Silken Rapture: Princes of the Underground, Book 2 Read online

  She slid it over her thighs and yanked up gently on her sex, wincing slightly at the delicious ache wrought by the pressure of the fabric. She’d felt so prickly all day, so aroused, as if her nerves had been awakened and primed in preparation for sensual pleasure.

  Margaret had placed shoes and slippers along the shelves—why should she be surprised they were all in the correct size? Perhaps she was growing used to these bizarre coincidences, becoming accustomed to the world of a dream. She passed up the slippers, however, and padded into the bedroom, barefoot. A large black wolf sat like a sentinel to the right of the fireplace.

  Isabel shrieked and lunged for the closet, meaning to slam the door shut and block herself from the animal.

  “He’s quite tame, most of the time,” she heard Margaret say calmly from behind her. She whipped around a foot away from the closet and stared at the little woman in amazement.

  “It’s a wolf,” she said stupidly, pointing at the animal, which stood preternaturally still. The flames from the hearth caused its eyes to gleam and flicker against the backdrop of dark, sleek fur.

  “Yes, I realize that,” Margaret commented wryly as she smoothed a snowy white tablecloth over the small table. “His name is Royal. I’m baking a cake, and I won’t be able to join you for dinner, so I brought him along. I thought you’d like some company.”

  Isabel stepped closer into the room, her gaze wary on the wolf.

  “He’s a pet, then?”

  “A pet?” Margaret asked, glancing up from her task of laying out a place setting. “Of course not, he’s just Royal. Come, dear, sit down. I have Coq au vin for you, and a nice salad.”

  Steam puffed up when Margaret lifted a domed metal cover. Isabel approached the table and sat, her attention drawn by the mouth-watering fragrance of chicken, subtle spices and wine. The wolf’s eyes remained fixed on her.

  “Are you sure he’s safe?” Isabel asked as she picked up a heavy silver fork.

  “Quite so. Now, are you all right serving yourself if I run off to the kitchen?”

  “Believe it or not, Margaret, I’m quite used to feeding myself. I’m also used to eating alone, so you can take your friend over there with you when you go,” she said with a small smile. She lifted the cloth from a basket and inhaled the scent of fresh-baked rolls. She groaned. “Lord Delraven better release me by tomorrow, or I’m bound to gain fifty pounds on your cooking.”

  Margaret looked pleased. “Well you could use a little meat on your bones. Now, when you finish with your dinner, just put the tray in the hallway near the door, and I’ll send someone to pick it up later.”

  Isabel paused when she saw Margaret hadn’t moved from her position. Her brows quirked in bewilderment when she noticed Margaret looking at the wolf and nodding her head toward the door in a pointed gesture.

  The wolf remained unmoving.

  “Oh, just leave him,” Isabel said, shaking her head bemusedly. She groaned again when she put the fork in her mouth and the savory chicken practically melted on her tongue. “Make that sixty pounds,” she muttered, her eyes closed in gustatory ecstasy.

  Margaret chuckled and bustled out of the room.

  She’d eaten nearly half of her meal when she glanced down and jumped in alarm, dropping her knife to the china plate with a clatter. The wolf never flinched, but stared up at her, sitting on his haunches just a foot away from her chair. She’d never seen it move from its position near the fireplace. She saw her own startled expression in the depths of the wolf’s unusual eyes.

  “Are you hungry?” she whispered. She picked up her plate and placed the remainder of the chicken on the carpet next to her chair. “There you go.”

  The wolf lowered its head, sniffed, straightened and looked at her.

  “You must not have very good taste if that doesn’t appeal to you.” She ate a mouthful of salad. They engaged in a staring match while Isabel chewed. Doubts began to rise in her under the animal’s steady stare. Was Margaret entirely certain the creature was safe?

  He was an unusually large wolf, after all.

  She pushed back her plate and turned in her chair. She lifted her hands, and then placed them hesitantly in her lap. She’d been tempted by the texture and gleam of the wolf’s thick fur.

  She’d touched dogs and cats before with naked hands. Unlike touching humans, the experience was usually a positive one for her. Something made her wary about petting the wolf, though, despite her strong desire to do so. Perhaps something told her that touching a domestic animal and a wild one was two different things.

  Maybe the wolf sensed her ambivalence because it made a whining sound when she stood from the table and walked toward the sitting area before the fireplace.

  “What is it?” she asked the wolf as she plopped down in the corner of the deep, cushy sofa. She brought up her legs and placed her cheek on a velvet pillow. The large wolf followed her, spun around when he reached her knees and sat down on his haunches, facing her. Isabel laughed.

  “You’re an intense one, aren’t you?”

  Her smile faded after a moment. She jerked her gaze off the wolf’s eyes with effort and stared into the flames.

  “So how did you end up here, Royal?” she mumbled to herself, growing deliciously relaxed following the good meal and the heat from the flames. “Are you a captive in Sanctuary, as well?”

  The wolf’s front paws both shifted forward an inch before he stilled. He gave a low, plaintive growl. She lay there quietly, her limbs feeling heavy, her skin growing warm from the emanating flames. The arousal she’d been experiencing to various degrees all day long seemed to swell now that she had nothing to distract her from it.

  She lifted her gown and robe to her belly and lowered her panties to her thighs. She sensed the wolf watching her, but she didn’t acknowledge its attention as she removed her right-hand glove, careful not to touch the rich fabric of the couch. Her cream was thick between her labia when she inserted the ridge of her forefinger there and stirred.

  She laid her head back on the pillow, swimming in sensual lassitude. The silence hung thick around her, broken only by the occasional pop from a burning log or the wet sounds her fingers made in her abundant juices as she pleasured herself. In her mind’s eye, a fantasy lover with a shadowed face and burning eyes stared down at her while he fucked her. She was restrained, helpless to prevent his forceful possession. His cock plunged deep in her, deeper than she’d ever experienced in her life. He thrust into virgin territory like a conqueror staking his claim.

  She struggled beneath him, not because she wanted to escape, but because his lovemaking was so intense, so powerful, it overwhelmed her.

  Shhhh. Do not fight me. You are my prisoner, and I will have you whenever I choose. Now, take your pleasure, lovely.

  Climax shuddered through her, delicious and sweet.

  She panted in the aftermath. Sweat glazed her body. She stared at the flames, her eyelids heavy. Just before she succumbed to sleep she had the presence of mind to pull on her glove, jerk up her panties and lower her gown, in case Margaret returned. Afterward, she curled up on the soft couch and sank into slumber.

  She became aware of two things at once, as though the two phenomena were somehow one—a warm tongue licked and laved her fingers, and her sex ached with longing. In her sleep-addled brain, it was as though the mouth on her fingers was stimulating her pussy, as well. It felt so good, it took her a moment to realize her bare hands were being touched and she experienced only a dark, rich pleasure.

  How could that be?

  She struggled in the dream—although it really didn’t feel like a dream. It didn’t feel like waking consciousness either, though.

  Her fears and doubts were erased completely at the erotic sensation of a sharp incisor gently scraping against the fleshy pad of her forefinger. She whimpered and felt the tooth again, only to be followed by the sensation of being submersed in a warm, sucking mouth. She twisted her hips and climaxed, the quality of her orgasm sharp and tigh
t, making her crave more.

  She lay on her belly, her bare breasts and ribs pressed against the plush velvet fabric, her nipples hard and painfully erect. He was behind her—she sensed him perfectly. She wanted desperately to turn around and see her lover’s face, but her neck felt so heavy…and her hands—she pulled on her wrists—they were restrained at her lower back. Her clit twanged in sharp arousal and wild anticipation when she felt his weight press down on the cushions behind her. Her fire-warmed skin thrilled to the sensation of his hands on her hips and bottom, molding her flesh to his large hands.

  He spread his hands on her buttocks and parted them. She wiggled in his hold, resisting the power of his gaze. His palm swatting her ass cheek sounded like a cracking whip in the still room. She increased her struggling, but he held her easily.

  He spanked her again. She heard him chuckle behind her, the sound both sinister and gently amused at once.

  “I can read your mind,” he said in a roughly accented voice. He matter-of-factly lifted her bottom off the couch with his forearm and swatted her again, making the tender flesh sting. “I’m only doing it because you like it.”

  The smack of skin against skin stole her breath. She went entirely still when he flexed his arms, lifting her lower body farther, swinging her hips slightly off the front edge of the couch. He held the entire weight of her lower body in his grasp. Her eyes went wide when he held her in place with his forearm. He lifted one foot onto the couch—she could feel his hard, muscular leg next to her hip and outer thigh.

  Oh my God, she thought, eyes going wide, when she felt his cock probing her pussy. He began thrusting, using the power of his arms to take her weight, demanding entry. She cried out in mounting excitement when he pressed the first four inches or so of his length into her, fixing himself in her flesh. He placed both hands on her hips and slid her pussy along the length of the shaft as he flexed forward. The skin of his pelvis slapped against her bottom, his balls kissed her wet tissues, yet he cushioned the weight of his thrust with his powerful hold on her lower body.

  The last thing she heard before an orgasmic rush of blood pounded in her ears was his grunt of primal satisfaction.

  He howled in pleasure as he erupted yet again at Isabel’s farthest reaches. He couldn’t seem to stop fucking her. It was as if he were determined to make up for all the centuries of abstinence in regard to sexual intercourse in two nights. Just when he thought he couldn’t come another time, he grew hard for her again. He’d filled her with his semen, just as he had last night.

  Truth be told, it was as if he was in heat…as if he was mating. That made no sense, however. The Sevliss princes were soulless. They were sterile. They did not take mates. They could not.

  He had not forgotten Isabel as they’d searched the tunnels this morning for some sign of Morshiel, although he’d successfully set aside the electric memories in order to see to his task. Even his failure at catching the scent of Morshiel and the Scourge had not diminished his need.

  Last night had been a grave error, but he’d been so weak…and suddenly, she’d been there. So beautiful, so powerful. He couldn’t do the impossible, like Aubrey. He couldn’t change the direction of gravity with his magic, or grow fields of the exotic mulberry underground.

  He was nothing but a beast in human clothes.

  Once he’d tasted Isabel Lanscourt, there had been no going back. The truth might be wrenching, it might be sad, it might be infuriating…

  …but it was the truth, nonetheless.

  He wished the wolf aspects of his human form wouldn’t make it so that his cock grew so swollen after climax. He longed to draw out of her tight, sweet hold. He wished he could see himself spilling the last of his seed on her smooth, satiny skin. He longed to see it on her belly, too, and her breasts and her lips.

  Savage that he was, he couldn’t help but crave to mark her again and again, put his scent all over her, fill her to overflowing with his seed.

  He panted for air, standing next to the couch, her hips and buttocks clutched in his hands, his cock still erupting inside her, vast waves of pleasure ebbing, but slowly.

  Silence settled around them.

  After a few minutes, she stirred and mumbled. Regret lanced through him, but there was nothing he could do. He knew his cock was stretching her, knew he was too large for her delicate body, but he could not withdraw.

  He would not have left her, even if his penis had not grown swollen in its post-climactic state, locking him to her. Words of comfort eluded him. What could he say that would soothe in these circumstances? He’d taken her blood, knowing what she was. He’d mingled their essences, knowing what he was.

  It was ludicrous for him to want to comfort her, given what he’d allowed to happen. He’d taken her prisoner, and now he’d taken her as his own. There could be no baser crime in the human world. The knowledge that what was between him and Isabel Lanscourt was something ruled by a different order and morality than the human variety didn’t help alleviate his guilt.

  He kept her in place with one hand and stroked her with the other, his touch the only way he could think to soothe her. His fingertips thrilled to every new patch of sleek, perspiration-glazed skin. She stilled beneath his touch, and he knew she was hyperaware of his hand…knew it because their minds, their very senses, were one in those taut moments in which he comforted her.

  He untied her hands when his erection had eased, and drew out of her.

  “Be careful. Don’t touch anything,” he murmured as he eased her down on her side on the couch, her hands now in an abbreviated praying position in front of her. Neither of them spoke as he gently, carefully replaced the gloves. When he’d finished, she scooted back on the couch and turned on her side, staring up at him with heavy eyelids, her lustrous hair spilling around her shoulders. The dying fire cast her skin in pale gold. Her vitessence danced like a million minute fireflies around her. She burned in his eyes; her satiated smile was like watching a brilliant sunset.

  “Delraven.”

  “Call me Blaise.”

  “Blaise,” she murmured, and something powerful stirred in him. Their minds were joined. She’d known he’d meant it literally. He’d longed to hear his name on her tongue.

  She held out her arms. “Come to me,” she mouthed.

  He swayed on his feet, hesitating. Her beckoning arms did not waver.

  He felt ridiculously enormous and ungainly when he sat down on the couch next to her. She was delicate curves and soft, pale skin, a luminous female beacon, while he was huge and hard and dark in comparison to her.

  He froze when she touched his chest and stroked him.

  “Stop it. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” she said, the wry hint in her voice warning him that she’d read his mind. Again. She glanced up at him, her brow quirked up in amusement. Their gazes held, and he had the sensation of melting into her.

  “What’s happening, Blaise?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know,” he said, his voice cracking slightly.

  Her small smile faded. For a brief, panicked moment, he was sure he was going to see her expression morph into disgust and fear as her pleasure faded, and the truth of what he was struck her consciousness. He swiftly placed his hand on her temple, preparing to spare her of her memories of him and what he’d just done to her…to spare himself from seeing that horrific realization in her eyes.

  “Don’t do that…don’t be afraid, not of me,” she said, anguish overcoming her features.

  Her soft plea was like the edge of Morshiel’s heartluster piercing his chest. He cupped her temple and willed her to forget.

  Chapter Seven

  A week later, Aubrey came upon David Kwan where he stood beneath Lord Delraven’s crest and the torch-lit corridor to his private quarters.

  “Cleopatra requests your presence, Menas.”

  Kwan looked about sixteen years old instead of three hundred and fifty when he broke into a grin. Isabel Lanscourt had this very eff
ect on the Literati. Kwan possessed one of the most brilliant minds in the field of physics Aubrey had ever known, but he’d turned into a lovesick puppy in the past week as several of them helped Isabel with her production of Antony and Cleopatra during their free time. Blaise had hired a small troop of classically trained Shakespearean actors along with a crew, but a few of the Literati had also succeeded in auditioning for parts. Aubrey had become thoroughly amused as he watched battle-hardened warriors and scholars of the highest degree pose and gesture on the stage. Never mind the amusement Aubrey got out of watching them scramble to grant Isabel Lanscourt’s every wish.

  “Are they rehearsing Act II?” David asked excitedly, even as he glanced back at Delraven’s corridor and a tinge of regret shadowed his features.

  “You may go to the theatre, David. I will take watch here.”

  “But Lord Delraven said that—”

  “I know who Delraven has set a guard for, and I assure you that Ms. Lanscourt will not breach his hallowed sanctuary.”

  David hesitated. The Literati were actually quite militaristic in their duty and command. When Lord Delraven gave an order, it was typically followed without the slightest alteration. Delraven didn’t always explain his tactics to them, but in their battles against Scourge revenants or any other intrigues in which the Literati took part, Delraven had never failed to provide the smartest, safest strategies for combat and operation.

  Aubrey also possessed the respect of a long-time leader, however, and he had Delraven’s trust. The Literati had seen proof of that time and again.

  “Go on, David,” he urged gently. “You can trust me to your duty.”

  David looked relieved. “Thanks, Aubrey. Thanks a lot.”

  Aubrey checked his watch and tucked it back into his velvet vest pocket. He wagered about five minutes, if that. The costume designer Blaise had hired had been taking her final measurements, and she’d planned to shower afterward.