She actually—
Wanted it inside.
Now, when he put it in just a bit, she moaned. She began to rock backward. Each light push on the wand seemed to make her clit tighten. She was tense everywhere—the tension before pleasure burst.
Oh God. It went in deeply, and she gasped. It felt good. She’d had no idea her bottom could be aroused.
Slowly, he began to thrust it. “It’s all the way in now.” His voice was gruff, strained. “Right to the hilt.”
Oh yes.
“Now we know how much your sweet, plump ass can take. All of it.”
He withdrew it all the way and she thrust back, wanting it in again. He obliged, the thickness of it pressing against the ring of her entrance. It went in with a pop and a sweet sense of fullness. He took his time, slowly pushing it in, withdrawing, then pushing more. Goodness, it filled her so much.
“It is stuffed deep up your arse,” he growled.
Naughty words, and she almost melted in boneless splendor as he began pumping the wand into her. She moaned into the gag. Her rump was completely stuffed. She played with that word in her head. Stuffed. So scandalous, yet so delicious.
His thrusts were long, slow, gentle, but taking her to the brink.
“Rub your clit against the rope,” he commanded. “Come for me.”
She twitched and moved until she made the rope saw against her. Three swift jerks of her body and—
Oh God!
The orgasm took her swiftly, claiming her. Goodness, it was so good. Her body seemed to coil up, then stretch out, her every muscle twitching with the fierce sensation.
Fireworks streaked before her blindfolded eyes, and she screamed with delight into the gag. When it was over, he swiftly cut the ropes at her hands and feet. His capable hands undid the blindfold and gag, and she was free. She blinked, still dazed.
He stood at the end of the bed, his cock straight, thick, engorged. It looked so large she was certain her hand could not encompass it. Like a cutlass, it curved upward, tilting toward his rock-hard stomach.
His hand wrapped around it, and her eyes went wide as saucers. A large, strong male hand gripping an even larger cock. Heavens.
The way he held his shaft surprised her. Almost without mercy. His grip was hard, his face contorted in agony.
Then he stroked, his hand drawing along the thick shaft until he reached the underside of the acorn-shaped end. Beautiful and intriguing, his straight, thick cock seemed to grow out of a nest of black curls. His ballocks hung beneath the curve of that marvelous sceptre, though they seemed to have tightened up and pulled close to his body.
The top of his erection was adorable. Smooth and rounded, like a head looking upward.
His strokes went faster and Ophelia caught her breath. He jerked his cock harshly. Roughly. Almost beating it.
His eyes shut and he drew in a sharp breath. His hand fastened around the rigid length, just below the head. His other hand gripped his balls.
A jet of white fluid spurted out of the top of his cock. It arced like a fountain, spattering his hand, his leg.
He ducked his head, breathing hard.
Then Ravenhunt lifted his head, and the candlelight seemed to glow at her where it reflected on his eyes. He made a sound like an animal’s growl.
His muscles still jerked with his climax, and his hand was sticky with his semen, but all Raven could think about was blood. The rich, teasing scent of it filled his nostrils. He jerked his head to the side as pain shot through his jaw. His fangs lengthened, scraping his lip, but Lady Ophelia had not seen it happen.
He heard her blood rush through her veins. Each pump of her heart pounded in his ears like a drumbeat.
She was so beautiful. And she would taste so good.
He released his cock and lunged for the bed. Startled, Ophelia fell back, sprawling on the white sheets. Her skin was flushed pink with her blood. So much blood—
The curve of her slender neck gleamed like pearl in the light. His fangs brushed her skin. Incredible pleasure shot through him, more powerful than any orgasm. His throbbing cock jerked and went hard instantly.
He wanted more. Needed more. Her blood. All of it.
His fangs scraped, easily gouging tiny holes in her delicate flesh. Two droplets of crimson blood—perfect, round, shining—dribbled out.
“Ow,” she gasped.
The blood drop ran down and touched his lower lip.
Her blood was ambrosia to a vampire like him.
Another welling drop released the luscious scent of her blood to him. He stuck out his tongue and lapped it up.
“What are you doing?” Ophelia protested, and she pushed at his shoulders. Then she squealed and jerked her hands from him. Pain shot through him, but Raven didn’t give a damn. His jaw ached and throbbed, and his head was filled with her smell.
More.
No.
But he couldn’t stop. God, he wanted her blood. She tried to wriggle out from beneath him. He gripped her arms, and dimly he heard her cry out, beg him to let her go. He bent to her neck. His teeth hovered over her skin. One quick plunge, and he could have it all—
He shoved her away from him. She fell to the bed, and her pale, white hand clamped to the wound on her neck.
This was what he was. A killer.
His muscles shook and screamed as he fought the yearning to leap on her and drain her dry. He roared with the agony.
No longer did he care about hiding the truth. She was going to find out he was a vampire. He leaned over her, and she stared up, her pretty mouth open in shock, her blue eyes wide and confused.
“Ravenhunt?”
It was all over.
His mouth was an inch from her neck and he was shaking so hard he thought his body would rip apart.
Damn it, no.
“Sorry,” he whispered in her ear. His muscles cramped, then extended, and pain shot through him. His clothes dropped off. His body changed, twisting and pulsing, as his bones reshaped, his muscles pulled and lengthened, and his back began to spread, until his wings grew and expanded. He rose in the air, spread his wings, and spiraled over her bed. With a harsh beat of his wings, Raven flew out through her door opening, seeking the place in the roof where he could quickly fly out.
He had to feed.
10
From Frying Pan to Fire
H
e’d bitten her.
Shocked, Ophelia pushed herself up on the bed on arms that still burned with the pain of touching him. Her heart pounded in her chest, loud as the hooves of a frightened horse. Her wits spun, and she couldn’t quite believe what she’d seen.
She shut her eyes and opened them again, but there was no Ravenhunt. Only his clothing lay in a pile on the floor.
It had truly happened. She wasn’t losing her mind.
A minute ago, Ravenhunt had lunged over her and pinned her to the bed. He truly did have sharp, curved fangs instead of teeth—fangs he had pushed into the skin of her neck. Pain had hit her, and she’d felt blood spill from the wound. Horror had gripped her. She’d tried to push him off, but he was too strong—
He’d pulled back from her, roaring like a beast. In front of her, he had jerked and thrashed as if in a seizure. Then he’d disappeared and his clothes had dropped to the floor in a disordered puddle, after which an enormous creature, like a bat or a gargoyle, had flown out of the bedroom.
Ravenhunt
had been that gargoyle. He had transformed into a winged creature.
Ophelia jumped off the bed, landing on unsteady legs—legs that propelled her to the bedchamber doorway faster than she could think. She should not be chasing him. It was insane to do it. But she had to know what was going on. Gathering her courage, she leaned out the doorway and peered down the hall.
After having firelight in the room, she couldn’t see a thing. The hall was a stretch of dark, but she heard movement, then her eyes registered the faintest glow of moonlight spilling into the hall from another room.
The small shaft of silvery light reflected on Ravenhunt’s wings.
Her heart skipped a dozen beats as she drew back into the room.
He was flying away from her, leaving her, and it didn’t appear he was going to come back and attack again. Though she couldn’t be sure.
Her fingers went to her neck. Sticky droplets of drying blood perched on top of the wound.
She stared at the red smear on her fingers. Rubbed them together, but that did not make the blood disappear. He had fangs, he had tried to drink her blood, and he could change into a bat.
She had even
wondered
if he could be a vampire and she’d dismissed the idea. She had been so trusting, so naïve, so utterly foolish. Why had she not listened to her instincts? He’d offered freedom and she had grasped at it, desperately and pitiably, trusting everything he’d told her.
For most of her life, she had been held prisoner by people who had lied to her. Even her parents had done so. They had tried to make her believe she would change and would one day be free. Even Mrs. Darkwell had lied—pretending that there was no way Ophelia could escape her power.
Ravenhunt had lied by omission. He certainly had not told the truth and revealed he was a vampire.
It was time she took charge of her life. But what exactly was she going to do? She was trapped in a vampire’s house.
Ophelia leaned on the door frame, trying to think. Why had he spared her? Why had he changed into a bat and flown away?
That
she could answer. He couldn’t kill her yet. He wanted her power. That was all she was worth to him—her horrible power that she’d been cursed with. He must have planned, after he’d taken her power away, to feast on her blood for his dinner.
The warty, evil wretch. The slimy, scummy vulture. The—the
monster
.
Cold fury rushed through her, filling her with determination. Every horrible word she called him gave her strength.
He had gone upstairs. He’d told her the house was a fortress that she could not escape, so where was he going?
Sorry
, he had whispered. Could it be an apology? Could it mean he hadn’t wanted to hurt her? He was flying away—a vampire’s version of fleeing—to protect her. She knew it was because he couldn’t feed from her yet, but it meant he was flying
to
somewhere. Where?
Fired by anger, by the determination to beat him and get away, Ophelia stepped out into the eerie darkness. Running her hand along the wall to guide her, she made her way down the wide corridor.
Perhaps she was heading into danger, but logic told her he intended to fly to somewhere that wasn’t in his house. If he was escaping her, it meant he was leaving her.
When he had gone to rescue her, he’d done it without any clothes. Now she knew why—when he changed shape, his clothes fell off him. That meant he had flown out of his house to find her.
There must be a way out of his house. She had to find it.
At the end of the corridor, the door to the servants’ stairs stood open. The narrow steps disappeared into darkness.
She would go up.
The stairs creaked beneath Ophelia’s feet. When she reached the top, a cold draft leaked out of a doorway, brushing her bare arms. Something was open to let the outside night air inside.
Here, grayish moonlight streamed in through a few dirty windows. It gave enough light to reveal there was no winged Ravenhunt above her. Unless he could perch, curled up, the way ordinary bats did, and he could hide in the rafters.
In the dim light, she saw the attic was divided into two spaces. Cold air wafted through one doorway, which must mean a window was open and that was how he’d escaped the house.
It might be a way out for her.
Except she was four stories above the street.
Following nippy air that made her shiver and hug her arms, she made her way into the quiet room. It was a large space, and she saw at once he hadn’t gone out a window. There were only two and both were shut, encrusted with dust. Beds stood in rows in the dim space, obviously intended for servants, but the brass frames were bare of mattresses. No one had used this room for years.
Something cold and slippery hit her cheek and slid down.
Her scream filled the room. She wanted to run but couldn’t see where to go. She forced her legs to stay put. She couldn’t be a coward now.
Another slippery, horrible thing dropped to her lips—
Water.
It was water dripping down on her.
There had been a light patter of rain earlier, when they’d been in the bedroom. She had barely noticed it. Flushing, she felt stupid remembering how excited she’d been, how aroused and thrilled and happy.
She really had been an
idiot
.
No, she wasn’t a fool. She had been trusting, but was that so bad?
Ophelia looked up. The ceiling was slats of board, aged and dark, against a midnight sky. One more drop fell and she stood under it and saw a change in the blackness above her—a place where she glimpsed gray clouds. A slight grinding sound came from the ceiling, and then the small rectangle of cloudy sky was gone, leaving inky, uniform darkness in its place. No more rain fell.
There had been an opening. Now it was gone.
And so was Ravenhunt.
The key.
Ophelia had stood, staring up at the ceiling for minutes before she remembered Ravenhunt’s robe tumbling to the floor when he’d shifted shape. His clothes must be in his bedchamber. His key was either with his robe or his clothes. He couldn’t have taken one with him when he shifted shape.
It was her way out of this house—out of the nightmare of being a vampire’s prisoner. He wasn’t the hero she thought he was. Instead, he was a monster, an undead demon who fed on blood.