At Her Service (Swords of Passion) (3 page)

Simon turned and strode towards her alcove, secluded from Alphonse’s sight and nearly private, save for the lack of a door. Once at the edge of her own mattress, Simon paused. Despair loomed as she feared he would put her to her bed and leave her there alone. She groaned, wild that she had to endure such a huge loss now after her conflicted emotions about their reunion.

Then in one swirling motion, he laid her gently to the softness of her bed. Arms braced to each side of her head, he peered down at her, his eyes hot and ravenous as they trailed over her tender mouth to her peaking areolas and down to her swollen cunny lips. “What will you, Elise? Is once enough for you?”

Words jammed in her throat. She wanted him completely, as men and women were designed by God to join. Had not Alphonse sanctioned this union with Simon, demanding a child of the bargain? Had not Alphonse known that once tempted with Simon, she would lose the war with herself for taking him inside her? Her husband had given her to Simon for his own purposes. Now primed to mate with Simon fully, she would accept the gift and welcome him to her for a few more moments of hot bliss.

She lifted her arms to him and let her body receive him as now her mind fully did. Her fingers danced from his shoulders to his massive throat, his commanding jaw, his cheeks, his eyes. She sank her fingers into the wealth of black silk that dipped over his brow. Needing to burrow into him, she reached around to his nape and loosened his leather tie. His long hair fell around their faces like a dark curtain. With it came the aromas of strong soap, sandalwood and anise. She stroked his cheekbones as she combed his hair back from his face. His beauty, now fierce as some dark angel’s, stunned her and stoked her fire to mate with him—aye, to consume him. On a small cry, she curled up off the bed and enfolded him totally, her arms capturing him for one more time. One more bout. One lusty romp.

To lure him, she put her lips to his throat. His musk filled her nostrils, and his essence scalded her mind with need. All fear, all manners burnt in the fire of her desire, she brushed her mouth over the tip of his straight nose, his straight brows and his long full lashes. “Simon,” she crooned, “Simon
.” How long have I been without you. Yearned for you.
“Simon.”

“My dear one,” he whispered, rose up and caught both her wrists. “Look at me. Tell me. Tell me truly now, here, whilst we are away from him. Will you let me have you without care and sorrow for your soul? Because if you will eat your heart out for this act then nothing I do here will make your life easier. And I—”

“Simon.” She cupped his nape to lead him down to the bed with her and trailed her hand along his torso to his fully standing manhood. “Do be silent and give me this. All of it.”

“And what of your soul?”

“I will worry about that on the day I die. But tonight,” she rolled her thumb over his pulsing rod and spread the thick dew of his seed, “I want this. You. Now. And not just once.”

“Once?” he scoffed. “Hear my vow, my lady. I have waited twelve bitter years to have you. And what you’ll get before I leave this castle is once each way I know.”

Chapter Two

Thrilled to the quick, Elise fell back into her sumptuous bed and spread herself out as if she were a pagan prize. For the first time in her guarded and demure life, she undulated in the ivory linens from
Egypt
and the ruby silk coverlet from
Venice
. These priceless payments for her decade of service to her wealthy, decrepit lord, the earl of Atherton, she now used as her backdrop to show her bare body for her lover’s pleasure. Such decadence she had never contemplated, but oh, did she rejoice at the discovery that she possessed a wild and ribald nature.

“Teach me,” she ordered on a thread of sound. “Teach me all the ways to delight us both. Life is long and memories are such cold companions.”

“Not these delights,” he objected and pressed his body over her, crushing her in his passion. “These burn you up and melt you down.” He seized her mouth in a fury that drove her into the shallows of her bed. His tongue invaded her lips, traced the lining of her gums and the edges of her teeth. One hand crept beneath her back and brought her up. He cupped one breast and, on a growl, sucked her into his warm wet mouth.

She bolted up into his arms as his tongue swirled her areola, his teeth nipping at her, her channel pulsing as he licked her pointed little nipple.

“I will have the other, too,” he grunted as he turned his head and captured her other breast. “Say you want me to have all of you, Elise,” he ordered her as he tongued her nipple and pressed kisses round the globe of her breast.

“Aye, my lord!” She sank her fingers in his hair and arched up. “Every bit.”

He laughed triumphantly. “I take the challenge, my lady.” He caught her thighs in two strong hands and pressed her knees out beneath him. Then settling back on his legs, he spread her wide for him to view. “A lovely sight,” he crooned and blew gently at her wealth of cunny hair.

She wiggled, proud of her pale bush.

“I claim this as mine tonight.” He thrust his fingers into it and tugged, his expression falling to sensuous darkness. “I am jealous of he who has had you.”

She sent one hand to his penis and wrapped herself around his girth. “No need to feel anything now but my desire that you fill me. Here.” She cupped one hand over her swollen mons.

“Ah, but such pretty pink lips deserve a grateful homage, don’t you think?” His silken tone made her cunt gush with welcome.

“I do, and I give you leave to pay it with full ardour.”

“Full ardour like mine you have never seen.” He ran both hands through her nether hair, covering both labia with hot palms. “I want you on my mouth, Elise. On my tongue. In my body.” He fingered her heavy folds wide. “All my life, I have hungered for you—and
this
.” He bent to lick her with long swathes of his tongue.

Her mind left her. Her thighs quivered. Her hollow channel pulsed. Her fingers dug into his shoulder muscles. “Simon!”

“Aye, my lady.” He placed his mouth to her tender flesh and sucked her with a loud lascivious sound that made her let down more cream. “Like you this?”

“Aye!” she cried and fought to keep from keening lest her husband hear their fervour.

Simon sent two blunt fingers inside her throbbing core and swirled them inside with cunning skill. “And this?”

“Oh,” she ground out, “aye, my lord.”

“And this?” He sat back on his haunches and rubbed his thumbs round her swollen nub in torturous circles.

She moaned and thrashed her head upon the bed.

“How like you this, my lovely?” He spread himself out to lay between her legs and hold open her cunt so that he feasted on her with maddening nibbles.

She whimpered in praise.

“This pearl is mine to polish,” he growled and plumped her lips together in such a way that her little nub was exposed fully to the cool night air—and the moist ministrations of his talented tongue.

“No,” she pleaded as she felt some mad demand building inside her loins. “No more, no more.” She reached to cover his mouth with her fingers.

He nudged them aside. “Aye, my lady, much more.” And he proved it with quick hot kisses to her nub that had her beating the mattress. Yet he held her down and tasted her, drank from her and nibbled at her with ceaseless skill until she demanded more.

She arched up into him, her head flung back, her body pounding in such sweet convulsions that she gasped and clung to him. That was what she yearned for. That was what she deserved. That was what she needed—and wanted more. Yet as the pulsing passed, she rejoiced to feel his fingers dip deeply inside her again, stroking her, loving her, twisting and turning her to his desire.

“Your wet
chat
is a hungry animal.” He kissed her nose as he rhythmically stroked her core. “She wants my fingers.”

Elise caught his gaze with one demand. “She wants your rod.”

His eyes narrowed, and the silver light in them shown like lightning. “She’ll have it, too. But first,” he rose high, caught her under the waist and flipped her over to her stomach, her ass in the air, “we will see if she can make cream for me this way.”

“I liked what you did there. Fill me again and stop this!”

He covered her with his hot body then reached around her stomach, plunging his splayed fingers into her bush and rubbing her swollen labia with a dexterous roll. “Nay, my lady. You had but a small piece of me. And this silky little
chat
of yours might not take my full sword unless I pet her in new ways.”

And at that, from between her legs, he sent two fingers of his other hand up into her cunt.

“Ah,” she moaned and arched like the cat he compared her to. “How big can your manhood be if you seek to amuse me with only frail fingers?”

Her insult had him flipping her on her back and yanking her thighs apart. “You torment me?”

One corner of her mouth lifted in mirth. “You delay for a reason, my lord?”

He seized her and sent a hand to the back of her neck. “You think I play with you?”

“Oh, Simon,” she whispered, ravenous for his possession. “No more delays.”

And with a wicked smile, he drove himself up inside her and held them both in silent suspension.

She could not speak. Could not move. Aye, she had felt his possession minutes ago, but this, this glory, this mating, this fulfilment of her yearnings was far more than she had felt before. His iron rod once more stretched her, but now he claimed her to the hilt. He lingered to pump his hips to hers in a ritual she’d thought she’d known, but never had. The need she knew was base but undeniable, and she ground herself into him, never daring to let go. He drove her to the bed, his loins joined to hers, his rhythm as fierce and steady as the ocean’s beating surf. And to her surprise, they strained towards some heaven together, their bodies perspiring, blending, pounding. As the frenzy mounted, he feasted on her breasts and spoke in some wordless wonder as she gripped him and spun with him to some new and oh so daring plane.

She rose up, her head flung back, her body given to the rapture of a hot and hard release. And as she floated down into her linens, she knew new truths.

The name of this was ecstasy. With Alphonse, she had never glimpsed it. She had known Alphonse only to push at her and grind his hips on her. She had known him to take long minutes to get hard and finally inject her with his seed. But she had never known the dance of a long, slow, molten mating. And the joy that built within her as Simon sent his length inside her, over and over again, drove her up and made her pound once more. This time, she met his lunges with a fervent clasp of her legs and groaned in madness as he pumped his engorged staff into her. He pressed his fingers to her pearl and brought her to a pounding precipice with a loud and lengthy scream.

Simon’s groans of consummation tumbled out a moment later, the room at once so silent. He rolled to one side and pushed her hair back from her brow and cheek. Elise stared into her lover’s half-lidded eyes as he placed a finger to his own lips and turned his head to listen. In the solemn quiet, they heard Alphonse loudly snoring, and Simon smiled, sweet succour to her fear that their passion had been overheard and thus sullied by the man who had arranged it.

And for all the beauty of the past few minutes’ ardour, Elise felt an arrow of truth hit her sore heart. She rose, a hand out to Simon to waylay him from another caress, another kiss, another moment of bliss.

For all her longings these past years for passion like she’d just known, she had to admit her own responsibility for it. Lust had brought her to accept this night, this act. Lust for money, security, a home. Lust for a man who should have been hers, by God’s justice, years ago. But lust for Simon’s body had been just as much a beacon to her madness on this bed as was the bargain that Simon de la Poer had made with her husband. To bed her. To possess her. To sire a son by her. And claim it was her husband’s.

To admit that, she had become a more mature woman. Hopefully wiser.

Her problem now was what to do with her maturity and her responsibility for her choice. Surely, she would take Simon de la Poer to her bed again and again to ensure she begot a child. But could she do that, over and over again, and not take him once more to her heart?

Simon rolled from Elise and planted his feet on the cold stones. Cold as her heart. And could he blame her?

Nay, she has been a victim of her station. But by Christ, after I right this wrong, no more shall abuse her.

He rose to cross the room and felt beneath his feet the deep nap of her Abyssinian carpet, noted the damask cushion of her gilded chair and acknowledged how rich the Countess of Atherton was—and how far she would go to keep her wool and silk and gold. He could fault her for her love of wealth, but then he must do the same for himself. After all, he had accepted the terms of this scheme, had he not?

He approached the hearth, grabbed the poker and stirred the logs in the same way he could stir her, raging fire or smouldering ember. He knew now that with sure ease, he could take her in bed, on the floor, up against a wall and in the mating, she would leave behind her morals for a spell. In her supple little body, her big pouting nipples, her syrupy cunt, she panted for him. Creamed for him. Cried for him with juicy welcome to his rod.

He glanced down at that long, lax tool that now hung at rest. He snorted. The manhood that was legendary for its length and girth had finally invaded that one precious
chat
that should have been his. His only. He had loved her since he was sixteen when, in all innocence, he had kissed her lovely mouth before he’d been sent away to Richard, eternal war and wandering. Aye, this woman should have been given to him in flesh as he felt God had given him her in spirit. Yet, poor knight that he was, no others in this earthly realm would have vouched he had any right to the only daughter of the wealthy Lord Cordelier.

But he did now. Only he had the right to bed her. Alphonse had promised him no other man would ever touch her to plant his seed. Simon had demanded that stated in their written agreement, and he would live and die to see the clause observed. Henceforth, from the day Alphonse had committed to this, only Simon could mate her. Only he, in the taking of her and the claiming of her pretty cunt, could make her life inviolate. Make her powerful.

Christ in his grave. At the mere idea of laying her down, his rod was rising to claim her again. The very thought of her engorged him like a bull. For twelve years, he had thirsted to suck her nipples, taste her milky
chat
on his tongue and treat her to a night divine buried in her body. It mattered not what woman he viewed, what woman he was given, what woman he took, the one woman he claimed was Elise Cordelier. Now, the woman he had vowed he would have one day by any means, fair or foul, the noble and renowned Elise Dumond, the Countess of Atherton, was his to tutor in the arts of love. For her education, he had stored up a treasure trove of tender nuances he would teach her.

He ran a hand through his hair and turned his back on the fire to enflame again the one woman he wanted. Now.

And this time, the coupling would be his way. His way. He had never forgotten how she loved to kiss. Now, he would reawaken those lessons and teach her how to please herself—and how to entice him in the bargain. Poor pretty girl, he could see that she had forgotten many of his kissing lessons. And as for pleasuring a man or herself, she knew nothing. Her lack of inspirational company was the fault, and he rejoiced in that. And to celebrate, his penis stood up higher with the knowledge that she was his to initiate.

He smiled like a fiend. She lay on her side facing him as she rustled beneath her martin fur and silks. Slowly, she opened one eye, then another. To alert her and, true, to enjoy himself, he palmed himself up and squeezed the tip of his rod. Drops of his seed came forth to acclaim his prowess. He would give them to her. To both their advantages.

She licked her lips. He’d teach her how to use them on him.

She spread out her arms. He’d show her how to welcome him into more than one embrace.

On cat’s feet, he padded across her little carpet and knelt on the bed. It rolled beneath his weight. Yet, she lay there quietly, waiting for his lead. His shaft stirred. He had never been so painfully hard. He had to sink himself inside her soon again or die of her lack. With a flick of his wrist, he peeled away the fur. The pale ivory of her skin had him pausing, fighting down a compliment to the beauty before him. He did it mutely, quickly, running his palm over her shoulder, her shapely arm, her long fingers, the indentation of her waist and the swell of her hip to the curve of her calf and the delicacy of her toes. Ah. He would begin with those.