She thought she might set the bed on fire. “I’ll take you, too, Whit. Hard and rough.” Exactly how she wanted it, how she wanted him.
His eyes flared. “Let me give you this.” He released her wrists, leaving a sweet throb, but before she could move, he trailed kisses down her stomach. Pushing herself up onto her elbows, she watched him widen her already open thighs. The bedclothes rustled as he shifted to kneel between her legs.
He gripped her hips, and as she watched his large, clever gambler’s hands holding her tightly, her arousal climbed even higher. For a moment, he simply knelt there like a pagan about to perform a holy ritual, his gaze on her devouring, possessive.
He bent forward, and his breath came hot and quick against her wet, intimate flesh. With his gaze fixed firmly on hers, he put his mouth on her.
The sound that ripped from her throat was unlike any other she had ever made. A long, husky cry. He kissed her deeply, learned her with his tongue, tracing her folds. Around, and within. He consumed her, licking, stroking, softly at times, before becoming greedy and demanding. His greed spread to her. She grabbed his head, and she held him to her. Whenever his touch lightened, she fisted her hands and pulled on his hair, enough to hurt. Yet he fed on that pain, groaning, lapping at her readily.
Behind the fire of her closed eyes, she felt him slide two thick fingers into her passage. He circled and sucked at her pearl as his fingers moved within her. Stretching her, filling her. Two thrusts of his fingers and she came, screaming.
Yet he wasn’t finished. He continued his onslaught, and his tongue joined his fingers within her passage, circling inside her.
“Oh,” she panted, “
mi Duvvel
—” Another climax exploded through her, brilliant and decimating.
Even as she continued to find her release, he sucked harder at her clit, then pulled back.
“Are you coming for me?” His voice was deep, hoarse. “Are you, Zora?”
“Yes,” she moaned.
“Again. Come again.” He would brook no refusal.
Her climax had leveled her. She draped over the mattress, her hands falling limply to her sides. She barely knew herself. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can,” he said, edged and unyielding. “You can and you will. Come for me. Or must I punish you, as you punish me? I think I must.” He withdrew his fingers and tapped them sharply against her agonizingly sensitive clit.
Pain and pleasure tore through her like a lightning storm. She moaned.
“You desire more punishment, my wild Gypsy? I shall give you more.” He lightly slapped her bud. Once, twice. Again. She lost count—knowing only that fiery pleasure filled her beyond reckoning. Her hands found her breasts, and she tugged on her nipples, rolling them between her fingers. All the while, Whit continued his erotic onslaught with his hands and his words, telling her in a rough, low voice how delicious she was, how she was
his
, and he demanded that she never stop coming, that she never leave this bed. The way he touched her, the way he spoke, she didn’t think she ever
could
stop climaxing, for it had her in its teeth now, devouring her.
She screamed so loudly her throat hurt. Yet even that added to her pleasure, and her orgasm rolled on and on, seemingly without end.
Some time later, she surfaced, dazed, wrapped in a thick cocoon of repletion. Barely able to lift her head, she saw Whit poised above her. She might be satisfied, yet he was anything but. His face, his body—everything was tight and hard. Especially his cock, dark and thick, straining upward. Wanting her.
She thought her arousal entirely spent. But as she witnessed Whit’s desire, hers renewed itself.
“Cannot wait.” His voice was guttural, throbbing. He was braced on his forearms, his legs between hers, caught in a moment of suspension before the storm. “Can’t be gentle.”
“Don’t.” She hooked her heels around the hard muscles of his calves.
He groaned her name, and plunged into her. White light flickered behind her eyes as he filled her completely. They each took a moment to feel one another, her all around him, and him deep within her, stretching her. Fortunate that she was so wet for him, for he was thick and large. All she felt was pleasure. All she knew was him.
He thrust. Hard. The massive bed actually shook. Each glide back and thrust forward sent waves of ecstasy through her. She gripped his shoulders, but he demanded more. He grabbed her wrists and pinned down her arms, so that he was fully atop her, their arms outstretched as if in flight.
Held down by his hands on her wrists, the weight of his body, the thickness of his cock. It felt ... wondrous. The dusting of hair on his chest abraded her breasts as he rocked into her. She used what leverage she could to meet his thrusts, her own hips moving in eager rhythm.
As he promised, he was rough, pounding into her almost violently. And it was good. So very, very good. All it would take was a few more strokes, and she would come again.
Yet he stilled.
“Don’t stop,” she gasped.
He shook his head. “Not enough. Too soft.”
She made a noise of loss and complaint when he withdrew and rose up from the bed. He cupped her elbows and brought her to standing. Her complaints died, though, when he led her to the wall. This, she understood. He positioned her so that the wall braced her back. His arms came around her, lifted her up. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, her legs around his waist.
With a fierce growl, he thrust up into her. The wall against her back kept her supported, far more than the soft mattress. He plunged into her, again and again, savage.
“Yes,” she panted. “Let go, Whit. Don’t hold back.”
He growled as her words broke the last threads of his control. His thrusts grew quicker, ferocious. One of his hands cupped the back of her head, protecting it, as the other held her hips to the wall. Despite his precautions, she knew she would be bruised, but she did not care. Feral, he drove into her. She dug her nails into his back, and came apart with a climax as expansive as destiny.
A groan tore from him as he came. His body clenched, every muscle becoming rigid. For many moments, they were like that, locked together as his climax went on and on. He pressed his head into the damp, warm crook of her neck, gasping his release.
Zora held him close as shudders wracked him. Sunshine poured through the windows, and she shut her eyes to its brilliance, lost in the radiance she and Whit had created.
Chapter 15
The day passed unlike any other. Zora knew only the bed, and Whit’s body, and her own body. They slept. They made love. Mostly in bed, but they made use of other pieces of furniture, too. A bureau. A long sofa. Sometimes they made love with an aching slowness, other times with that hard, furious heat that rose up so easily between them. They would collapse in a tangle of damp limbs, the bedposts still shaking around them like a storm-wracked forest. Sleep overtook them. Then one would wake, touching and stroking the other, and the fire would renew itself all over again.
Wafodu guero
and the
geminus
were still out there. She and Whit had to seize what pleasure they could in the time they had left. After building for so long, they needed to release the desire between them. As such, they sank into an undulating sea of pleasure, knowing that they would have to surface at some point. But not just yet. Their every touch was imbued with urgency.
A tray bearing bowls of food showed up on a table. Zora didn’t see anyone come in to leave it, but then, when she did succumb to slumber, it was deep and dreamless. Whole processions of drum-banging musicians could pass through the bedchamber and she would not notice. It was either Whit, or sleep, and once, both together.
If not for the heavy slackness of her arms and legs, and the constant, pleasurable ache in her quim, she might have thought it all a dream. Surely nothing in her life compared to this.
As the sun began to lower, deepening the sky’s hue, she and Whit lay upon the bed, naked, with the tray of fruit, cheeses, and sugar-laden cakes between them. Glasses of wine glowed as red as blood. The sheets piled around them in soft white hillocks, and his body formed a long, hewn shape amongst them, a shape she could not help herself from admiring.
“Such temptations.” She plucked a grape from a pale china bowl. “Luxury, and you. Coaxing me to stay like this, here in your home, in your bed. Forever.”
“We could.” He took the grape from her and rolled its cool, smooth skin over her lips. Gently, he urged the grape between her lips, and his eyes darkened when she took it and his finger into her mouth, sucking at both.
She broke away. “The cost is too high. Not only your soul, but mine.”
“It’s almost worth it. Today has been extraordinary.”
“I would think such sensual indulgence was common for a Hellraiser.”
“Truly, Zora,” he said, his voice low, “for all my wicked ways, I’ve never had a day like this before. Nor a night like this, either.”
She raised a brow, skeptical.
“Since university, I’ve had but one vice, and it involves cards and dice, not mattresses and headboards.”
“I can’t believe you lived chastely.”
To his credit, his cheeks darkened only a little. “I won’t deny that I’ve enjoyed the privileges of my sex and station.” He peered closer. “And that angers you.”
“It doesn’t.” But her heart beat strangely, painfully, when her mind conjured up unwanted pictures of Whit and some faceless
gorgie
doing the same wonderful, indecent things she and Whit had been engaged in all day.
“Neither of us came to the other innocently.” His brow lowered. “Thinking about you with anyone else—I’m not normally given to violence, but if I ever meet those men, I will yield to my violent impulses. Gladly.”
Having seen Whit fight, she didn’t doubt him. Not his intent, nor his ability.
“We’ll never test that. Unlikely that you’ll ever cross paths with them. They aren’t men of your circle.”
“How many?”
She drew herself up, no longer relaxed or flattered. “Does my lack of chastity bother you, my lord? It didn’t an hour ago. Or the hour before that, or the one before that.” When he didn’t answer, his jaw tight, she made a small noise of annoyance. “Men want pristine angels with nary a lewd thought in their heads. Except when they get the angels into bed, and then they want bawdy strumpets. So, which is it, my lord? Do you want the saint or the slut?”
He, too, raised up, and pushed aside the tray. It fell to the ground, clattering, sending bowls of cakes and apples rolling across the floor. Wine spilled like blood in a battle. He did not notice, surging toward her so quickly she did not have time to move. Steel tight, he gripped her upper arms, his look utterly possessive.
“You,” he said through clenched teeth. “I want
you
.”
“Here I am.” Her fingernails scored down his chest, leaving parallel red lines. Lines of ownership, she realized. As if any one person could own another. “Here you are.”
She expected their kiss to be hot, aggressive. And so it started, but the heat softened from a conflagration to the warming glow of a campfire. Life-giving, sustaining. They were not destroyed but nurtured. He tasted of the sugary cakes, spicy wine, and him. Nourishing.
They were content to let the kiss be itself alone—a prelude to calm. They were more than a ravaging firestorm. From each other, they now gained sustenance. They lay back against the headboard, shoulder to shoulder, hands clasped, and watched the room turn dusky with the approach of twilight.
In the stillness, she felt herself unlocking, like a strongbox that had finally found its key.
“I was married,” she said.
His grip around her hand tightened. “My sympathies.”
She looked up at him. “Why?”
“It’s not an easy loss to bear,” he said gently. “After my mother died, my father ... dimmed. They were fond of one another, I think.”
“Jem didn’t die.”
Gazing down at her, he frowned in puzzlement. “You said you
were
married. I assumed ...”
“He’s married now. Has several babies, and another coming.” She could not quite keep the bitterness from her voice. Not that she desired being Jem’s broodmare, but he embraced his next role as husband to Kimi with a good deal more enthusiasm than he’d ever shown Zora.
“Divorce is only possible by private act of Parliament,” he said. “Unless it is different amongst Gypsies.”
“No, no different. But the
gorgios
, they don’t have trial marriages?”
His eyes widened. “God, no. Haven’t you seen all the miserable married people?” He pulled back a little. “Do Gypsies allow provisional marriages?”
“Yes, but the courtships are short. The bride- and groom-to-be are hardly permitted to hold hands, let alone kiss. Not until after marriage” She looked down at her hand, still joined with Whit’s. The interweaving of fingers. It
was
an intimacy, though it had never seemed so before. Not with anyone but him.
“Thus a rush to the altar,” he said, wry.
“I don’t know how you
gorgios
stand it. Never knowing if your husband or wife is a terrible lover, or if you hate the sound of them coughing in the morning, until it’s too late.”
“And you discovered that you and this Jem”—he said the name as if it tasted of rancid mutton—“did not suit.”
“A shared discovery.” In truth, it had been more Jem’s decision than hers, but she did not fight hard to keep him. She had thought he would be different from other Rom men, and at the beginning, he had been. He liked how independent she was, how little she courted the opinion of others. His vixen, he would call her. Until he realized that her independence extended to him, as well. If he wanted a fawning drudge to fetch his tobacco and agree with everything he said, he would have to look elsewhere.
So she did not argue or hold tight. He slipped away, a wispy shadow of the man she thought she had wed. She received a few more offers, mostly from men who did not know her well, and she did them the kindness of refusing.
You will become a spinster
, her mother had scolded.
Better that than some man’s trained hound.
Is that what
I
am? What your grandmother is?
Her mother had slapped her, hard enough to burn.
You’re not a child, Zora. This is the world as it is.
But she knew now that the world could change, and change utterly. And all because of one man.
“Shared decision or not,” said Whit, his words deliberate, his gaze on hers, “that Jem was an idiot. He didn’t call your bluff. A terrible gambler. And I’m glad.” He ducked close and kissed her softly.
Well, when Whit said things like
that
, and kissed her as if she was impossibly valuable but certainly not fragile, what could Zora do but feel the thick growth of protective vines around her heart wither away?
For some time, they lay together, silent and thoughtful. Shadows lengthened in the room. Everything was still, almost suspended, as if in waiting. Time moved unceasingly forward. They would have to leave, end this idyll, and soon. It hurt to think of it.
Whit suddenly rolled off the bed and onto his feet. Nude, save for the bandages around his chest and shoulder, he tilted his head, listening and alert.
His caution radiated out, and she caught its tension. Slowly, she rose and stood beside him. She strained to catch whatever it was he heard.
“I don’t hear anything,” she whispered.
“Nor I. That troubles me.”
No footsteps in the hall. No voices down the stairs. Anxiety and foreboding tightened the skin on the back of her neck. She wrapped a sheet around herself, as if the fine cotton could protect her. “You said that it was a skeleton staff here.”
He picked up his discarded robe and slid it on. “There should be
something
, some sound, no matter how few servants are about.” From a small table, he removed a pistol and quickly loaded it with powder and a bullet.
At the sight of the weapon, her heart began to pound painfully within her chest.
In a few swift strides, he crossed to the door. “Do
not
go anywhere,” he warned her before guardedly opening the door and slipping out, pistol at the ready.
She stood motionless beside the bed, fighting down swells of fear. Flames danced around her free hand, a ready weapon.
Moments later, he returned. His face was a hard mask. “Get dressed.”
All of her clothing was in the dressing chamber. After allowing the flames around her hand to disappear, she darted into the smaller room, scooped up her clothes and jewelry, and hurried back into the bedchamber. Whit tugged on fresh clothing found in a press: buff doeskin breeches, a laced shirt, matching russet wool waistcoat and coat.
“What did you find?” Her hands flew at the laces of her bodice, drawing the crimson wool closed.
“Nothing.” He pulled on a pair of supple brown jackboots, buckled his sword, and tucked the loaded pistol into a pocket. “I couldn’t find a damn soul. Whitston is empty.”
Alarm crawled through her. She did not know what it could mean, but concerning
Wafodu guero
, anything could happen. None of it good.
She stood by the window, using the last of the daylight to tie her cloak. As she did, movement caught her attention. Glancing up, she looked out over the deserted, formal garden, its clipped hedges mostly bare, the fountains dry. Nothing there. She must have been mistaken, or confused the flight of a curlew for something more sinister.
Then her gaze drifted farther. To the lake that lay just beyond the garden.
“Whit.” Her dry mouth made her words barely more than a rasp. Licking her lips, she tried again, this time with more force. “Whit!”
He was at her side in an instant. Followed her gaze, and swore.
Dark shapes moved just beneath the surface of the lake.
“Fish?” she asked. “Otters?”
“That lake isn’t stocked for fishing. There are no otters near Whitston.”
“What—what are they?”
The shapes held mass, and water moved around them in thick ripples. Whatever they might be, they were large. Numerous. And heading toward the closest shore.
“I think I see some kind of
claws
,” she breathed.
Whit moved from the window. He grabbed his satchel and swung it over his shoulder. “Do you have everything?”
“Yes.” Her hand closed around the handle of her battered rucksack.
He gave her a clipped nod, and they both slipped from the chamber into the hallway. They moved so quickly, she hadn’t time to glance over her shoulder and consider the room that had, for the span of a few hours, contained her greatest happiness. Now a heavy drape of malevolence hung over everything.
Silence heavy as eternity choked the house. No one had lit any lamps or candles, not even a rushlight. Whitston Hall had seemed empty before. In the growing darkness of sunset, it became a yawning black cave. The white sheets draped over furniture glowed dimly, and no matter how much she and Whit tried to muffle their footsteps on the thick carpeting, even these soft sounds echoed far too loud.