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