Willing (12 page)

“You’re not serious.”

He flattened his lips and raised his brow. “I am.”

Constance swallowed. “You didn’t need it before?”

“I still don’t know if I do. It is a theory, if I am being honest. From all the books I’ve read and recounts I’ve found, blood exchange amplifies all rites, especially the willing exchange of - ”

She took the knife from him, glancing her fingertip against the blade. It was freshly sharpened. Dangerously so. She took a deep breath. “How much do you need?”

“Oh, just a drop, love. Just a pin prick will do.”

She gave a curt nod. “Fine.”

With that she turned to face the door. Alisdair lunged for, planting a kiss on her cheek before ducking away just in time for her to greet Thomas, alone. He bowed to her as the robed figures approached. They took her hands and led her into the ballroom.

Candles burned on every wall, every surface, glowing from chandeliers to reflections in the mirror over the great mantelpiece. The robed figures stood around the ballroom watching her as she was led through the crowd toward that same stone table. She took a deep breath, glancing at the hooded figures that stood closest to the altar. She wondered which of them was Roman, and if he would be a part of the ritual again this evening. She scolded herself. She’d had Alisdair all afternoon, but it never occurred to her to ask, to declare her preference that Roman not be involved.

The doors to the room were closed and locked, and the pomp and circumstance began.

“Thank you brothers and sisters,” a voice boomed from the far end of the ballroom. She startled, turning to find the tall robed figure striding across the room toward her. She recognized it as Alisdair under the mask, and despite spending hours in his company, her stomach went a flutter. He took his place at the head of the altar.

The footmen stepped forward and helped Constance out of her robe as one of the masked figures knelt before her, helping her up onto the cold stone surface. She settled there, lying down on her back, willing her heart to stop pounding in her ears.

“Welcome to all, and thank you for being my circle in this holy rite. Tonight, I feel certain we will see something profound.”

The figures began to speak to one another, but Constance couldn’t hear a word as Alisdair suddenly took her hand and helped her to a seated position.

He gestured to Thomas who quickly delivered the chalice, already brimming with red wine.

Alisdair held the blade out to her and waited. She opened her palm before him, pointing a finger into the air. “You do it.”

His brows shot up as he glanced down to her waiting hand. He licked his lips, nervously and lifted her hand to his lips. With a sudden movement, he took her fingertip in his mouth, sucked at it hard, and then bit it with enough force to make her wince, but not to break the skin. Before the sting of his bite could subside, he pressed the tip of the blade to her finger, and pushed. Blood bubbled from beneath the blade, but the pain seemed almost distant, and he quickly turned her finger over the waiting chalice, letting a drop of her blood fall into the contents. Alisdair smiled at her, helping her to lie back down onto the altar before he turned the blade to his own hand. A moment later, his blood was pooling in the chalice of wine, flitting about with hers. Thomas took the chalice aside as Alisdair held the knife high into the air and began the familiar drone of a language she did not speak, calling to the other figures to join him.

The figures appeared at her ankles, pulling her legs apart as another pair appeared at her shoulders, lowering their masked faces to her skin, to kiss any inch of her that was exposed. She took a sharp inhale, letting the familiarity of the experience lull her. Yet as the masked man lowered his mouth between her legs, tasting her as he had every other time she lied on this very altar, she did not watch him. Instead, she watched Alisdair just a few feet away, chanting as he dipped his fingers into the wine and flicked its contents at the base of the altar. He was chanting over the proceedings, watching the robed men work, delegating their actions as though orchestrating every turn of her pleasure. Finally he met her gaze, and his face flushed.

Thomas soon appeared with the same object she’d come to recognize – the carved wooden phallus. Alisdair took it from the tray on which Thomas offered it and turned to one of the robed figures. The masked stranger reached for it, eagerly.

“No.”

Alisdair turned to her, startled by this whispered protest. “What is it, Constance?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“What is wrong?”

She swallowed, searching what little of his face she could see as he leaned over her, the robed men still touching her, kissing her skin, their tongues dancing against her. She gasped as the man between her legs doubled his pace, and Alisdair smiled.

“You do it.”

Alisdair’s brows shot up. “What? “

She gestured toward the wooden thing, fighting to keep her words from fading into some primal wail from sensation. “You want me let go - be open, yes?”

“Yes. Are you not enjoying this?”

She whispered these words, half afraid to speak them aloud. “I would enjoy it more if it was you.”

Alisdair stared at her, his cheeks flushing. Then he brushed her hair from her forehead, his mouth falling open as he came to a decision. “It would?”

She nodded, biting her lip as the man between her legs slid his fingers inside her.

“Yes!

Alisdair took a deep breath and took the phallus from Thomas. Alisdair then gently pushed one of the robed figures aside, coming to stand at her hip as another man lifted her legs high over her. He stood there a moment, watching the other three men work; one teasing at her breast, flitting his tongue against her nipples as two other men lavished the same treatment between her legs. Alisdair seemed to be studying them, glancing at her each time she sighed and moaned, then back to the mouths against her skin. Suddenly, he smiled.

He quickly shrugged out of his robe and lifted his tall frame up onto the altar with ease, coming to settle on his knees before her. The masked men drew away, making room for him to settle there before her. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, black trousers and black suspenders. He looked like any average working man, save for the ornate mask on his face. She watched him move, gently pushing last man aside as he planted his knees between her legs. She held her breath; this was not what she expected. He leaned over her, lowering himself onto her as though to mount her himself. She felt the hard head of the wooden phallus pushing against her swollen sex, then as Alisdair moved over her, lowering himself into position, he pushed it inside her. She gasped, her legs jerking against the hands that held them aloft. Alisdair planted a hand beside her head, moving his hips between her legs, letting the illusion do its work. It wasn’t him inside her, yet with the heat of him over her, the smell and sight of him, every tiny sensation amplified. He moved between her legs, keeping hold of the phallus as though it were an extension of him, thrusting it inside her as he moved. Constance met his gaze, the wicked smile still playing on his face as he watched her.

“Is this what you want?”

Constance grabbed at him, pulling him against her, completing the illusion as the phallus moved deeper. His smile was beautiful and mischievous as he watched her, softly chanting the words of the circle as he moved over her, playing at this thrusting with a satisfied expression. Constance let her head fall back, her body curling beneath him as she felt her sex begin to throb. These sensations were unlike those the masked strangers could offer. These were something so much stronger, pulsing through her, from her chest to her fingertips. He lowered himself more now, letting her feel his weight, begging him on as she tugged at his shirt. Finally, she reached for his face, pulling the mask away. He startled for only an instant, then as his eyes darted across her face, he doubled the ferocity of his movements, and kissed her.

Just the light flit of his tongue against hers was enough to work its magic. Constance shuddered beneath him, curling her fingers into his hair as she came beneath him, the phallus as hard and solid as stone. Alisdair continued to move, continued to taste her lips as she gasped into his mouth, shaking beneath him. He moved over, unceasing, grunting softly deep in his throat as he moved, the way she imagined he would were to take her himself. She ached to know that sensation, to feel him succumb in her arms in that way. He moved a moment longer as she collapsed beneath. Then, he pulled from the kiss, glaring down at her as he rose to his knees, leaving the phallus still inside her. He gestured for Thomas to bring the cup.

His energy was strange, agitated almost; urgent. Thomas did as he was told, moving swiftly, and Alisdair took the chalice, pulling the phallus from inside her. He glared up at her with an intensity that was almost unnerving, then lowered his face to her sex and tasted her with his tongue. Constance shuddered, crying out against the sudden sensation, startled by how different, how much more wonderful it felt when he did it, even just for a second. Her hands flew to cover her exposed sex and shield herself from him and this wild feeling. He stopped then, rising to his full height, and raising the glass over them both. He drank it deeply, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow.

Constance‘s fingers remained between her legs, as though shielding herself still from further assault. She felt the wetness there, slick against her wounded finger.

Alisdair slumped down between her legs, letting the empty chalice lie across her stomach. Constance saw red still pooled within the glass.

Thomas came to the altar, taking the chalice from his hand, setting it on a tray on the nearby table. Alisdair took deep ragged breaths, his head down, his eyes still closed. Constance began to worry, watching him breathlessly, just as the rest of the circle seemed to. Finally, one of the robed figures spoke.

“M’Lord?”

Alisdair’s dark eyes went wide and he turned his head sharply, glaring at the robed circle just as every candle in the room went out. Their voices went shrill, screaming in the dark, confused and frightened. The room was near pitch, but Constance didn’t dare move, still feeling Alisdair’s solid shape kneeling between her legs. There was commotion, the sound of candelabras being knocked askew, incense burners skittering across the floor, leaving trails of sparks in their wake as the robed crowd scampered for the door. Constance heard one of the female voices yelling at her husband that she’d had enough, and another male voice bellowing for Roman. Someone found the door and a large blast of light fell across the ballroom floor as the figures all rushed out into the hallway, their robes flitting about them as they fled toward the front door of the house. Constance watched them go, her heart pounding in her ears, still aware of Alisdair, his body close, humming like a tightly wound guitar string.

She waited until the distant clamor faded away, then she reached for him, letting her hand graze against his thigh. He grabbed her hand in his and squeezed just as Thomas lit a match by the mantle. Thomas’ face appeared in gold and yellow light as he lit the candles of one candelabra. It was enough light to make out the shapes of her own body, the curve of the marble columns around the perimeter of the room, and Alisdair, silhouetted from behind, still kneeling over her, his loose hair hanging over his face.

Thomas moved closer, and as the light cast across Alisdair’s face, Constance could see his expression – he was smiling.

Alisdair pushed his hair up and out of his face, then turned to Thomas. “That went better than I ever could have imagined.”

Thomas nodded, grinning just so. “It was rather pleasant, M’Lord.”

Alisdair rubbed Constance’s thigh, then hopped down from the altar. “Do get Miss Constance her robe, would you Thomas?”

“Of course, M’Lord.”

“Stop calling me that, damn it. The night’s over.”

“As you wish, Master.”

Alisdair chuckled. “Prick.”

With that Thomas offered his hand to her and Alisdair moved toward the back doors of the ballroom. 

“The carriage is ready when m’lady is so inclined.”

Constance turned, startled, and found a dark figure silhouetted in the far doors. Thomas lifted the robe around her shoulders just as Alisdair called from behind. “She will not be returning this evening.”

Constance, Thomas, and Gregory all spoke at once. “What?”

“Yes. Constance, if you would humor me, I would ask that you stay.”

Constance’s heart began to race before she could form the words to respond. “I wouldn’t want to impose, M’Lo-”

“Well then, it is settled. Thomas, would you please show her to her quarters. I think the White Parlor would be the best suited, don’t you? Thank you, Gregory. That will be all.”

Alisdair went over to the table and began to wash his hands in a basin. Thomas hustled over to the door of the ballroom and stood aside, waiting for Constance to follow. She moved slowly, waiting by the table for Alisdair to pass. He glanced up at her as he dried his hands and winked. Then he slipped past her out the ballroom doors. Thomas followed him with his eyes a moment, and as he did, Constance reached for the chalice and dipped her finger into the red liquid that remained there that sat there. She pulled her hand back and slipped her wounded finger into her mouth. She could taste the salt of herself still on her fingers, and beneath that the sharp flavor of the wine. She sucked her finger gently and tasted the metallic tinge of blood.