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
And she wanted
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 naive 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 fiancee. 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 fiancee, 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.
