Silken Rapture: Princes of the Underground, Book 2 (11 page)

Why should she care if the man who was holding her prisoner refused to offer the magnificent gift personally?

But even to herself, her disregard sounded hollow. She
did
care that Delraven kept his distance from her.

After they’d toured the small theatre, they’d had lunch poolside surrounded by exotic palms and colorful flowers. The ceiling of the pool was made of hazed glass. Once again, Isabel doubted that she was underground. She would have guessed that above the glass was a pale blue sky with puffy white clouds that occasionally sailed across the radiant orb of the sun.

She’d seen no one all day save Margaret, but again, Isabel had the impression of being observed—not by malicious eyes, but watchful, intense ones. Once, she’d seen a large shape rush through the shadows of the thick foliage surrounding the pool, and amazed herself further by suppressing the exclamation and questions that sprang to her tongue.

Later that afternoon Isabel paused and examined herself in her suite’s bathroom mirror. She’d taken off her cover-up and wore only gold hoops in her ears, a new pair of gloves—these made of a gold, thin synthetic that hugged her hands tightly—and a darling scrap of an emerald green bikini that was offered to her by a straight-faced Margaret that morning. Isabel surprised herself by putting it and the accompanying silk cover-up on without comment.

Why shouldn’t she dress as decadently as she chose? This was all just a great cosmic joke…a dream.

Wasn’t it?

Those clouds seemingly floating across a brilliant sun earlier while they were poolside and supposedly hundreds of feet belowground seemed just as unlikely as Isabel Lanscourt agreeing to wear this revealing bikini.

Her fingers trailed along her neck. She checked for the tenth time that day, but no—there was nothing visible that could explain the slight soreness she felt there.

Her pussy ached too, but in a pleasant, arousing sort of way. Or at least it was pleasant when she didn’t let herself think on the “whys” of the soreness too greatly.

She showered, washed her hair and dried off with the thick, absorbent towels provided for her—these were made of some synthetic that did not disrupt her consciousness with unwelcome, bombarding sensations. Instead, only a few whispery images struck her mind’s eye of some sort of chugging machinery, and then quickly, a hint of a bored, blonde female who smoked unfiltered Benny Hennies maneuvering fabric beneath a bobbing needle. The weak perceptions vanished as quickly as they’d come, as they often did when her fingers and palms touched new synthetics.

She walked into the closet naked.

Margaret had laid out two dozen different gloves for her on a long shelf in the closet. On a whim, she chose a pair of tight, black, wrist-length gloves with a metallic sheen. When she glanced into her empty suite and saw that Margaret had started a fire, she dressed in a light, amber silk gown that fell to her thighs, and a matching robe. In the bureau, she discovered that Margaret had added to her store of lingerie. Her fingertips ran over exquisite silks and laces, only to settle on a tiny thong that matched the amber of her gown.

She slid it over her thighs and yanked up gently on her sex, wincing slightly at the delicious ache wrought by the pressure of the fabric. She’d felt so prickly all day, so aroused, as if her nerves had been awakened and primed in preparation for sensual pleasure.

Margaret had placed shoes and slippers along the shelves—why should she be surprised they were all in the correct size? Perhaps she was growing used to these bizarre coincidences, becoming accustomed to the world of a dream. She passed up the slippers, however, and padded into the bedroom, barefoot. A large black wolf sat like a sentinel to the right of the fireplace.

Isabel shrieked and lunged for the closet, meaning to slam the door shut and block herself from the animal.

“He’s quite tame, most of the time,” she heard Margaret say calmly from behind her. She whipped around a foot away from the closet and stared at the little woman in amazement.

“It’s a wolf,” she said stupidly, pointing at the animal, which stood preternaturally still. The flames from the hearth caused its eyes to gleam and flicker against the backdrop of dark, sleek fur.

“Yes, I realize that,” Margaret commented wryly as she smoothed a snowy white tablecloth over the small table. “His name is Royal. I’m baking a cake, and I won’t be able to join you for dinner, so I brought him along. I thought you’d like some company.”

Isabel stepped closer into the room, her gaze wary on the wolf.

“He’s a pet, then?”

“A pet?” Margaret asked, glancing up from her task of laying out a place setting. “Of course not, he’s just Royal. Come, dear, sit down. I have
Coq au vin
for you, and a nice salad.”

Steam puffed up when Margaret lifted a domed metal cover. Isabel approached the table and sat, her attention drawn by the mouth-watering fragrance of chicken, subtle spices and wine. The wolf’s eyes remained fixed on her.

“Are you sure he’s safe?” Isabel asked as she picked up a heavy silver fork.

“Quite so. Now, are you all right serving yourself if I run off to the kitchen?”

“Believe it or not, Margaret, I’m quite used to feeding myself. I’m also used to eating alone, so you can take your friend over there with you when you go,” she said with a small smile. She lifted the cloth from a basket and inhaled the scent of fresh-baked rolls. She groaned. “Lord Delraven better release me by tomorrow, or I’m bound to gain fifty pounds on your cooking.”

Margaret looked pleased. “Well you could use a little meat on your bones. Now, when you finish with your dinner, just put the tray in the hallway near the door, and I’ll send someone to pick it up later.”

Isabel paused when she saw Margaret hadn’t moved from her position. Her brows quirked in bewilderment when she noticed Margaret looking at the wolf and nodding her head toward the door in a pointed gesture.

The wolf remained unmoving.

“Oh, just leave him,” Isabel said, shaking her head bemusedly. She groaned again when she put the fork in her mouth and the savory chicken practically melted on her tongue. “Make that sixty pounds,” she muttered, her eyes closed in gustatory ecstasy.

Margaret chuckled and bustled out of the room.

She’d eaten nearly half of her meal when she glanced down and jumped in alarm, dropping her knife to the china plate with a clatter. The wolf never flinched, but stared up at her, sitting on his haunches just a foot away from her chair. She’d never seen it move from its position near the fireplace. She saw her own startled expression in the depths of the wolf’s unusual eyes.

“Are you hungry?” she whispered. She picked up her plate and placed the remainder of the chicken on the carpet next to her chair. “There you go.”

The wolf lowered its head, sniffed, straightened and looked at her.

“You must not have very good taste if that doesn’t appeal to you.” She ate a mouthful of salad. They engaged in a staring match while Isabel chewed. Doubts began to rise in her under the animal’s steady stare. Was Margaret entirely certain the creature was safe?

He
was
an unusually large wolf, after all.

She pushed back her plate and turned in her chair. She lifted her hands, and then placed them hesitantly in her lap. She’d been tempted by the texture and gleam of the wolf’s thick fur.

She’d touched dogs and cats before with naked hands. Unlike touching humans, the experience was usually a positive one for her. Something made her wary about petting the wolf, though, despite her strong desire to do so. Perhaps something told her that touching a domestic animal and a wild one was two different things.

Maybe the wolf sensed her ambivalence because it made a whining sound when she stood from the table and walked toward the sitting area before the fireplace.

“What is it?” she asked the wolf as she plopped down in the corner of the deep, cushy sofa. She brought up her legs and placed her cheek on a velvet pillow. The large wolf followed her, spun around when he reached her knees and sat down on his haunches, facing her. Isabel laughed.

“You’re an intense one, aren’t you?”

Her smile faded after a moment. She jerked her gaze off the wolf’s eyes with effort and stared into the flames.

“So how did you end up here, Royal?” she mumbled to herself, growing deliciously relaxed following the good meal and the heat from the flames. “Are you a captive in Sanctuary, as well?”

The wolf’s front paws both shifted forward an inch before he stilled. He gave a low, plaintive growl. She lay there quietly, her limbs feeling heavy, her skin growing warm from the emanating flames. The arousal she’d been experiencing to various degrees all day long seemed to swell now that she had nothing to distract her from it.

She lifted her gown and robe to her belly and lowered her panties to her thighs. She sensed the wolf watching her, but she didn’t acknowledge its attention as she removed her right-hand glove, careful not to touch the rich fabric of the couch. Her cream was thick between her labia when she inserted the ridge of her forefinger there and stirred.

She laid her head back on the pillow, swimming in sensual lassitude. The silence hung thick around her, broken only by the occasional pop from a burning log or the wet sounds her fingers made in her abundant juices as she pleasured herself. In her mind’s eye, a fantasy lover with a shadowed face and burning eyes stared down at her while he fucked her. She was restrained, helpless to prevent his forceful possession. His cock plunged deep in her, deeper than she’d ever experienced in her life. He thrust into virgin territory like a conqueror staking his claim.

She struggled beneath him, not because she wanted to escape, but because his lovemaking was so intense, so powerful, it overwhelmed her.

Shhhh. Do not fight me. You are my prisoner, and I will have you whenever I choose. Now, take your pleasure, lovely.

Climax shuddered through her, delicious and sweet.

She panted in the aftermath. Sweat glazed her body. She stared at the flames, her eyelids heavy. Just before she succumbed to sleep she had the presence of mind to pull on her glove, jerk up her panties and lower her gown, in case Margaret returned. Afterward, she curled up on the soft couch and sank into slumber.

She became aware of two things at once, as though the two phenomena were somehow one—a warm tongue licked and laved her fingers, and her sex ached with longing. In her sleep-addled brain, it was as though the mouth on her fingers was stimulating her pussy, as well. It felt so good, it took her a moment to realize her bare hands were being touched and she experienced only a dark, rich pleasure.

How could that be?

She struggled in the dream—although it really didn’t feel like a dream. It didn’t feel like waking consciousness either, though.

Her fears and doubts were erased completely at the erotic sensation of a sharp incisor gently scraping against the fleshy pad of her forefinger. She whimpered and felt the tooth again, only to be followed by the sensation of being submersed in a warm, sucking mouth. She twisted her hips and climaxed, the quality of her orgasm sharp and tight, making her crave more.

She lay on her belly, her bare breasts and ribs pressed against the plush velvet fabric, her nipples hard and painfully erect. He was behind her—she sensed him perfectly. She wanted desperately to turn around and see her lover’s face, but her neck felt so heavy…and her hands—she pulled on her wrists—they were restrained at her lower back. Her clit twanged in sharp arousal and wild anticipation when she felt his weight press down on the cushions behind her. Her fire-warmed skin thrilled to the sensation of his hands on her hips and bottom, molding her flesh to his large hands.

He spread his hands on her buttocks and parted them. She wiggled in his hold, resisting the power of his gaze. His palm swatting her ass cheek sounded like a cracking whip in the still room. She increased her struggling, but he held her easily.

He spanked her again. She heard him chuckle behind her, the sound both sinister and gently amused at once.

“I can read your mind,” he said in a roughly accented voice. He matter-of-factly lifted her bottom off the couch with his forearm and swatted her again, making the tender flesh sting. “I’m only doing it because you like it.”

The smack of skin against skin stole her breath. She went entirely still when he flexed his arms, lifting her lower body farther, swinging her hips slightly off the front edge of the couch. He held the entire weight of her lower body in his grasp. Her eyes went wide when he held her in place with his forearm. He lifted one foot onto the couch—she could feel his hard, muscular leg next to her hip and outer thigh.

Oh my God
, she thought, eyes going wide, when she felt his cock probing her pussy. He began thrusting, using the power of his arms to take her weight, demanding entry. She cried out in mounting excitement when he pressed the first four inches or so of his length into her, fixing himself in her flesh. He placed both hands on her hips and slid her pussy along the length of the shaft as he flexed forward. The skin of his pelvis slapped against her bottom, his balls kissed her wet tissues, yet he cushioned the weight of his thrust with his powerful hold on her lower body.

The last thing she heard before an orgasmic rush of blood pounded in her ears was his grunt of primal satisfaction.

He howled in pleasure as he erupted yet again at Isabel’s farthest reaches. He couldn’t seem to stop fucking her. It was as if he were determined to make up for all the centuries of abstinence in regard to sexual intercourse in two nights. Just when he thought he couldn’t come another time, he grew hard for her again. He’d filled her with his semen, just as he had last night.

Truth be told, it was as if he was in heat…as if he was mating. That made no sense, however. The Sevliss princes were soulless. They were sterile. They did not take mates. They
could
not.

He had not forgotten Isabel as they’d searched the tunnels this morning for some sign of Morshiel, although he’d successfully set aside the electric memories in order to see to his task. Even his failure at catching the scent of Morshiel and the Scourge had not diminished his need.