Knightley's Tale (3 page)

Yes.

Kiss me.

And more.

Nearer and nearer he drew; she dared not blink for fear she’d miss it. She could smell the mix of his man’s soap and brandy and heat. It was intoxicating, threatening to drown her.

She would not close her eyes. Even as his mouth lowered to hers and brushed softly along her lower lip, she stared at him. She didn’t want to miss one moment of this kiss.

It was really, finally happening.

Their mouths connected and her toes curled. Tasting, his lips gently pulled and rubbed along her lips’ lower plump edge.

A loud moan escaped. It must have come from her mouth. Taking advantage of the opening, his tongue explored the depth, teasing her tongue and inviting her to play.

Desire surged, it seemed, directly to her nipples; they hardened and ached for something more.

When his hands roved over her backside, liquid heat poured between her legs.

Simultaneously limp and restless, her knees gave way and she flung her arms about his neck. She didn’t know if she melted into him or if he engulfed her. She didn’t care.

Finally, her body gave in. She closed her eyes and let the tingling sensation tantalize every inch of her.

Never had anything felt so good.

He must be delusional.

Reason, indeed any functioning thought process, had abandoned him. Pure physical being had taken over.

So unlike him. In the throes of passion, he would never truly let go of his conscious self.

Therefore, this must be a fantasy.

Adding to the erotic vision was Emma—opening for him, kissing him with the intense, honest enthusiasm only Emma was capable of. She was exploring real passion for the first time with him…only him.

It all felt so real.

His dick, for one, would testify something was different, as it reached out for her soft folds. His hands skimmed over her body, craving more of her softness.

Instead, he met only silk and lace. He was suddenly consumed with an overwhelming need to rip through the clothes to get to this fantasy Emma.

But something was still bothering him, holding him back.

In truth, if this were a dream, a dream of having Emma all to himself, why were other women laughing?

An inner voice, one driven to protect Emma, commanded him to break the kiss and turn around. Reality washed over him as he reclaimed his bearings.

They were in the pleasure gardens and someone was coming.

Reluctantly, he let her go and placed her securely against the interior hedge. Emma, he noticed, was caught up in the previous moment—her eyes still closed and lips parted as if waiting for her lover’s return.

Lover.

Better to think on that after he dispensed with whatever trouble was rounding the bend.

Granted, after that kiss, he would never be able to land an effective facer, let alone muster the strength to swing his arm. He stepped forward, nonetheless, hoping to appear menacing.

The voices, chanting now, sounded closer.

Hand-in-hand, three women appeared. Like goddesses, they were dressed in translucent white robes. When they glided into the copse they exclaimed their delight and skipped to Knightley, circling him in a strange ritual.

The leader, a redhead, halted a foot away and smiled invitingly.

“We have been looking for you,” she said in a low seductive voice. “You were the lone wolf on the hunt for his mate. We watched you as you circled the dance floor again and again until you disappeared.

“We have come to see that all your appetites are satisfied this evening.”

Upon her nod, six hands reached out and began caressing him, simultaneously stroking his back, his hair, his chest, his arms, his thighs, his calves.

Paralyzed, Knightley did what any man would do—he acquiesced.

“We are the Three Passions.” The leader waved her arms at her companions and indicated first the blonde to his right.

“This fair maid is Love.” The blonde nuzzled Knightley’s neck, hooked a leg around his waist, and slid along his side and down his right leg, finally dropping in a pool at his feet.

“The second, this pale-cheeked lass, is Ambition.”

The raven-haired beauty poked her head under his arm, grinned impishly and then returned to running her entire body along the length of his backside.

“And I am…” she began, but Knightley interrupted.

“My demon, Poesy.”

“Ah, you know Keats. Excellent, milord. We love the intellectual sort.” The others giggled in agreement, causing Knightley to tense.

Conscious thought was slowly returning. He was forgetting something. But his judgment was clouded, and when the redhead slid a long graceful hand down his chest, lower and lower, he was temporarily lost.

“Yes, I am Poesy, or Poetry—maiden most unmeek. The Passions have come to tempt you, to offer you pleasures beyond your imaginings. Tell me, milord, you do desire passion?”

As she emphasized the last word, her fingers trailed over his hard-on and up again.

Befuddled, his body contradicting his brain, Knightley croaked the first answer he could muster: “Yes.”

An audible gasp behind Poetry wakened him. He broke the trance and answered the question again.

“No,” he said sturdily. “I desire passion only with her.”

They ignored him and turned their attention to Emma.

“Ah, here she is. The mate.” The redhead glided away, and the others quickly followed.

Knightley spun around, his body suddenly cold—whether bereft of the Passions’ attentions or fear for Emma’s virtue, he didn’t know for sure.

They had surrounded Emma, studying her as if she were marble.

“Why, sir, she is a beauty.” Poetry raised her hands to Emma’s head and gently rolled back the cowl of her cloak. Another nod from the leader and all six hands immediately went to Emma’s hair, freeing it strand by strand from the cloak.

A protest was on the tip of his lips, but Knightley never vocalized it.

Emma stood as straight as a soldier in ranks, hands at her side. But her head was tilted slightly and her lips partly opened. She gazed at him briefly and, even though the mask hid most of her features, he knew she was neither afraid nor repulsed. She seemed rather engaged, even intrigued.

Internally, he warred over his need to protect her and his increasing sense of excitement. His body held still, but vibrated with awareness he had never known.

Once her hair was primped, the six hands moved downward pushing back the folds of her cloak and smoothing over the silk and lace of her cream gown.

The leader commanded Emma’s attention.

“Your wolf is full in his longings,” she announced in a deep throaty voice. “Come and see what you have wrought.”

Cradling Emma’s hand as if it were a delicate dove, Poetry coaxed Emma to stand before him. Entranced, they all watched as Poetry guided Emma’s hand over Knightley’s burgeoning crotch.

His breath caught. He dared not move for fear he’d send Emma fleeing, but damn, he was about to burst.

The other Passions crowded around, renewing Emma’s massaging while giving her encouragements.

“That’s right. Up and down. Up and down.”

“The slower, the harder.”

He closed his eyes and tried to remember how to breathe.

She was actually stroking him.

“That’s a good girl,” he heard Poesy say. “Let us instruct you in the ways of Passion.”

“Now, cup and squeeze.”

All at once eight hands tightened around his buttocks, his nipples and his balls.

He exploded.

There was no stopping it. The orgasm poured over him, racking his body with violent shuddering. He closed his eyes, let the wave take him again and again. Emma’s hand resolutely continued to cup him, and he could not stop his seed from spilling out, dampening the cloth that separated them.

He hated himself for this uncharacteristic lack of control.

He hated more that his body loved this moment, groped by three strange women and Emma, yes Emma, bringing him to this height.

He wanted to reach for her and make her come for him.

“Ooohhh! Wasn’t that fun?” one of the Passions cooed, jarring his thoughts.

“Again. I want to do it again.” Another one pleaded.

“Stop!” He commanded. “Enough!” Sensing their hesitation, Knightley broke free of their hands and, like a man possessed by demons, he flailed his arms at them.

“Off with you. All of you.”

Trembling, he turned his back on the Passions and forcibly plugged the dike of his suppressed emotions.

More, more, more.

He wanted to shout, cry and laugh all at once. He grabbed at the wall of shrubs and shook them.

ARRGGHH!

He wasn’t thinking straight. What man would turn away three beautiful women intent on fucking him? He almost turned around and called them back. Almost.

Behind him he could hear the regretful cries of the Passions trailing away as they flitted through the maze.

“I choose Indolence,” he challenged halfheartedly and then laughed hysterically at his bad joke.

“First Grimm, now Keats—this evening’s a literal nightmare.” He chortled madly. It sounded like a witch’s cackle to his ears. Clearly, he was going insane.

In this state, how would he ever win Emma’s love?

Suddenly, he was sober. Clear-headed. Purpose-driven.

He loved Emma.

The flood gate had burst. Emotions poured from him, leaving him exhilarated and free…and in love.

With every breath, every thought, every fiber of his body, he knew it was true.

He wanted to dance and shout it out loud.

He loved Emma.

He hadn’t known until this very moment, but he realized his love had grown over years of adoration. But this love was real and solid and pure. It was the kind of love one committed to—forever.

That’s why he had banished the three women, and why he hadn’t been with any other woman for months now. He was waiting to love Emma.

And when Emma was ready for him to show her the depth of his love, he would do what every man in love does—he would make it perfect for her.

Not on the cold ground. Not spastic or hurried. Not with a crowd of diaphanous bystanders feeling him up.

He must make Emma understand.

“Emma, darling,” he said softly, as he started to turn toward her, “I must expl…”

Breath, thought, all manner of being died in that instant.

Emma was gone.

For several minutes he stood there dumbly—unable to believe that she had left him.

Had she confused his order when he shooed away the other women? Had his lack of self-control scared her away?

Or had the Passions forced her to join them for some deviant tryst? Worse, was she alone and at the mercy of the pleasure gardens?

Fear, a gut-wrenching terror, swept over him.

He threw himself into the shrubs and ran.

After she escaped the Passions—really, what an elaborate ruse that was—Emma raced out of the maze and onto the open lawn. At the far end of the concourse was her intended destination: the lagoon.

Midway there, she stopped to catch her breath…and gloat.

A wide smile played on her lips. Her body tingled with new sensations. Her bottom contracted, her lips—both sets—were swollen, but craved more. She had never felt so alive.

Even more, she loved how she had made Knightley feel.

Pure ecstasy.

So he wasn’t as impervious to her as he would lead her to believe. Her touch could enthrall him. Indeed, she could drive him over the edge.

It was a heady discovery, this power she had over him.

She wanted to stretch her newfound knowledge—fan the flames. Of course, it involved more touching and much more kissing and far less people.

A niggling of doubt crept into her consciousness. She hoped it was her touch, and hers alone, that brought him such fulfillment.

She sighed. Where was he, anyway?

Casting a glance back to the maze, she frowned. She had been certain he would follow her as soon as he realized she was gone. She was wearing red, for goodness sake, so why couldn’t he find her?

Just as she thought she might have to return for him, Knightley broke through the shrubs. When he began chasing at full gait, she lifted her skirts and took off.

She arrived at the shore to find luck was on her side. One gondolier was docked, lounging in his craft. When he saw her, he stumbled to his feet, but she had already leapt into the bow, motioning for his silence.

The gondola was perfect, just as she had pictured from all the descriptions she had read. While the back of the boat was completely open, a tarp-covered enclosure near the front provided the passengers with privacy. She could see the stars, but no one, not even the gondolier, could see her. Inside, she found a comfortable seat, wider than a bench, not quite a bed. Perfect.

“Emma. This is ridiculous.” She heard Knightley’s out-of-breath pronouncement.

She smiled but remained hidden.

“Mademoiselle wishes to ride, no?” the gondolier offered.

“No.” Knightley’s voice replied tightly, then a heavy sigh. She felt the boat tip slightly to one side as someone moved around the back. A jingling of coins was the next sound.

“Make sure we keep a good distance from the other boats.” Knightley growled. “And I’ll take that.”

Then he stood before her, quivering the boat with his sudden appearance. Intense emotions raged around him. He tossed the gondolier’s cap into her lap but moved no closer.

Somewhere, he had lost his black mask and she could see his dark eyes staring at her—predatory, dangerous. There was a wildness about him that she had never known before.

He didn’t frighten her, not really. She felt sheer excitement.

“Come, sit here next to me. I promise I won’t bite.” She patted the damask-cushioned seat as she leaned back on one of the pillows.

“You are the wolf.” He said simply.

The surprise declaration evoked a laugh from both of them—a full, hearty release that broke the awful tension of the bizarre night.