Dark and Stormy Knight (8 page)

“How do you like the wine, Miss Brown?”

As the fantasy evaporated, she picked up her napkin and dabbed her damp décolletage. “I would enjoy it more, my lord, if I knew how you planned to punish me for what you witnessed in the stable.”

“Patience, Miss Brown.” He sipped his wine and licked the flavor from his lips in a way that made her ache. “All will be revealed in due course.”

Mr. Brody brought in a tureen and proceeded to ladle cream-colored bisque into the gold-rimmed china bowls before them. The smell of seafood reminded her she was hungry for more than sex.

She kept her focus on her bowl until the butler left the room. Risking a glance at Sir Leith, she found him staring at her. Her face heated as their gazes met with an electrical charge.

Pulling her gaze away, she picked up her spoon and dipped the bowl into the soup. Acutely aware of his every movement, she slurped the hot liquid, which tasted richly of crab, sherry, and cream.

“I want five million,” he said, “plus final approval of the script and the lead actors.”

She choked, spewing soup across the table.

“That’s right, Miss Morland. I know who you are and why you’re here. I found your backpack, you see.”

Gwyn was stunned speechless. That he had her backpack was both good and bad. Good because she hadn’t lost her things, including the picture of her parents. Bad because he’d learned her reason for being there before she was prepared to show her hand. Plus, he’d seduced her knowing all the while what she wanted from him, which seemed underhanded somehow. Not that she’d been all that above board herself.

“Why are you bringing this up now?”

“It seemed a good idea to get our business out of the way before we become lovers.”

She quivered at the word
lovers
. At the moment, she wanted him more than she wanted the film rights, but she also wanted him to like her script.

“Did you read it?”

“I did.”

“And…?”

“If I thought it was shite, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, now would we?”

She met his gaze, still smoky with desire. “Pounds or dollars?”

His eyes hardened. “Is that a trick question?”

“What do you mean?”

“If I say I meant dollars and you’re willing to pay pounds, I’m selling myself short.”

Mr. Robbins had authorized her to go as high as seven million pounds. She tried to think what her father might have done in the same situation. He’d always been fair when negotiating with writers, always put people before the bottom line. Others in the industry called him soft because of his equanimity and maybe they were right. He’d certainly been weak when it came to his second wife. Maybe if he’d shown more mettle he’d still be alive today.

“Three million pounds.”

“Four, plus final script approval.”

Guilt and triumph warred within her as she drank her wine. If she agreed, Mr. Robbins would be proud, but her father wouldn’t be. And neither would she. Sir Leith might never write another book and the studio would probably make record profits on the film.

“Before I give you my answer, tell me why you’ve never written another book.”

He heaved a sigh and shook his head. “It isn’t from lack of trying, believe me.”

“You have writer’s block?”

“Aye.” His voice was clipped. “A crippling case, as it happens.”

She glanced around at her sumptuous surroundings. “How can you afford all this?”

“I can’t.” Pain flashed in his eyes. “And the castle and my staff are suffering for it.”

“You’re broke?”

“Aye. And in debt to my ears. I lost my investments in the banking meltdown.” He set his big, warm hand atop hers, and looked at her with pleading eyes. “I can’t lose Glenarvon, Miss Morland. I just can’t. It’s all I’ve got left of who I was.”

Her heart ached for him. The poor man. He’d survived the slaughter at Culloden only to be enslaved by faeries and, upon his return, learned of his wife’s vicious murder. He’d lost everything that mattered to him, every scrap of who he’d been—except Glenarvon. And now, cruel fate had conspired to take that from him, too. She couldn’t live with herself if she cheated him out of his due.

“Six million. Plus final script approval.”

Withdrawing his hand, he finger-raked his hair. “That’s very generous of you. And very kind.”

She smiled. “It’s the least I can do to repay you for saving my life.”

He looked at his soup. “I didn’t do it to profit.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I’d think less of you if you had.”

Gaze still downcast, his countenance gravened. “Don’t think too highly of me, Miss Morland. It’s not in your best interest.”

“I can decide what’s in my own best interest, thank you very much.”

Arching an eyebrow, he met her gaze. “Can you? I’m not so sure.”

Her smoldering indignation caught fire. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He emptied his glass, grabbed the ewer, and glanced toward her half-empty goblet. “Do you fancy a topper?”

“I don’t know,” she said hotly. “It might not be in my best interests to get plastered in the company of a pervert.”

“It isn’t, I assure you.” He filled her glass anyway, and then his own. “And as for the pervert remark, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, eh?”

Gwyn gulped her wine. She didn’t want to get drunk, just to take the edge off her inhibitions. She was sick to death of shrinking from fun. She’d never roller skated or ridden a bike. She was too afraid of falling, of getting hurt. Her only adventures had been the ones she’d read about.

Now, here she was with a gorgeous, yet dangerous, man—the embodiment of the fictional character she’d fantasized about for years. Granted, she’d never seen herself strapped to a table in his BDSM dungeon, but she was more than willing to expand her horizons.

To a point.

“Do you promise not to hurt me?”

“It’s not about inflicting pain, Miss Morland.”

“No?” She boldly held his gaze. “Then what is it about?”

“Self-control.”

She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“You’re not meant to.”

The butler came in with the main course and dished the food onto their plates. When Sir Leith began to eat, she followed suit. The pheasant tasted a great deal like chicken, though with a denser texture and gamier flavor.

“I’ll e-mail Mr. Robbins tomorrow about our deal,” she said. “We do have one, right?”

“Aye, lass. We have a deal. As long as my barrister finds nothing objectionable.”

She took a gulp of wine. She’d wanted this so badly for so long and yet it felt anti-climactic somehow. Deep down, she knew why. She’d pursued a career in filmmaking because of her father. He’d been taken from her too soon and following in his footsteps was her way of holding onto him. A ghost, however, couldn’t keep her any warmer at night than her books and movies.

Neither could success.

But the man beside her could—if she played her cards right. What was a future in Hollywood compared to the magical life she could have here with him?

Oh, dear. She pressed a hand to her breast. She was galloping ahead of herself again. Time to pull back on the reins. She was ready to marry the guy, and they’d barely finished the main course.

Mr. Brody returned to clear the dishes. As he left the room, Sir Leith rose from the table, picked up his goblet, and took the wine to the fireplace. Gwyn turned in her chair so she could see him. He was looking at the portrait of his wife.

“You resemble her a bit, you know,” he said

“Do I?”

“Aye. Something around the eyes. And your size. She was a wee sprig of a lass as well.”

Gwyn did not know how to feel about what he’d just said. She wanted him to want her—but for who she was, not because she reminded him of his dead wife.

Leith’s gaze might have been fixed on Clara’s portrait, but his thoughts were on the lass at the table. There was something about her that drew him in, all the more reason to take pains to see her solely as a sexual object. He’d expected her to meet his proposal with considerable reluctance, not acquiescence, and now felt conflicted.

On the one hand, he wanted, rather ruthlessly, to make her his plaything, to tease and toy with her like a cat with a mouse. On the other, he must tread carefully, must keep his heart locked up tight, must not let her get under his skin the way he’d allowed Faith to do.

That wouldn’t be easy, given how badly he wanted her. Even now, he yearned to sink his fangs into the pulsing vein on her neck while sinking his cock into the juicy tautness of her muff. Just thinking about it damn near made him come off.

Clenching his fists, he blew out a breath. “What are your hard limits?”

She cleared her throat. “That’s difficult to say until I know what you intend to do.”

He took a minute, biting his lip as the stable fantasy replayed in his mind. “May I spank you?”

“No.”

Damn. “May I tie your hands?”

“Yes, as long as the restraints aren’t too tight.”

Good. Bondage was non-negotiable. “What about suspension?”

“I’m not sure what that is, but I’m open to anything that isn’t painful.”

He looked at her, a single eyebrow raised. “May I insert things into your orifices?”

Her face colored. “What kind of things?”

“Plugs, dildos, fingers, and my cock, of course.”

She swallowed and fingered the indenture at the base of her throat. “Which orifices?”

“Are any off limits?”

“I’m not crazy about anal sex, but I’m willing to let you go there if you wear a condom and promise to stop if I don’t like it.”

“You have my pledge.”

Her gaze trained on his. “Is this a one-way street or do I get to stick things in your ass, too?”

He laughed, equally surprised and delighted by her boldness. God, she was lovely. Those liquid eyes of hers, so much like his Clara’s, could easily lay waste to his soul. “When it’s your turn to call the shots, you can do whatever pleases you, as long as you stay in character and don’t get too intimate.”

She continued fingering the notch at the base of her neck, which was driving him wild with desire. “Define too intimate.”

“Kissing on the mouth.”

Her lips pinched and pursed. “I can’t kiss you?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I just told you. It’s too personal.”

Her gaze remained on his face—probably for the best. He was so hard for her his cock hurt, a condition his breeches failed to conceal.

“How about oral sex? Is that allowed?”

Lust coiled inside him like an angry rattle snake. “Allowed and encouraged.”

“Will you do it to me?”

“Just say the word.”

He flicked his tongue teasingly against his upper lip. A blush tinted her cheeks, charming him further. She was inexperienced, but had curiosity and courage, two qualities he prized in a sex partner.

“Do you ever have normal sex?” she asked.

“Define normal.”

“No whips, chains, or pseudonyms.”

“No.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Because it’s too intimate?”

“Exactly.”

Sweeping off the chair in a rustle of petticoats, she came to stand before him.

He stiffened, afraid of what she might do. Or, rather, what he might. Every cell burned with the desire to take her into his arms and kiss that sweet, cherubic mouth of hers. Battling the urge, he turned back to Clara’s portrait.

She set a hand on his shoulder, rattling the lock on his heart. God, how he longed to know the joy of love again, but, thanks to that bitch’s curse, that could never be. Wishing and hoping only made it harder to accept his miserable lot.

“You shouldn’t touch me,” he said tartly. “Unless we’re in character.”

“Fine.” She slipped her arms around his waist and pressed her face against his back, all but undoing him. “I’m Miss Brown, and you’re the sadistic laird.”

He clenched his jaw and fisted his hands. God help him. There was still dessert to get through before he could gird himself against her charms. How would he ever hold out that long?

Wait a minute. Maybe, he didn’t have to. A quick cast change might allow him to have his cake and eat it, too.

“I have another idea,” he announced. “You’re still Miss Brown, but I’m now the footman you’ve been leading on with your wanton ways. And you’ve just come in while I’m clearing the table, hoping to catch me alone, which you’ve done. The butler is due back any moment, so the risk of discovery is great. We must, therefore, be quick about it.”

Spinning in her embrace, he took hold of her shoulders and turned her toward the table. At arm’s length, he ushered her toward the unset end.

“You’re seriously going to take me over the table? What if Mr. Brody should come in?”

“He’ll either stay and watch or turn and go.”

“I’m not sure how I feel about an audience.”

“Fine,” he said, bemused. “If he should come in, I’ll shoo him away. Now, bend over, you saucy minx, so I can have my way with you.”

As she set her elbows on the table, he took hold of her skirts with both hands and flung them over her head. The bounty before him made his erection strain against his breeches.

With trembling hands, he unfastened his fly. Taking hold of his cock, he rubbed the aching head with his thumb, smearing the dewdrop of pre-ejaculate.

God, she had a beautiful ass. He docked his glans against her anus, and he removed the French Letter from his waistcoat pocket. After tearing open the stubborn packet with his teeth, he unfurled the latex casing down his length. With a couple of strokes for good measure, he positioned himself at her beckoning entrance. His erection pulsed with impatience, but he held back.

“Beg me for it,” he instructed huskily. “Tell me how you yearn to feel my big, throbbing cock stretching your wee snatch to its limits.”

“Take me, claim me, make me yours.”

His lips compressed. The line lacked the zeal he’d hoped for, but so be it. He’d play the acting coach later. Right now, he burned to be inside her. With a forward thrust, he took the plunge. Pleasure gushed through him as soft, slippery heat swathed his length. His breath caught. Biting his lip, he pushed deeper, burying every millimeter.