Blood Fire (4 page)
“Why me? Come, sweetheart, if you want me to do this, tell me why you’ve chosen me. I can’t offer you anything after this night. There would be no question of marriage. But I suspect you were hoping for more than just a night of passion.”
“How could I?” she asked bitterly. “I won’t have a future.”
Was she really dying? He couldn’t deny that she was obviously ill. She was thin, with collarbones that jutted beneath her skin, and bony knees and elbows. If he left her, would she find another man to ruin herself with? Any other man here would accommodate her without guilt or remorse. Most of them wouldn’t take care with her. Most of the gentlemen who attended the duke’s orgies were interested only in their own pleasure, not their partner’s.
Never had he expected to feel damnably guilty for not ruining a woman.
He sighed. “All right.”
He was certain he heard her softly whisper, “Thank heavens.”
He got back onto the bed, positioned himself between her spread thighs. She was a slender sylph beneath him. Her hair was falling from her pins. Suddenly, he realized her hair was vaguely familiar. Somewhere recently he had seen a woman who possessed thick, golden hair like this. He dimly remembered how he’d looked at a woman and had noticed her pins could barely restrain her hair’s unruly waviness. Where had he made that observation?
“You will be gentle,” she whispered, “won’t you?”
Apparently she must have been watching him for a while before she had decided to lure him to a seduction. “Yes, very gentle,” he promised.
He’d pushed his cock into her snug heat only inches before the taut head gently nosed against her barrier. She drove her fingernails into his back.
Suddenly, he knew he had a choice to make. He could stop, though his body was urging him to thrust his hips forward. His cock throbbed with pain, yearned to be squeezed tight inside her. But he could force himself to pull back. He could break her heart and send her away. It would be the gentlemanly thing to do. Protect her, whether she liked it or not.
Or he could ruin her like a blackguard, knowing she might want this now but she would be in tears in the morning.
He had unleashed a demon because of his arrogance. He hadn’t saved his own brother’s life. He was already condemned to Hell, wasn’t he?
He might as well have his pleasure . . . and ruin her.
London teemed with mortal life.
Esmeralda prowled through the shadows of a street notorious for its gaming hells. Gentlemen were everywhere around her, and the very smell of them made her slowly lick her lips. She had never seen so many delectable men. They were unlike those of her home. These were not grizzled men accustomed to the hard work of peasants. These men smelled of soap and cleanliness. They wore elegant clothes. She admired their wide shoulders, their narrow hips, the trousers that clung to their legs.
Beautiful. They were so beautiful.
She was so thankful to that handsome man who had set her free. He had dark, lush hair and eyes as blue as a clear spring sky. He had been a foolish man. He had not listened to the warnings of the villagers. How she delighted in arrogant English peers. If it had not been for his belief in his superiority, the poor, handsome fool, she would still be trapped in her prison.
She had wanted him, but he had managed to escape her. His brother had not. His brother had been young and very handsome. He had been a wonderful playmate in her bed, and his blood had been so plentiful and so sweet.
Eventually she would find the gorgeous male who had freed her. She wanted him. But for now . . .
She would find a man now. She would lure him into a night of carnal pleasure. Then, when she was well satisfied, she would take the ultimate prize.
She would drink his blood.
Slowly, she watched the gentlemen walk by. Many were drunk on spirits. Some looked bleak with despair. She had learned that men gambled their money here, and some lost fortunes in these places.
Then she saw him. The perfect prey. A lovely young man with curly, blond hair. He could not be more than one-and-twenty years of age. His jaw was smooth, and he looked like an angel.
Esmeralda stepped out of the shadows. She wore a gown of dark red, one that clung to her voluptuous figure. Her pale breasts almost spilled over the neckline. She smiled and spoke to the young man through her thoughts.
Come to me, my beautiful lover. Come to me, and I will show you heaven.
It did not matter what she said. No mortal man could resist a demoness like she.
The young man turned and obediently trotted after her. She was slick with arousal, her heart pounding with desire and hunger.
Here was the perfect place—a shadowy alley. The moment the young man appeared at the entrance, searching for her, she dragged him into the darkness and shoved him against the brick wall. Her fingers tore the placket of his trousers, releasing the earthy scent of his cock.
How young and sweet he was. She bent on one knee, drinking in the rich, erotic smells. He moaned as she took his lovely staff into her mouth and sucked. He was enthralled, caught under her spell, and he rocked his hips to thrust into her mouth.
She sucked him until he was thick and rigid, his cock engorged with blood. She felt it pulse against her tongue. She dragged her fangs along the ridged length of him, making him shudder. She was creamy now, her nipples erect with hunger and need. The pump of blood along the tip of her fangs was so thrilling and erotic, it made her want to howl with delight.
She could bite now and feel his blood spurt out.
But no, she wanted to be pleasured first.
She released him and turned him, so she was pressed against the wall, and he was positioned between her thighs. His long, youthful, rock-hard penis was wedged between her skirts.
“Push them up,” she whispered, panting with lust. “Fuck me.”
He did so eagerly, and she savored his first long, hard thrusts. He was an eager young man.
But then, as her orgasm built, she wanted the ultimate pleasure.
As the climax roared through her, Esmeralda sank her fangs into the young man’s neck. Together, they both sank to the ground.
And she gave her last spasm of an orgasm, as he slumped, lifeless, from her arms.
3
The First Time, Finally
O
ctavia braced herself for the twinges of pain that she’d heard newly married ladies whisper about.
ctavia braced herself for the twinges of pain that she’d heard newly married ladies whisper about.
But Sutcliffe withdrew slightly, making her mewl in frustration. She could feel the swollen head of his penis resting just inside her.
She wanted him inside. Though she feared the pain, she yearned to be filled by him. The need was so strong, she almost wanted to scream.
Braced on his arms over her, Sutcliffe arched a brow, looking very lordly.
“How can you stop?” she asked in a raspy voice. She ached and throbbed inside. She felt as if she would burst if she didn’t do this. Why wasn’t
he
so desperate and lust-driven that he couldn’t stop?
he
so desperate and lust-driven that he couldn’t stop?
“I don’t want to stop. At any moment my hips might surge forward whether I like it or not, and the deed will be done.” The earl panted, and it lent a sharp rhythm to his words. “But every time I try to just take your innocence, my conscience stops me.”
“Don’t listen to your dratted conscience,” she whispered. In a heartbeat, she wrapped her legs around the backs of his thighs, trapping him so he couldn’t get away. Who was this wild woman who held a man captive? It was she, and she had never been so driven and obsessed in her life. Her roaring heartbeat filled her ears. Her throat was dry and tight with anguish. He couldn’t stop now. He just
couldn’t
. She wanted this—needed this. Something in her heart, or in her womb, or deep in her soul refused to allow him escape.
couldn’t
. She wanted this—needed this. Something in her heart, or in her womb, or deep in her soul refused to allow him escape.
“I’ve seen tentacles with less ability to cling,” he muttered. Then he let out a harsh breath. “You really want me to ruin you?”
“Yes.”
She thrust her hips up, taking his shaft deeper inside, and she gasped in shock at the sudden, lancing pain.
She thrust her hips up, taking his shaft deeper inside, and she gasped in shock at the sudden, lancing pain.
He arched his hips forward, then he kissed her lips, her cheeks, her forehead. He stroked her cheek softly with one hand, rubbed his thumb against her nipple with the other. With so much sensation, she could barely think of the pain. And it eased. Now she felt fullness, as his shaft invaded a bit, pushing between the soft, wet walls. It seemed amazing to think his large penis could fit, even though they were intended for this.
Her private place still tingled from the orgasm she’d just had, and she felt
soooo
sensitive. She whimpered as Sutcliffe stroked his shaft slowly in and out. It was a sensation that swamped her mind, that made her fingers and toes curl, made her sob and moan.
soooo
sensitive. She whimpered as Sutcliffe stroked his shaft slowly in and out. It was a sensation that swamped her mind, that made her fingers and toes curl, made her sob and moan.
He lowered his head, groaning. “You believe you don’t have a future,” he said hoarsely.
“I don’t. Please.”
But his penis slid back. With a quick jerk of his hips, he withdrew from her. He moved down her body and bent to nibble her nipples on the way. Octavia squeaked, but loved the way he tenderly took each pink tip between his lips. His fingers stroked her aching nub. But it wasn’t enough. She wanted to be filled by him.
But he moved down her body, down to the crisp curls between her thighs. As a scholar of the world, her father had collected sketches and paintings of mating rituals. She had looked through them without Father’s knowledge. She thought she knew what Sutcliffe was about to do.
Still, it was one thing to look at pictures, and another to watch a beautiful, naked man settle between her thighs, part her legs, and lower his mouth to her quim.
He licked her there. With his tongue. She almost leapt off the bed. Of course, she couldn’t, for he was between her thighs, with his arms wrapped around her bare legs. She gasped as his tongue stroked her nether lips, then slid up, to touch the sensitive nub at the apex of her lips.
His tongue was so hot and wet, and just a little rough.
Pleasure exploded inside her. She shut her eyes and gasped as rainbow colors shot across the darkness. She cried with the pleasure. It rushed through her, a wave of sheer delight. “Oh, Sutcliffe! Oh heavens!”
He laughed huskily. Then he moved over her.
“
Now
. Please now,” she commanded. “Do it now.”
Now
. Please now,” she commanded. “Do it now.”
She cried out as he slid inside her. The ache eased at first, then he thrust and the twinge of agony came back, stronger and more intense. It was an ache that needed his long shaft stroking inside her. She clung to his back, holding him as tightly as she could.
He drove his shaft deeply into her. His hips collided with hers, and when he thrust to the hilt inside her, he lifted her off the bed.
She loved this. This was perfect. Heaven. All she’d dreamed. Sutcliffe’s eyes were a brilliant blue with desire. His mouth was tense. The harder he thrust, the more he sweat. It beaded on his head. It made his chest and back dewy.
She loved this. She’d never dreamed sex would be so sweaty. That she would be panting as though she’d run miles. That it would smell so lush and exotic.
He bent and captured her mouth, thrusting his tongue into her mouth at the same pace as he buried his shaft inside her. Each deep plunge made her moan and shiver, made her grip his shoulders and scratch his back, and pleasure shot through her. She felt pleasure in every nerve.
He kissed her hard, his mouth open, and he thrust so deep, she felt his groin bang hard against her—
“Oooooooh!”
Octavia arched up to him, driving her nails into his skin, wrapping her legs around him. She bit his neck. She sobbed against his warm, dewy throat. Screamed and cried and came apart in a million pieces and rushed back together—
Then everything went black.
“My dear, are you all right?”
Octavia blinked. “Where—?” A strange canopy loomed over her, one painted with naked nymphs. She jerked up in a panic. Where was she?
“Sweetheart?” asked a gentle voice.
Lord Sutcliffe was in the bed beside her. Suddenly, everything rushed back. The sex, the pleasure—the amazing, intense pleasure that had left her so dizzy she’d passed out.
“I’m all right.” She shyly looked toward Sutcliffe. She lay back down on the bed.
“Did you actually lose consciousness?” He lay beside her, on his back, and he pillowed his arms beneath his head.
“Yes. Is—is that unusual?”
“Very, my dear.” His beautiful grin widened. “You are remarkable. That was better than anything I’ve had for—” He broke off. He rolled onto his side and gathered her to him. “It’s amazing that your mask is still in place.”
He peered intently into her eyes, and she feared that he could guess who she was. She felt for the mask ties behind her head. They had loosened. Octavia was thankful the fire was almost out, and they were shrouded in darkness.
Gently, Sutcliffe traced the lace edge of her mask. His fingers reached the place on the right side where the tie connected to the leather.
“No,” she said quickly, heart thudding. She pressed the mask to her face and scuttled away. “You mustn’t.”
“You know, you are the first nameless, mystery woman with whom I have shared a bed. Normally, I know who my lovers are.”
“Well, you can’t. Not with me. It’s so much better if you don’t know my identity.”
“That only intrigues me more.”
Oh heavens. “You are supposed to be a rake. I thought it wouldn’t matter to you.” She scurried to the edge of the bed. Really, he had the reputation of bedding a different woman almost every night. Why was he so interested in knowing who she was? Given his notorious behavior, he should be happy she’d only wanted one night.
She hadn’t thought of what would happen after lovemaking. Never would she have dreamed it involved Sutcliffe’s deciding he needed to know who she was.
Sutcliffe slid across the sheets to her, and she hung onto her mask, about to protest, when he kissed her. And what a kiss. It left her as liquid as fresh honey. She wished she could stay all night like this, underneath him, hot and languorous and so well pleasured, while he did wonderful things to her mouth.
A sharp rap sounded on the door. “Are you done in there?” shouted a deep, masculine, autocratic voice. “We need a room.”
“Find another. We are busy,” Sutcliffe yelled.
A muttered curse sounded through the closed door, along with a female giggle. Another hard thump came—a fist pounded in frustration—but Sutcliffe shouted again, sounding both autocratic and irritated. “Bugger off and find another room.”
Would this come to a fight? Octavia froze with worry. Then she heard heavy footsteps heading down the hall, and a trail of giggling that grew fainter.
“Sorry, my luscious mystery lover,” Sutcliffe murmured. “We can’t stay here.” He sat up, then slid out of the bed. He had his trousers on in seconds.
As he fastened them, he faced her. “You need to go home. If you stay, another man will expect to bed you. I will escort you home, lovely creature.”
Octavia panicked. Not because she wanted to stay at the orgy, but she couldn’t allow him to take her home. “No, it isn’t necessary. I found my way here; I can certainly return home. I hardly want my family to see me with a strange gentleman.”
“What family would that be?”
“That is neither here nor there. They are a family, and therefore will disapprove of . . . of scandalous behavior.” They wouldn’t disapprove, that was the worst of it. Instead, her father would be devastated and heartbroken. She felt she could live with his rage. But knowing she had caused him pain would destroy her.
“All right. But I will see you to your carriage.” He pulled on his shirt, then asked, “Did you bring your own carriage?”
She shook her head. “No.” She did not want to tell him she had come here in a hackney, and that she had snuck out alone from her home before she’d summoned the vehicle. She had brought a dagger from Father’s collection of artifacts. As she’d walked, she’d had the knife hidden in a pocket of her cloak but kept her hand wrapped around the hilt. If anyone had attacked, she would have used it.
“Then I will see you on board a hackney. I could ride with you—”
“No.”
Sutcliffe had been to her house. He would guess who she was at once. Though, did it matter? It wasn’t as if she was an innocent ninny who had been seduced. Sutcliffe had told her she was not to expect a proposal of marriage. He would hardly change his mind if he knew she was the daughter of his rival.
Sutcliffe had been to her house. He would guess who she was at once. Though, did it matter? It wasn’t as if she was an innocent ninny who had been seduced. Sutcliffe had told her she was not to expect a proposal of marriage. He would hardly change his mind if he knew she was the daughter of his rival.
It did matter. What if he told her father what she had done?
“All right,” he said finally. “Let me help you dress.”
It was strange to get dressed with him and not speak. Neither of them said a word. But what could she say? She could hardly ask him if he was going to enjoy the rest of the orgy while she was gone. It shouldn’t matter, there was no future for her, but she didn’t want to think of him going to other women.
With his help, she had her Grecian gown in place and fastened in minutes. He summoned a servant to fetch her cloak. Then they waited, again in awkward silence.
Finally he cleared his throat. “My dear, I don’t want to believe you are actually dying.”
She didn’t want to talk of this. She did not feel weak. Her body still felt tingly and almost light as a feather from pleasure. But she met his gaze and said, “Thank you. But I have accepted it.”
“What is it that ails you?”
“I don’t know. No doctor has been able to understand it.”
“Perhaps you have not seen the right doctor.”
“I’ve seen many, many of them.” She sighed. Father had employed one physician after another; each one had visited the house and examined her—well, had spoken to her and asked her questions. Only one doctor had placed a thing called a stethoscope to her chest and had listened to her lungs.
Father had held onto hope, but finally he had begun to give up after she had been visited by at least half of all the doctors in London. He was convinced he had brought some virulent and mysterious illness back with him from one of his travels, and she had caught it. She had argued that Father was obviously healthy, but he pointed out there were those who never got sick, yet who managed to spread disease while they remained untouched.
If it was a disease from somewhere else in the world, it was unheard of in London. For no one had been able to give it a name or cure it.
Sutcliffe was watching her, regret and tenderness in his eyes. “It is strange.”
“It is,” she said briskly. The pain in his face was hard to look at. Anyway, she couldn’t give him any further explanation about her illness. How could she reveal that it might come from some other place, like Russia, or Turkey, or Africa, without revealing her father’s identity?
Sutcliffe and her father were rivals—could Sutcliffe be the kind of man who would use what she’d done to hurt her father?
She felt his gaze on her and lifted her head. He studied her, eyes frankly curious. “What kind of symptoms do you have?”
“Many things. Weakness, generally. My legs become so tired and shaky, they won’t hold me up. My heart beats without a regular rhythm, and my pulse becomes faint. It’s hard for me to breathe. My body aches everywhere. But some things ease it.” She’d spoken the last before she thought.
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