“You are terse and commanding, aren’t you? You could ask nicely.”
Her voice wobbled a bit, betraying her nerves, but also her displeasure at his curt order. She fascinated him—she was demure and ladylike, but inside she was strong. She’d had to be strong, he supposed, to survive. But to win her heart, he had to be stronger. Ophelia had to learn to let herself trust him, to give herself to him body and soul.
“I never ask nicely,” he growled. “Not in games like this.” Holding the ropes, he scooped her up, put her over his shoulder for a second, and tossed her lightly on the bed.
She bounced and scrambled to sit up, but he wrapped the rope around her wrist. Fast, but not with a vampire’s speed. Black velvet slid smoothly around her slender pale wrist. Raven knotted it firmly, making a loop that she could not slip her hand through.
His cock bucked again at the thought of what would come next.
“That’s tight,” she gasped.
His throat was damned tight. “Too loose and you won’t have the fun of feeling bound and beyond your control. It’s tight enough to make you my sexual prisoner, but not enough to hurt.”
“Maybe you made a mistake.”
“I never do.”
He knew she was wrestling between her upbringing to be a good and proper young lady and her natural erotic, sensual nature. The way to encourage her to play, to free her to enjoy this, was to take control.
He drew the rope to the bedpost and the sudden tug made her fall on her back. Her breasts jiggled, her flushed nipples bobbing temptingly. It took him only moments to wrap the rope around the post and tie a secure knot. While she pulled hesitatingly at the rope, testing its strength, he caught her other wrist, and attached her to the post with smooth ease.
He did it without touching her skin and without hurting her.
Raven stepped back. The sight of Ophelia like that, with her arms raised behind her head, black rope in a band at her wrists, struck him like a blow. Her breasts wobbled softly with her every quick breath. Her pink nipples were distended, as plump as thimbles, revealing she was enjoying it.
He’d never been so aroused. But damn, he couldn’t touch her.
Panting, she met his gaze. She blushed again sweetly.
“You are beautiful, Ophelia,” he said. “Even though you’re the one in ropes, I feel bound right now. Bound by you.”
She blew at a strand of hair that dangled over her face. “I don’t understand.”
He whisked the hair away. “Watching you is so enthralling. Every time you tug at the rope, the way you turn your head to peek at how it’s tied to the bed, the way your breasts sway as you move. I feel like your captive, Ophelia.”
Ophelia would not quite believe Ravenhunt, except that he spoke slowly as if he were trying to understand himself what he felt. He sounded sincere.
She remembered waking here as his prisoner. Now, being his prisoner in fun, for carnal games, didn’t feel frightening.
True, she felt unsure and awkward, just as she always felt. But she was caught up in erotic excitement, too. It made her cunny throb.
Even with nothing touching her but the ropes at her wrists, she was becoming aroused. Ophelia could smell the lush scent of her juices. She felt wet and slick between her legs.
What was he going to do to her? He couldn’t touch her. He couldn’t go inside her, as much as she ached for it.
She didn’t know what he planned. For once, not knowing was driving her mad in a delicious way. The anticipation allowed her thoughts to run riot. What could he do without touching her to make her “come”?
“You look very thoughtful. Have you ever fantasized about this?” Ravenhunt sat on the edge of the bed. The blue velvet robe he wore highlighted the paleness of his skin. His cheekbones and strong jaw looked to be carved of marble. But his eyes were dark, so black they were unfathomable.
“I—” She couldn’t reveal the
After reading the gothic novels, sometimes she had thought about being taken captive and ravished. When she had been a prisoner at Mrs. Darkwell’s and she’d had nothing to do but sculpt and read. Locked away in a room, she had not only sculpted, she had also spun wild, erotic fantasies. She’d dreamed of a dark, mysterious man taking her prisoner, seducing her, and falling madly in love with her . . .
She’d ended up in that very situation.
But she could never admit it.
“Of course I haven’t,” she said firmly. “What are you—” She broke off. Ravenhunt held another rope. The length of it dangled from his strong hand.
“I know you have thought of this.” His voice was a deep, husky growl. It slid over her as decadent as hot, dark chocolate.
But she could never reveal those fantasies to anyone. They were her most shocking secret, and she would keep them buried forever. “No.”
Smooth velvet teased her bare ankle and, startled by it, she jerked her leg away. But Ravenhunt captured her foot, and had her ankle tied and bound to the column at the foot of the bed in moments.
He crossed his arms over his chest. His robe gave a glimpse of white skin and sculpted muscle. More ropes lay over his hand. She was his prisoner again, and he was watching her with a shiver-worthy heat in his gaze.
He watched her with such intensity, her heart hammered. She had to say something. “You are very quick at tying knots.”
“Practice.”
When her other foot was equally bound to the bedpost, he paced slowly at the end of the bed.
“W-what do you do to me now?”
“Whatever I desire.”
The rough way he said it made her heart thunder, made her wetter, hotter, and made her cunny clench in a slow, intense way.
“Imagine what I can do to you now,” he said.
He moved away from the bed, and she strained against the ropes to see what he was doing. But her bindings were too tight, and she couldn’t lift up enough to watch. She was tied spread-eagle to the bed, her legs parted and ready for him—well, ready if he could make love to her. She was served up for him, unable to refuse to do anything he wanted.
She should be afraid. But she wasn’t. She trusted him. Perhaps more than she had done with anyone but her family. She’d never had anyone else she could trust.
She was ready to do anything he wanted—
He turned, the leather-bound handle of a whip in his hand, the long tail trailing to the floor.
“No,” she gasped. “That I won’t do! I cannot take that.”
“I will be the judge.” He approached the bed. His robe was open, giving glimpses of his muscles as he moved, prowling with confidence. The light played on the ridges of his abdomen, the strong lines of his chest.
Tension raced over her—her muscles tightening.
“I won’t hurt you.” He lifted the whip and let the leather tip trail up her right leg, skimming over her naked thigh.
She hadn’t expected that—a tickling tease over her bare skin instead of a swift, sharp flick of the leather. “Are you going to whip me?”
“This is about teasing you. I want you to delight in what you can feel. I would never hurt you. Trust me.”
The lash of the whip danced up her naked inner thigh. Oh heavens, she shut her eyes and savored.
The whip moved closer to her sex, to her curls already damp with her juices and her plump nether lips. She wriggled on the bed. To feel so much, yet not be able to move—it was thrilling.
He flicked the whip lightly and the leather tail lightly slapped her. There was no force behind it and it didn’t hurt. It made her cunny wetter.
