Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 87848 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87848 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
“I would never hurt you, Beatrix. You alone are singular in this world. You, I will protect at the cost of all things, including my life. I want you to know that.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“Of course.”
He smiles a little and shakes his head. “Why is this so easy, when every other conversation we have is so hard? Why will you tell me nothing of your past, of your life before me, but seeing me slay a man in cold blood seems to bring you only peace?”
I give a little shrug. “I’m complicated, I suppose. Isn’t that what they say about women?”
“Complex, yes, but I intend to unravel those tangles in you.”
“Best of luck with that,” I laugh. I have no intention of divulging my secrets. I might have seen something dark in him, but what he just did was practical, if a little flamboyant. Duplante was clearly a problem that needed to be taken care of. I am an entirely different kind of dilemma.
“I’m taking you to bed,” he says. “My appetite has not been entirely sated yet, has yours?”
He’s not talking about food; even I in my relatively pure state know that. The desire between us has been sparking since I found him standing over his unfortunate victim sword in hand, and is only getting more intense by the moment.
He takes me to the bedroom and together we stand in the glow of moonlight now shining through the old windows.
“I love you,” he says. “I am devoted to you, and I will never, ever allow anybody to so much as disparage you, let alone hurt you.”
There’s stray blood on his suit and his shirt and on his neck. I rise to my tiptoes and delicately lap it from his skin, the tip of my tongue cleaning away those few drops of Lord Duplante.
I feel a shiver run through him as he understands what it is I just did, how I did not recoil from the sanguine aftermath of his murder, instead took it inside me.
“Mon dieu,” he murmurs. “You are an incredible creature, Trixie.”
I don’t usually like it when my name is shortened, but he says it with a delightful French smoothness that makes it sound like a sweet endearment.
“I like the taste of blood,” I say. “Especially blood shed for me.”
He growls in response as the tip of my tongue lingers around his pulse. I am teasing him, being quite forward. I am not playing the delicate, frightened little virgin with him. I am the feminine animal he desires, someone equal to him in ferocity if nothing else.
“More perfect than I could ever imagine,” he growls. He kisses me roughly, pushes me against the wall, rifles through the fabric that keeps him from me, the fancy gown an impediment to our mutual lust.
Blood rushes, flows, his cock surges inside me. Images of animal brutality flash through my mind as he fucks me. I know there’s something wrong with me. There’s always been something wrong with me.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” he purrs against my throat, dragging his teeth up my neck in a sensual motion that sends tingles running rampant through my body.
He pulls the gown from me, soft fabric sliding down my curves and pooling on the floor. The underwear I put on is taken off swiftly and meets the same fate.
Armand hoists me up in his arms and slides me down on his cock, impaling me with rough desire. My pussy is still aching from the first time we mated, but the pain only makes it better, more intense. It’s a dull ache that sinks through my pussy, finds all the heat inside me, and turns me into a writhing, squirming animal mess grinding against his cock.
It’s hard to hide my body’s tenderness though, and his ardor means that he is not careful or gentle. He fucks me like I want him to, like a filthy, hungry little animal riled by blood and lust.
“Mmmm oww, mmm,” I try to hide my sounds of pain amid my moans of undeniable pleasure.
“Does your sweet little pussy hurt?” He rumbles the question in my ear, pins me against the wall, and gives me a firm thrust.
“Mgghh!” I let out a little stifled cry, but he follows that rough thrust with another and another until finally I give in.
“It hurts a little,” I admit.
He slows immediately, sliding more slowly in and out of me, keeping me in place and keeping me fucked, though more gently now.
“Poor thing,” he says. “Not used to being mated, are you, this sweet little pussy is tender.” He gives another long thrust deep inside me, arching his hips.
“You’re a monster,” I moan.
It’s not a complaint, or an accusation. It’s an acknowledgement. He is beautiful and refined, but I thought he was soft in some way. He is not. He is as hard as anybody I have ever encountered, including the person I see in the mirror.