew a wooden object, with a smooth, rounded paddle and a wood handle.
“What are those?”
“Accoutrements for spanking.”
“You have a chest filled with things to use for hitting someone’s bottom?”
“Not only that. They are all kinds of devices for enhancing sexual play. All gentlemen keep them. We spend much of our time when we aren’t using them dreaming of how we will.”
She was sure Ravenhunt was teasing her.
He led her back to her bedroom, where he tossed the wooden paddle onto the bed. “We should get started.” His shoulders shook as he undid his trousers. His long lashes shielded his eyes, but she thought he looked . . . not aroused, but troubled.
One swift motion of his hand shoved his trousers down. Underneath, he wore nothing. His muscled, taut bottom was bared to her.
He planted his hands on the bed, spread his legs with his trousers bunched around the top of his boots. He hung his head, his straight black hair falling around his face.
She was supposed to smack him. With the paddle.
She couldn’t use her hand without really hurting him.
All right. He wanted it. It was like a dare—and she’d never had the chance to do daring things. She’d been locked up for so long.
Curling her fingers around the smooth, varnished handle, she lifted the paddle. Held it above his bottom.
Oh heavens, she didn’t want to hit anything so perfect. Pale, firm, and defined by the muscles beneath his smooth skin, his rump was a work of art.
Wouldn’t smacking it be like a desecration?
“Come on, Ophelia,” he groaned. “Do it.”
She closed her eyes. Swung. But lost her courage at the end of the arc and arrested it, so the paddle only lightly tapped him.
Ravenhunt’s breath came out in a fast, harsh stream. She couldn’t see his face, but his back was tense and he made a growling sound. Then he groaned, “Excellent. But you can do it harder next time.”
“It doesn’t hurt?”
“It hurts in a good way. That’s part of the—of the pleasure.” She tried again, being more firm. A quick slap to his hard right cheek. It barely jiggled, since his bottom was so taut.
His head bucked, his long, lean body braced on arms locked straight. So straight, the muscles bulged and his veins were like cords looped around his forearms. “God, that was good.”
“You liked that?” Was there something to this she didn’t quite understand? She would assume it wasn’t pleasurable at all. But he twisted to face her, and there was such an intense expression on his face. Harsh lines ringed his mouth. His eyes were bright and intense. “Spank me again. You can’t leave me hanging now.”
She obliged, trying with a bit more force.
His deep, throaty moan vibrated through her. Goodness, he did like this. A thrill ran down her spine, a sensation that shot down between her legs and throbbed there, aching and demanding.
Instead of hitting him, she ran the flat of the paddle over the curve of his rump. If only it could be her hand touching him. Feeling how soft his skin was, even over that hard, solid muscle. She noticed the dusting of dark hair. She longed to coast her hand all over him, even down between his legs from the back and touch the fascinating large ballocks that dangled there.
She couldn’t touch him. Certainly not there. Smoke rose when they touched. Contact with her obviously burned him, and she couldn’t inflict that on tender places.
Oh, but she wished she could touch him.
“You do?” he asked softly.
Had she said it out loud? She must have. “Yes,” she cried. “I want to grope your backside, and fondle the muscles on your arms, and put my arms around you, and—and—”
“Then do it,” he said.
She smacked his bottom lightly with the paddle. “I can’t. I’d hurt you.”
“You know, love, I really don’t care. It would be worth it to be touched by you.”
Crazily, madly, she put the palm of her hand against his rump. Against the red mark the paddle had made.
But Ravenhunt flinched and smoke rose, and she snatched her hand away.
“Spank me,” he urged, and she heard the note of laughter in his voice. Turning, he winked at her, his long lashes flashing over his dark eye. She giggled.
When had she last giggled? She couldn’t remember. Never had she thought it would be over a bare bottom and a session of spanking. This was utterly surprising. It was fun.
“Come on, love, you’re killing me with suspense. I’m on the brink of a colossal erotic explosion. It hurts.”
Goodness, she was not doing her duty here. She lifted the paddle and swacked him. She paddled his bottom lightly, then firmly, then gave one daring, hard smack.
