With his lashes low over his eyes, his mouth tense, Raven stroked the end of the whip’s handle over her nether curls. The leather barely grazed them, and tickled her so she giggled and gasped at the same time.
“You see you can trust me,” he said, his voice rich as sin. “All I want is for you to know pleasure—the pleasure you’ve never been able to have.”
He slid the whip’s firm handle between her curls and across her aching clit.
She screamed in surprise. Hot sensation streaked through her.
Heavens, it felt good.
She arched her hips up, seeking to press her clit against the handle again. He let her pump against it, pleasuring herself for a mere moment, then he moved it away. She moaned and he smiled. The smile of a man who knew he was in control.
Teasing her, he traced the damp tip over her tummy. She trembled, wriggling on the bed. His robe was partly open, unbelted. Giving teasing, thrilling glimpses of his gorgeous naked form—his taut stomach, his broad chest, his thick, enormous erection.
Amusement glittered in his eyes. Slowly, the end traced her navel. The whip coasted so lightly over her belly, it was as if a flame teased her skin. Focused on her beneath thick lashes, he reached her breasts with the whip. He traced them in a slow, light spiral.
A flick of his wrist and he brought the handle of the whip against the underside of her right breast in a quick, abbreviated tap. Her breast bounced. Goodness, the rise and fall, the bounce of their weight was as hot, as pleasurable as being caressed.
He tapped her breasts, playing with them, making them jiggle heavily. Ophelia closed her eyes, whimpering with delight. It felt so good.
She wished he could do this with his hands—
He couldn’t. She must stop wishing for what she could not have.
Her lids lifted, her eyes opened to his smile. Roguish. A tease of dimples, beautiful curved lips. “Nipples now,” he said.
She gasped before he even touched them.
Flicking the whip’s handle, he strummed it over her nipples.
“Oh goodness!” She arched off the bed. Goodness was meaningless. It was glorious. Pleasure shot to her cunny, almost exploding there.
He tapped harder, right atop her nipples.
Too much!
She’d been on the brink, but the shock of the taps pulled her back. She let him do more, then begged him to stop, for after a few gentle strikes with the whip, her nipples were large, engorged, so sensitive she was sobbing. “I think I want to stop,” she began.
“But I’ve only just started,” he said. But he did stop.
He leaned to whisper in her ear, “What would you fantasize about, Ophelia? Close your eyes. Would you like to be in a harem, where the handsome Turkish prince uses you for his decadent pleasure? While he ties you up with silks on plump cushions, blindfolds you, then drives his cock deeply into you?”
“I don’t have such dreams—”
“I know you do,” he said, and she squirmed. How could he know? Was it so obvious on her face?
“Perhaps you fantasize about a castle, where you are chained in a dungeon by a handsome duke who is determined to ravish you.” The very tip of the whip brushed her nipples again, barely a touch, but so wonderful. “How would you want to be ravished, Ophelia? By more than one man? Your duke and your Turkish prince could take you together.”
She had to keep her eyes shut. Wild images played in her head. She couldn’t look at him while she was thinking these things.
Something smooth and thick pressed to her nether lips. She opened her eyes. He held the ivory wand he’d used on her. Slowly he plied it between her wet nether lips.
The thick ivory slid in. “I wish it was you,” she whispered. “I want your cock—” She couldn’t believe she was saying such things, but she couldn’t bear wanting him and not having him. “It’s so long and so beautiful and I want it inside me so much.”
“Shh. Let me make you come.”
With long, slow strokes, he slid the wand deeply inside her. Filling her. He tapped her clit with the whip handle as he did.
“Three men making love to you,” he murmured. “One thick cock deep in your cunny, thrust inside by a man eager to make you come. Another man suckling your beautiful breasts. A third man to slide his prick inside your sweet, voluptuous bottom—”
“Oh goodness!” she cried.
Everything came together at once—his wicked stories, his naughty games with her clit, the thrusts of the wand. Ophelia pulled hard at the velvet ropes as the orgasm swelled inside her. She tore at them as she exploded.
Pleasure commanded her now, and she surrendered to it. Her rump bucked up, the bindings at her wrists and ankles strained, and she cried out to the heavens.
His lips touched hers, and it seemed so right that their mouths sizzled together.
The restraint of her arms vanished—he’d cut the ropes—and her arms flew free. She wrapped them around him. She shouldn’t, but she wanted one precious second to hold him tight.
While she came and came and came.
She let him go.
Breathing hard, Ravenhunt moved to her feet. He held a small dagger and he sliced the velvet ropes. Her legs relaxed bonelessly into the soft bed. With swift, spare motions, he untied her ankles, tossing the cut ropes away. Then he undid the bonds at her wrists.
She looked at him shyly, shut her eyes, looked around the room, and awkwardly met his steady gaze once more.
It had been thrilling. He’d fed her the wickedest fantasies. Just imagining what he’d said had been thrilling. Though in truth, she wasn’t really picturing three men. She was thinking of Ravenhunt doing all those things to her.
“What are you thinking, my dear?” he asked. Crinkles touched the corners of his eyes, lines bracketed his lips as he smiled.
That he was the only man she ever wanted to dream about. But she couldn’t say that. This was about sex, not about love. She was perilously close to saying she loved him—but how could she yet, when she barely knew him? How could she when she knew all of this was only to take her power?
He helped her sit up, then released her hand, of course. “I guess I do like being tied up,” she whispered.
Her words almost crippled him with arousal.
Raven yearned to touch her. He’d never wanted to caress, stroke, and fondle a woman more. She gazed up at him with sweet innocence, and wild carnal thoughts ripped through him.
He wanted to take her now, while she was slick with her pleasure. Give her climax after climax, until she almost fainted in ecstasy.
Not yet.
She rubbed her wrist. The ropes had been soft velvet but had left pinkish rings around her wrists. He lifted her right wrist to his lips, ready to kiss the place where her skin was marred—
Pain shot through him—he expected it—but she gasped in shock. Her face contorted in pain. At once, he released her. If it would only hurt him, he would have kissed those marks tenderly, as if to make them better.
But his touch hurt her.
Guidon’s book had talked about that. As Raven began to attack her power—as he began to prepare her body to surrender it through sex—she would experience the pain of her power.
Damn, he couldn’t hurt her. The book had said the pain would eventually stop. If they took their sexual games far enough, they would both escape the pain.
