The Devil of Nettlewood (The Anarchy Tales) (14 page)

Chapter Fifteen

Mitri was about to come apart.

She recognized the tightening of her loins, a spiral of tension that could lead either to frustration or to a blessed release. The latter sensation was an all too familiar one of late but she was not one to complain about a surfeit of carnal satisfaction. In these perilous times, they must all learn to grab at pleasure as they might. Joyous occasions were too few and far between to ever allow even one opportunity to go astray.

She willed—nay, not willed, for she had no determination here—rather, she
allowed
herself to fall into the storm. Her mind a blank, no ability to concentrate, she let the void close over her, suck her into a place where only need existed.

She needed this. As the need came with the warlord attached, she would graciously accept him too. There were compensations to be had for the inconvenience. Other than his lovely thick cock, that is.

His protection.

They were coupling outside the barricade surrounding his fortress, and yet she feared naught. Who else could say that in a world gone mad?

Lord Devil would defend her with his last drawn breath. He would fight for her, die for her too. Not because he loved her, for indeed he did not love her, but because he was a prideful warrior through and through. ’Twould be a blow to his honor to allow an attack on her to succeed.

Which was why she delighted in making jest at his expense.

His conceit made an incredibly large target to poke fun at, far easier to hit than those silly x’s he had scattered hither and yon throughout the clearing.

Mmmmm
. She closed her eyes and let the crest carry her to completion. A delightfully slow and steady culmination.

No slow and steady anything for the overlord. About to ejaculate, he jerked beneath her. Violently.

She enjoyed his violence. He was at his most honest, his most pure, then. Though she did suspect the overlord was hiding something—a softer side, mayhap even from himself. She suspected the earl was not nearly as black-hearted as he pretended.

She let that observation go. At the moment, she concerned herself only with this.

As if she were on a steed, she clamped her knees to his thrusting hips, pinioning him in place, trying to maintain his violent thrusting whilst at the same time trying to slow him down.

No use. The release she sought slipped beyond her reach as her partner came too soon on a grunt and a groan.

Curses! Thwarted!

Selfish,
selfish
royal. Every one of them was the same. Looking only to their own desires, they ignored the existence of anyone else.

He picked up her hand, and then placed a kiss in the center. “I request your humble pardon, Mitri. The fault for your present state of limbo lies entirely with me. In my enthusiasm, I could not stay in beat with you.”

Not entirely selfish then. Not entirely unaware of the existence of others. And though a scoundrel, not an entirely evil one—unless one was averse to splitting hairs.

She was not. Had she not made a pact with the devil?

Lord Spur was not the monster she had originally thought. Though he might not go contrary to his own self-interests and offer a hungry pauper his own meal, neither was he so despicable as to deliberately spill a bowl of thin gruel a starving beggar clutched. She suspected he looked after himself, first and foremost and, in so doing, managed to look after his populace too. Most likely, he did this by accident, not by any contrivance on his part. Nevertheless, the result was the same.

In his company, she felt secure.

A great deal could be said for that. A ruthless leader like him would keep a populace safe, whereas a benevolent ruler like Lord Harold would fall, taking his unprotected subjects with him. Benign neglect was fine in times of peace, but in times of anarchy, an overlord’s harsh reputation best served his peasants.

Her master was a not a man of deep contemplation. As she pondered political philosophy, he sprang into motion. As if she weighed little more than a goose feather, he wrapped two hands at her waist and lifted her from her astride positioning atop him. Jumping to his feet first, he pulled her up to a stand secondarily. Then, leaning down, he brushed some dust from her bliaut.

“There! All is right again. Save—” The soulless devil stared soulfully at her. “I could not withdraw in time. This also will not happen again, I swear. In my own defense, your commandeering the situation caught me by surprise.”

“In the female superior position, once seed is deposited, it drains immediately. Such is its advantage. ” Even as she said so, a viscous stream dribbled down her thighs.

He scooped up his pile of garb from the ground. “I have never been someone’s wish before. Your choice of prizes honors me.”

As he hobbled into his attire, she had all to do not to laugh. And not at his expense. This easy camaraderie between them must be what true happiness felt like…

She quickly dismissed the notion. Forming an attachment to this royal would be unwise. To do so would be to ask for a broken heart.

Instead—as though this thing between them was no more profound than an afternoon’s romp in the hay between a milkmaid and a shepherd lad—she said flirtatiously, “Allow me to honor you again, Master.”

“Are you saying what I think you are saying?”

“Put away the arrows and daggers, just for a day, and let us be together, closed off from the perils of warfare. Everyone needs an escape from anarchy, a spot to find peace in the midst of turmoil, every once in a while.”

“A tantalizing proposal, what you suggest. And I suppose I do have an oversight to make up to you. I was remiss in my…er…archery just now. In my excitement, I could not control the speed of my…er…arrow’s release from its…er…quiver.”

His naughtiness was infectious. His boyishness swept away.

Until he remembered his exalted position in the fiefdom and her own lowly status.

“Come along, wench,” he said imperiously and swatted her posterior. “Here on out, no more surprises. Or suggestions. Know this—if you stay, ’tis by your own doing. And if you do stay, you serve me.
My
whim,
my
caprice,
my
pleasure. Not yours.”

And her carefree moment fled, lost in a bargain she had made to ensure her sister’s safety and then distorted to satisfy her own lust.

She would stay, for she was not yet ready to say the words: “Set me free.”

Soon. She would say the words soon. For now, this arrogant and dominant lord held an unholy supremacy over her. For now, she was his carnal slave.

Silence reigned between them as he took her back inside his keep. She went willingly up the rough-hewn plank stairs to the second-floor sleeping quarters. This time, though, rather than take her to the quarters she shared with items in storage, he escorted her to his solar.

So lost in him was she that she hardly noted the surroundings. Aye, the space was grand and furnished in heavy oak pieces, with silver fox furs and purple velvets strewn all about, and the arched ceiling soared like the interior of a cathedral, but ’twas him who held her attention. When he tore her new silk garb from her trembling form, renting the luxurious and costly fabric as though ’twere a pauper’s sack, she could hardly breathe.

By his caprice, he might do the same to her. He might tear her up and then cast her aside. He might very well destroy her. All serfs were expendable, their worth assigned by their owner. So long as she stayed, this royal owned her. So why stay?

She stayed because she could not leave.

Rather than save herself, she batted her moth’s wings ever closer to the flame. Knowing firsthand as she did the damage a fire could do, still he drew her. She was seeking pain, she supposed, seeking her own annihilation.

Naked, she clasped his head to her breasts as he nuzzled her nipples, nuzzled and suckled and finally bit into her sensitive flesh. Not gently. Not delicately. His teeth marked her, and she arched into him in acceptance of her own conflagration.

“Aye aye aye,” she sobbed, the release that had eluded her at the target range finding her now. The honey of her renewed arousal came first, followed by her body going taut in expectancy, and then it happened. Like hot, molten beeswax surging inside her, pleasure slammed into her belly, pounding her like a clenched fist.

And still he kept marking her with his teeth. Their scrape made the tight skin of her areolas raw. Inflamed.
Afire.

In her extremity, she took a ragged breath. And let him. Simply let him.

He was hurting her now. Expertly hurting her. Cruelly hurting her. Would his teeth rip her nipple? Draw blood? Would a thin stream of crimson drip off the tips of her breasts to land in the plain brown nest of her pubic hair?

His head lifted, and he stared her down. “Shall I?”

“Aye,” she sobbed. “Do it. I want it done.”

But nay. The bite never sharpened. There was no nick, only bliss washing over her as she climaxed a second time.

Whilst she trembled and shook, he stepped away from her, stood back a pace or two, and contemplated her.

She refused to cower. Refused to run for cover. Refused to wind her arms around her nudity. Refused to cross her arms over her exposed breasts. Refused to hide his teeth marks on her flesh.

“Your blood is the same color as my own for all that you are peasant born,” he said hoarsely. “And I would sooner draw mine than yours.”

Growling like an animal—a wolf, mayhap—he sniffed the air as a predator would, and stalked back to her.

“Your slit tempts me,” he said, his unblinking stare fixed on her thighs.

She tossed her head unrepentantly and splayed her legs, letting him see her most private part. They had crossed the line, and there was no going back now. “My body belongs to you. You are its true master. Do with me as you will.”

He did. With a jerked nod, he half carried, half pushed her backward until her spine slammed into the cool hardness of the stone wall. Her breasts lifting and falling with her excitement, she forced herself to go pliant in acquiescence as he hiked up her leg, pushed her knee high, and pressed his hand, the knuckles bent, against her notch. His thick digits exerting enormous pressure there at the inlet to her body, he pressed. Only a bit. Only so her distress increased a hundredfold.

“Does this pain you?” he asked.

Not solicitously. Not this time. His romantic sentiments had been fleeting at best, if ever they had existed at all outside her imaginings, and were now consigned to the past. His was merely a question, stated like any other question, such as an inquiry over the weather.

“Aye,” she answered in the same matter-of-fact tone.

“’Tis tight, your cunt,” he offered and reached his free hand for her bosom, stroking his thumb possessively over the one he had bitten whilst continuing to press,
press
inwardly against the tender folds. “You are not accustomed to such activities.”

She shuddered convulsively, need encroaching, need making allowances for discomfort, indignity, humiliation, shame…

Joy. Unlike she had never known.

Which allowed her to forgive the rest. Even crave the rest.

He had spread her body wide open. His fist pinned her to the stone wall. And he was fondling her teeth-marked nipple as he would. Whichever way he would, even roughly, even if the rough fondling hurt her.

It did hurt her.

To say the least, she was not accustomed to such treatment. Yet he made her hunger for the treatment. Her nipples elongated. That needy space between her split legs gnawed. Wet arousal saturated her loins and coated his scarred knuckles. Her fleece was soaked with the evidence of her unwholesome desire. Oh, how she wanted the pain he inflicted on her.

She shrugged, and her bare breasts shifted, the nipples tight. “I am not your lady,” she said, stating the obvious. “For as long as we are together, you have leave to treat me as you please, even if it pleases you to treat me like a strumpet. And I have leave to depart anytime I please.”

This assertion seemed to make up his mind.

“Nym,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Come here at once. Bring oil.”

His squire must have been posted directly outside the portal, for within a relatively brief spate of time, he entered the solar carrying a metal tincture.

The oil no doubt.

With a respectful bow to her, he made to hand the requested item to Lord Devil.

Her Master shook his head in the negative. “Prepare her, would you, Nym?”

“For what, my lord?”

“Fisting.”

“Very well. Which inlet?”

“The cunt this time, I should think. Her bottom will come later.”

“As will she, I imagine, my lord.”

The warlord sent his vassal a quelling look of censure. “Keep to quiet, Nym, or taste my whip upon your back.”

The squire nodded.

“Shear her wool first,” the Devil instructed. “No compromise. I would have her curls gone, as enticing as they are, so I might see her rosy cunt at a glance. Do it as you would a restive ewe.”

’Twas true, she was restive. In fact, she struggled against the lord’s hold. Though willing, this was all new to her, and though needy, she was too sensible not to be wary. She who had never been even partially ungarbed before in a male’s presence was now not only entirely naked, but splayed before two very masculine men. And the overlord had made her body not only available but had placed her wantonly on display. To Nym. To any other guard or vassal in the fiefdom. The portal was ajar. A steady stream of male servants and attendants and militia walked by the entrance to the noble’s heavily guarded solar. Some outside in the hallway must surely have looked in. Naturally this disconcerted her.

Unfortunately the same circumstance also excited her.

An excitement tempered by the not so inconsequential issue of her own self-preservation.

Her vulnerability was never so apparent as when Nym unsheathed his dagger and came at her, weapon drawn. She bucked wildly then and tried to scoot out of harm’s way as the blade approached her loins.