The Hunted Bride Page 14

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  The undressing on this occasion was sublimely conducted without shame. She provocatively wriggled her hips, allowing the gown to slither down her thighs.

  “Sir, would you unlace me?” she asked whimsically.

  He crossed the highest chamber of the tower, his hands loose at his sides, and approached her taut back. He tugged on the lacework of her corset, a simple criss-cross binding, one that she probably undid daily without assistance. Smiling, he unwrapped her, revealing the flat discs of her straight spine and the neat angles of her shoulder blades.

  There was nothing left to cover her. Her bareness was complete from her narrow neck to her ankles. Stepping back, and using sharp eyes, he tracked the ins and outs of her figure, how her ribs rose and fell restlessly, nervously. He kept smiling unseen behind her back until she peered over her shoulder, flouting his instruction to keep forward and focused on flickering candles.

  He clucked his tongue and she shot him an apologetic glance before returning to the correct direction.

  “You may now bend over the table.” His pulse quickened with the command. It was not the sound of his own severe voice that roused him; it was the shiver across her buttocks, which fetched up a cluster of goosebumps on each lobe.

  “Oh, sir,” she protested sweetly, and foolishly. “Might I not lie over you?”

  “For this punishment, detachment is necessary. For you must not invoke me to discomfort.” The irony of punishing her: his cock was already proud and painful in its containment.

  She bleated, “But I’m not resisting you. I am here, in your wretched tower, answering for stirring your Zalim to life. It was not my fault I knew not what I awoke.”

  “This is a punishment for breaking a rule—you entered when you must not,” he corrected. “And you accused me falsely.” The conversation was a prelude, one that she felt was necessary to justify her acquiescence. He understood her train of thoughts. A spirited wife in training, tainted by her upbringing, and promisingly circumspect, she would not simply bend over a table without attempting to persuade him otherwise. But she did bend, and part her legs willingly, offering him an excellent view of her plump privates and the portals he craved. Gods, he moaned in his head, she was already wantonly brazen.

  Matilda stretched out and clutched the edges of the table, and pressed her nose and lips to the surface, as if to kiss the smoothed wood. The table was splinter-free, polished in secret by Lionel, who came up to the tower when Gervais requested it to make preparations, to ensure the fire was stocked with wood, the tapers tall, and the basin on the stand filled with fresh water and rose petals. The room swam in the aroma of a garden, and not damp stonework.

  Outside, the drumbeats of thunder crept closer, heralded by splinters of lightning flashing through the narrow windows. The torrid weather seemed appropriate to the scene. He especially liked the way she flinched with each burst of light.

  Gervais reached over to her head and unpinned the bundle of peach hair, combing it with his splayed fingers until it lay like a gold threaded blanket on her back, and shimmering under the candlelight.

  On the bench lay the implements, placed there by Lionel, and arranged in severity—from a soft frond of suede to the packed birch sticks. He opted for the plain leather scabbard, which lay in the middle.

  Flexing it, he circled the table to check that no tears christened her pale face, and that she wasn’t biting down on her tongue. He smacked the scabbard down on the palm of his hand, and she jumped.

  The circuit complete, he touched one raised arse cheek with the tip of the scabbard and pressed into the flesh until a dimple formed. Such was the tightness of the stretched skin, it took a measure of force to create the dint.

  She snatched a sharp breath in, then blew it out slowly. All the little tells were there that she was ready and able.

  Lifting the unadorned scabbard, he aimed for the ridge of her bottom, and with a flick from the elbow, and not the wrist, he smarted the contour.

  “Ow,” she squawked. One arm shot behind her back and she frantically rubbed the welt.

  “That was one, my dear. Just one. It was agreed, was it not, that six would suffice?” He removed her hand. “Be a good little bird and lie still, or I shall be forced to tie you to your perch.”

  Now, having given her his opening salvo, the gambit was put to the test. Was she truly ready for him or not? He was; every inch of his body was on the brink of releasing the Zalim. Somehow, he had to keep the thing in check, and wait. It was for later she had promised him what he wished, and he believed that at last, she was beginning to fathom the depths of his depravity.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  She had obeyed him and bent over the table, and more than that, she had presented herself to him so demurely, her heartbeats fluttered in her stomach. The jewels of her sex were there for him to see, and touch, but he had not come close to laying a finger on them. Her mute protestations were only for her self-respect and what little dignity she clung onto under the dancing lights of the candles. He understood the humiliation, it seemed, for he had unpinned her hair and laid the tresses across her body like a veil, and the covering helped reduce the shivering.

  She had agreed to the use of an implement and now regretted it. She yearned for his flat palm pressed hard on her bottom and not the scabbard with its cool, unyielding leather. But that was why it was necessary, for if she was aroused by his spanking hand, then what purpose did such a punishment serve?

  The swoosh and smack of the scabbard brought her out of her haven of thoughts with such a jolt, she forgot not to soothe her bottom. He tutted like an old nursemaid, and threatened her with bindings. For a brief moment, she pictured herself chained to the table, gagged too, and swiftly dismissed the illusion of pleasure in it. Danger lurked in that scene, one that she could not afford to create for fear of what he might become.

  She curled her knuckles over the edge of the table and redoubled her effort to stay still. The scorch of the welt lessened, and she screwed her eyes up for the second stripe. The snap preceded the sting, the noise before the pain. Kicking back with her legs, she hopped on tiptoes.

  If she expected a lecture on rules and the consequences of breaking them, they were past the need for childish instruction, for she was a woman and capable of reasoning without his guidance.

  If they were to marry, and she hoped it might be so, she must learn to be the submissive wife he required and she hoped to be. The greatest kings sought the meekest princess, not to conquer, but to present to the world as a worthy accolade, a prize that was the envy of every other man. And it didn’t matter that Matilda, like those princesses, was educated, proud, and a headstrong noblewoman if she could not kneel by the bed and surrender herself night after night to his Zalim.

  He waited for her to calm, and to her delight, he traced his thumb along the newborn welt. The soft caress eased the fire in it, and she prayed he might dip between her cheeks and circle her there. But Gervais was satisfied with his swift examination and progressed to the third, then fourth stinging stroke of the mean scabbard.

  She hooked her toes on the table legs, preventing her feet from flying backwards. The tension in her calves and shoulders worsened her rigid pose. It was to be expected. The alternative was to flail her limbs and received additional stripes; that too was part of the agreement they had discussed prior to arriving at the top of the tower.

  On the way, Gervais had detoured to the cellar, and shown her the bare walls and missing whipping post. She’d thanked him, grateful that the contents of the dungeon were now charred splinters in the sawyer’s yard. The thought of the whipping post occupied her mind as the fourth wretched smite struck just above her thighs. She blinked the tears back, and knew in her heart that this was nothing compared to the public humiliation of flogging, or the stocks where folk pelted criminals. What they practised in the privacy of a high tower was between a future husband and wife, an act for no man’s eyes. The trusting bond created solidifie
d his governance over her and required no ogling audience.

  For the remaining two smacks of the strap, she stayed perfectly still and quiet, except for her soft panting. The fiery lines were neatly stacked above one and another, each making their presence felt, and although he had touched them one after the other between strikes, he had done nothing to alleviate the discomfort. That now changed. The scabbard discarded, he cupped both hot cheeks in his cool palms and she waited for him to part them, wedge his heavy cock in the space, and do what he desired.

  Nothing happened. And why would it? He had made a promise, and no matter what she secretly wished, he was not prepared to risk the consequences of surrendering to his savage instincts in the crude room of a guard’s tower. He removed his hands, took her elbow and helped her stand upright. With his thumbs, he wiped away the tears on her cheeks—tears of humility rather than outrageous pain—and kissed her clammy forehead.

  “Well done, little bird,” he said into her ear.

  “Thank you, sir,” she said, her knees wobbling with nerves.

  He kissed an earlobe, grazed his lips down and along the veins of her neck and inhaled deeply. She detected the faintest murmur of a growl in the back of his throat.

  The energetic storm had passed over, leaving the air sharp and fresh. The hour was late and deliberately chosen to be so. The household of the castle was fast asleep, apart from the guards on duty, and they knew better than to say a word about the strange sight of their lord carrying his naked lady across the rain-drenched inner courtyard on route to his private chambers.

  He kicked the door shut with his heel, but didn’t lock it, and as he had sworn to do, Lionel lay curled up outside like a dog in a basket, his ears alert and eyes shut.

  She wasn’t sure what to expect, knowing he was transforming from man to Zalim. Perhaps, it would be less of a physical metamorphosis, since outwardly he was still a human, and more of a pronounced change in his behaviour. He threw off his clothes, and unlike other nights, cared not where his garments landed. The fire in his eyes was present, as she’d seen it on the previous night when she had disturbed him. His hair was perhaps more unruly, his chin stubbly with midnight growth, and his chest squarer with firmly packed musculature.

  She lay on the bed, where he’d left her, and tracked his movements about the room. He paced, before the roaring heat of the fire, his cock silhouetted by the orange flames. He allowed it to thicken and form a steel pole; it responded to a call of the wild.

  This was all she saw on the surface. What took her breath away was the confidence of his demeanour. He waited not for doubt to kick in and quell his desires, but the contrary, for his lust to be at its peak before he came to the bed. He gripped his shaft and squeezed it, drawing his hand up to the shiny head, and a tiny trickle emerged, which he smeared along its length. He repeated the indulgence, moaning as he did. At first she wasn’t sure why he served himself when she could do the deed for him. Then she realised, he was preparing the velvety sheath, wetting it and giving it some necessary lubrication.

  She leapt off the bed and hurried to his side.

  “Please, my lord, allow me.” The need to beg for it was incredible. A lust created in the tower and built upon while lying on the bed. She forgot the hurt in her bottom and focused on the pulse in her pussy telling her to permit him anything he wanted.

  She held aloft her tongue, tipped back her head, and clasped her hands behind her back.

  Gervais simpered at her stance. “Very well, open wide, and prepare yourself for a dish that will need a brave jaw and hearty appetite.”

  She closed her eyes and willed herself to comply. By then, it was too late to change her mind; his cock was deep in her throat and filling her mouth. Each suck required mettle and stamina, and her taste buds recognised the measure of her success, for he was intoxicating. The musk sent her into a dreamlike place, and on the occasions she dared to open her eyes and look upon him, he gifted her a glowing expression of feverish pleasure. He tossed his head back and groaned. Yet, he hadn’t reaped his reward, and neither had she. It wasn’t necessary, not until he demanded it.

  He wound his fingers in her hair, drawing her closer to his steady legs and taut balls. She licked them, then his shaft, coating him from softest part to hardest, knowing it was for her benefit.

  With an abrupt cry, he freed her, and she slumped back onto her elbows, breathing as heavily as Gervais. He bent, scooped her up like a floppy cat, and laid her on the bed. With a firm grasp of her ankles, he spread her legs wide, twisting her knees out so that she was fully open, parted for him. She held her arms up and aloft and presented herself to him spread-eagled with wide wings and fanned hair. He hooked her thighs with his arms, folding them back, and it was the last warning of his intent; she was about to be placed under the entirety of his body.

  With teeth bared, eyes steamy with blackness, he vaulted into position and entered her with one swoop of his hips. The pace of thrusts was frantic, and at first, she was close to panic, knowing she was barely accommodating his girth. But somewhere, hidden beneath the veneer of the beast, was Gervais, a man in control of his actions. He kept the plunges shallow, using her gasps as a judge of depth, and when she ceased shaking and managed to relax her pelvis, he sank into the depths of her pussy, and knocked hard on the barrier to her womb. She felt the impact of his thrusts jarring her with their measured force, and the tremendous friction of his firmness brushing against her inner walls. And then it happened. She let go of her worries, the last niggling doubts that she wasn’t able to satisfy him, and focused her attention on the exquisite features of his face, the rise and fall of his chest, the oceanic ripples of his biceps and stomach muscles. Each part of him was sculptured, well-balanced and formed, and not the slightest bit beastly or unnatural. Whatever Gervais feared he might be, he was a man to adore and worship, not fear.

  “Come, come,” he hollered.

  She screamed. The orgasm was unparalleled in its spasms. The pain battled the pleasure, and the latter one through. She basked in the climax, unaware that Gervais had not let up, nor was he going to. She cried out again, as the orgasm rose up once more, and continued, refusing to give her an endpoint.

  Lionel burst into the room, the door crashing against the wall behind him.

  She hadn’t called for him, but her cry had.

  Gervais, at last, paused. He stared into her blurry eyes and she blinked, feeling the orgasm die a slow death.

  “Oh,” she said with disappointment. “My depraved cries have summoned your squire by mistake.”

  Gervais glanced over his shoulder. All Matilda could see were the red cheeks of Lionel as he stumbled backwards, reversing from the room. Gervais chuckled.

  “Fear not, boy, I have not split her,” he said calmly. “Be gone.”

  “My ‘ord,” the squire stuttered with his half-tongue, and ran out of the room.

  “Lock it,” she said.

  He eased out of her, his momentum broken, and the dark shadows his features slipped away leaving behind a brightness in his face that was familiar. The interruption had not angered him.

  “No,” Gervais said firmly.

  She swept a rogue lock of her hair off her cheek and reached up to touch his flushed one. She cupped her palm and he covered her hand with his.

  “I’m not afraid of you, Gervais. My Zalim. My lord,” she said softly. “Put it back and do what you have to.”

  He shook his head.

  “I beg you. This thing you have under lock and key needs me. I feel it in your sinews. You will not harm me, even when it is rabid.”

  Another shake, but this time less convincing. He sighed. “This is just the beginning, Tilda, my little bird. Such a small thing you are when you lie beneath me, crumpled into a ball, your pussy wet and playful, your breasts the perfect spectacle. I have my heart set on all of you and for the whole night. Do you understand now what fate awaits you if you stay?”

  She swallowed hard. “Yes. I am to be your captiv
e and do as you want. I will, I know I can. Please, lock the door. When the key is outside, then I am truly yours. My freedom comes when I am kept here where your Zalim reigns supreme.” The words came pouring out of her mouth, but she knew they came from her heart. “I love you,” she said carefully.

  Gervais kissed the palm of her hand, as he had done on their first occasion of intimacy. A bout of shivers turned her nipples into stones and her pussy clenched around its molten core. Gone was the pain of her whipping; gone, too, the importance of dignity. She prayed he might humiliate her in ways that brought her countless orgasms and him the best reward of all, her utter submission, and his domination of her soul.

  He shaped his mouth into a pucker, then a soft, handsome smile emerged. “You have conquered me, my lady. My Zalim is subdued, he has seen what matters most to both of us, and that is love. He cannot win against love.”

  Her lower lip trembled. What had she done? “I did not mean to destroy that part of you. I thought it was impossible.”

  He cocked his head. “Destroyed? Oh, no, not so. It isn’t possible. However, you seem to have given it wisdom. It needs feeding still, the hunger remains, and the need for the hunt, also, but I think in my heart, it will never be the same. The anguish and pain has lifted. Just now, when Lionel came in uninvited, I stopped, not because he was here, but because you might have needed me to. I noticed you, my sweet, in the throes of my passion. I can be both man and beast. I can love you.”

  She hooked her arms around his broad shoulders and drew him down. There in a tender embrace, she cried softly with relief.

  He squirmed free and blushed like a boy. “Oh, sweetness,” he said jubilantly. “Let us not tarry like this. I have needs still. We shall build again, but this time with a gentleness, and when you are ready, I shall resume my beastly ways knowing you are mine.”