Lustfully Ever After (20 page)

Devin kicked the door shut behind us, already stepping out of his shoes. “Just as well we didn’t. Imagine one of them coming back here looking for a place to crash and catching us with our guard down.”

I shivered, first with horror at the thought, then with anticipatory glee when Devin pulled me back into his arms. The kisses turned fierce, as he tried to devour me, while I gave myself to him eagerly. Our hands roamed freely now, fumbling at clothes in a heated frenzy. I unbuttoned his shirt, letting it hang open so my fingers could run over the firmness of his chest, nails raking over his nipples. He growled, tugging at my shirt, yanking it up over my breasts to reveal my white cotton bra. Had I known what was in store, I’d have opted for something a little more decorative, but he didn’t seem to care. Instead, he tugged it up as well, freeing my small breasts, which he cupped in his hands. As he deftly teased my need-stiffened nipples, I moaned, breaking the kiss. It was all I could do to keep a semblance of focus as he caressed me; my own hands resting on his chest, kneading like a cat.

Increasingly tangled in half-removed clothing, we paused to finish the job. His shirt, pants, and socks went flying, leaving him clad in black silk boxers, which did little to hide his erection. Dear lord. Long and lean and well-built, he was a man who kept in shape without going overboard. I think I licked my lips as I eyed him. Meanwhile he busied himself in tugging my shirt and bra off, sending them flying across the room. I helped by shimmying out of my jeans. His desirous look set me ablaze, made my nerves tingle, made me wet with need. He pounced on me, unable to hold back.

We tumbled onto the bed, which creaked in protest under the sudden weight but thankfully held. We ended up in a frenzied tangle of limbs, exploring each other with an initial burst of passion that didn’t seem likely to fade anytime soon. His lips found my neck, my throat, my breasts, leaving a sizzling trail of kisses and nibbles that made me squirm and whimper. His fingers stroked and glided over sensitive skin; I arched and twisted greedily, demanding more. Passion driving me, I tugged at his boxers, sliding them down until his cock sprang free, erect and magnificent. “Please,” I demanded. I was wet, and hot, and empty. I wanted Devin in me. I emphasized my point by stroking him, fingers gliding along the shaft, nails ever so lightly scraping his length.

“Tanya!” he exclaimed raggedly. My panties ripped as he tugged them down. He paused, responsibility conflicting with need, then rolled off the bed with a muttered curse, diving for his pants. I almost cried, waiting for him to get back to me. He returned, foil packet in hand, and I snatched it eagerly, tearing it open. A moment later, I’d rolled the condom down over his cock, rubbing him all the while, marveling at his feel.

He wasted little time in entering, kissing me fiercely even as he guided his length into my heat, fingers spreading the moisture of my arousal, making me ready. As Devin slowly buried himself in me, I lost the power of speech, moaning as my muscles clenched to hold him in place. Then he started a slow, steady rhythm, thrusting with gradually increasing force, filling me each time. As he took me, he met my eyes. Our gazes locked, a flood of emotions poured between us. The spark was undeniable; I knew this was no one-night-stand for either of us to quickly forget afterward.

I dug my nails into his back, pulling him to me, hips thrusting upward to meet his movements. He quickly abandoned his
controlled rhythm for something far more primal; I responded in kind, bodies bucking as we took each other. I came well before he did, an intense orgasm ripping through my core and setting every nerve on fire, a series of ecstatic cries exploding from my lips until he silenced me with a kiss. He continued to pump and thrust, keeping me there on the edge until a second wave of pleasure crashed down, this one encompassing us both. I moaned, he growled; as he came, he held himself deep within me, so I could feel the pulsing release of his own orgasm. Slick with sweat, breath coming hard, we clung together as our motions slowed and stopped. Satiated, I curled up against him, resting a hand on his chest. “Reward acceptable,” I murmured.

It turned out to be a reward in several parts, one that kept us busy until morning crept up on us. We hurriedly—and reluctantly—dressed, gathered up our belongings, and left. I threw the frozen Corbie Boys a one-finger salute of my own on the way out. It was easy to navigate our way out of the Gaslight District in the light of day; only a block separated us from the edge of Caravan Street. We stood on the sidewalk as early morning people passed us by and shared a few more kisses. “You never did tell me what you do,” I said.

“Real estate agent, specializing in properties in the Gaslight District,” Devin admitted. “It’s an…interesting job.”

I nodded. “Tell me about it.”

“I’d love to,” he said. “At length. For a long time to come.” He grinned, slipping an arm around my waist, and I snuggled in. “Just promise me you’ll ask permission before taking my picture.”

I snorted with laughter, extorted a promise to meet him in a few hours after I’d gotten some sleep and a shower, and began the trip back to my hotel. I had the feeling my stay in Puxhill would be a lot longer than originally planned.

 

 

 

 

 

D
o not believe what you hear of me. It was not to preserve my chastity that I was imprisoned here, in this amusingly phallic tower with its sealed entrance and single window. I have not been a virgin for years; even my father knows that. In the cesspit of hypocrisy that is his court, no one cares what goes on behind closed doors. Only appearances matter.

And appearances are what landed me here in this unorthodox prison. I’m confined to this aerie because despite all blandishments and threats, I refused to cut my hair.

In a society like ours, valuing external neatness and order above else, my wild auburn locks are an offense to public decency, or so my royal parents would like me to believe. My father’s crown rests upon a bald pate, shaved daily. My mother and sisters wear pale helmets of curls that are clipped back whenever they grow beyond the earlobes. Every proper citizen plucks, trims, waxes, and shaves to eliminate any hint of the hirsute.

Not I. I love my hair, not just the luxurious tresses that flow
over my shoulders and down to the floor, but the rest, too: my unfashionably bushy eyebrows, the soft tufts gracing my armpits, the wiry tangle that hides my sex. My hair is a source of my power. My father suspects as much. An ancient prophecy says the kingdom shall one day be lost to a red-haired sorceress, and he fears I am the fulfillment of that promise.

He need not worry. I care not for the sort of power he wields. All I want is freedom—to travel the world, to think for myself, to love whom I please. To my father, I am nothing but a bargaining chip in the game of alliances. For that role, my hair diminishes my worth—as do my forthright tongue and legendary temper. I’m pleased to note that I’ve successfully discouraged every suitor the king has attempted to lure into taking me off his hands.

His ambitious Majesty sent his minions to my room while I slept, to shear me by force. When one returned with a broken arm, the other soaked with blood from the scissors embedded in his chest, the king decided prison was the only way to deal with the threat posed by my independence. He spread the tale that the servants had been injured fighting off rapists. Under pretext of guarding his beloved daughter from ravishment, he locked me in this lofty turret and sealed the door from the outside.

To discourage rescuers, his magicians established a tall hedge of rose bushes round the perimeter. My father’s roses are thornless, as his subjects are hairless, but they exude the seductive perfume of forgetfulness. Anyone who ventures within a hundred yards of the tower forgets not only his intention to rescue me but his very name. He wanders, dazed and content, among the scarlet blooms, marveling at the tower looming above him and trying to recall his mission, until my father’s men come to lead him away.

I do not rail against my fate. What would be the point? No, I bide my time in my tower. I gaze out the window, down at my
father’s people who scurry along the roads of the city like ants, mindless and driven. I brush my hair until it shines like a river of copper, spreading in a lustrous flood across the carpet. My tresses reached to my ankles on that day two years ago when I was locked away. Now they are far longer, piled up in burnished coils around me as I sit on my bed, rustling behind me when I pace my cell.

The days pass. My hair grows. I read, or write, or sing to myself the ancient songs my grandmother taught me. I practice her little spells. And I wait for my prince.

He comes to me on the nights of the full moon, nights like tonight. A potent mage, he rides the moon’s pale beams into my room. He sinks to his knees before me and buries his face in the aromatic thicket between my thighs. His tongue is quicksilver and lightning, dancing in my cleft, gathering the nectar that flows just for him. He devours me like a starving man. I lie back upon the bed, pillowed by mounds of hair, spreading myself wide so he can feast upon my flesh.

As he nibbles, strokes, prods, and probes, he kindles two kinds of pleasure. Sharp, electric delight crackles across my moist skin, so intense it is almost pain. My every nerve sparks in response to his knowing mouth. At the same time, a sweet ache swirls deep in my belly, swelling and tightening as he draws me toward release. He bathes the swollen button at my apex in hot saliva until I am ready to boil.

I lace my fingers into his jet curls and pull his face deeper into my cunt. He burrows into my hungry depths, eager to give me what I crave. I struggle against the bonds holding me back from release. I feel them weaken. Arching up, I grind my soaked, hairy pussy against his nose, his chin, his protruding tongue, any hardness he can offer.

His teeth close on my clit, cutting me free to fly. Bliss shudders
through me. I drift weightless, buoyed by joy, among glittering copper clouds. My lover’s strong arms cradle me as I sink back to earth.

My prince smells of horses, leather, sweat, and new-mown hay. His scent makes me want him naked. I tear madly at his jerkin and leggings, seeking his bare, burnt-oak skin. He looses a soundless laugh and rises to strip away his clothing. Saliva pools in my mouth as I watch. He is dark night to my midday brightness, with ink-black hair that tumbles to his shoulders and eyes like chips of obsidian. His leanness counters my ripe curves. My softness balances the taut power in his muscled limbs.

We are two halves of a whole, my prince and I. We both know this. He’s the youngest son of a neighboring king, and mute from birth. That scarcely matters—everyone tells me I talk enough for two. In any case, when we are together, we have little need for words. Like me, he’s a disappointment to his parents—an outcast. He chose to be a wise man rather than a warrior, and his father will never forgive him.

Nude, gleaming like a statue in the moonlight, he stretches out beside me and gathers me into his arms. He claims my mouth in a kiss dark and rich as chocolate. I taste my ocean flavor on his deft tongue. I close my eyes, sinking into his presence, and let him carry me away. His heart beats against mine. Our breathing synchronizes.

He trails one finger along the outside swell of my breast. My nipples snap into tight, hungry points, rasping against his black-furred chest. Of course he does not miss the change. Sliding his hand between our bodies, he pinches one aching nub until I gasp. Then, before I have a chance to recover, his lively fingers are in my sex, delving into the wetness and spreading it along the hard shaft that presses so deliciously against my belly.

Some nights he’ll tease me for hours before he enters me.
He’ll flip me onto my stomach and lick his way down my spine, circling each vertebra, in a kind of delicious torture. At long last, he’ll reach my buttocks, which he’ll kiss and fondle until I’m jerking my ass in his face, pleading for his cock. Even then he might continue to inflame me, pulling my cheeks apart, laving my rear hole, silent laughter vibrating against my sensitized skin.

Tonight is not one of those nights. I sense his need, matching my own. He rolls me onto my back, onto the sleek, soft curtain of my hair, and slides into me in one smooth motion.

It’s always ecstatic, regardless of how often we couple. When his flesh pierces mine—when he fills me, stretching me to the edge of pain but not beyond—I’m ready to drown in pleasure. We move together, arms and legs entwined, like a single being. I don’t know if it’s his power, or mine, but I swear we hear each other’s thoughts. He knows what I want almost before I do.

Some nights he’s rough. Some nights he’s tender. It is always perfect. Tonight there are no games, nothing but pure hunger. He holds himself above me, muscles knotting in his shoulders, and drives his cock into my clinging sex. His strong, even rhythm sends me spiraling toward climax. Each thrust pushes me further up the sweet slope.

I clamp my thighs around his waist, tilting my pelvis to take him deeper. He slows, especially on the upstroke, so that I feel every inch of his hardness moving over my tissues. His earthy scent fills my nostrils. I laugh, drunk with joy, no longer a prisoner. There is no reality but our conjoined flesh and the communion of our spirits.

We rock together, slithering back and forth upon the silky waves of my hair. It surrounds us, caressing our naked skin, as though we coupled among a crowd of lovers. Red-gold strands stick to his sweat-beaded forehead. Vagrant locks tickle my
buttocks. I want to bathe him in the river of my hair—my pride, my power, the pure expression of my womanhood.

I flip our locked bodies over, so that he’s on his back, cradled in the copper tangles, and I’m straddling him, his cock buried deep as it can go. There’s a tug at my scalp, which I ignore. I gather handfuls of shimmering curls, brushing them over his nipples and belly, while I clench my muscles around his bulk. He pulses and swells in response. Pleasure ripples out from my center in strengthening waves.