The Leopard Prince (14 page)

He bent closer, and she thought she felt his tongue touch her ear. “Me?”

She gasped. This was what drove her on, despite her embarrassment, despite her fear: desire for this man.

“Yes. I . . . I want you to kiss me like you did before. I want to see you naked. I want to be naked for you. I want . . .”

But her thoughts scattered because this time she was sure of it—he was tracing the rim of her ear with his tongue. And while the
idea
of such a caress might seem rather odd, in reality it was
divine.
She shivered.

Harry’s chuckle puffed against her wet ear. “You want many things, my lady.”

“Mmm.” George swallowed as another thought occurred to her. “And I want you to stop calling me
my lady.
”

“But you order me about so masterfully.” His teeth closed on her earlobe.

George had to press her knees together to contain her own excitement. “E-even so—”

“Maybe I should call you George, as your sister does.” He trailed a line of kisses up to her temple.

She frowned as she tried to concentrate on his words. It wasn’t very easy. “Well—”

“Although I’m afraid I don’t see you in the same way as your sister. George is such a mannish name.” His hand wandered to her breast. “And I don’t find you mannish at all.” One thumb brushed her nipple.

She almost stopped breathing.

He circled the tip through the fabric of her dress.
Oh, dear Lord.
She didn’t know it was possible to feel so much from such a little touch.

“I could call you Georgina, but it’s long.” He watched his hand, his eyes dark.

What?

“And then there is Gina, a pet name, but it’s too common for you.” He squeezed her nipple, and she felt the jolt all the way to the center of her being.

She moaned helplessly.

Harry’s gaze flicked up to hers. He no longer smiled. “So, you see, I think I’ll have to continue calling you
my
lady.”

His head dipped. His mouth was on hers before she could even think. Biting, licking, sucking. His kiss—if such a ravenous devouring could be called a kiss—overwhelmed her senses. She tunneled her fingers through his hair and hung on for dear life.
Oh, thank the Lord!
She’d begun to think she would never taste him again. She suckled his tongue, murmuring her enjoyment.

He made a sound—a growl?—and placed a hand frankly on her bottom and pulled her roughly against himself. She would’ve bet her life that the hard rod she felt poking into her lower belly was his manhood. Just to be sure, she rubbed against it, and his rod now had almost all of her attention. He rewarded her daring by shoving a knee between her legs. The effect was so exciting that she almost forgot about the rod. He’d somehow found
that
spot, that little place that could bring her so much pleasure. He rubbed that spot with his leg while thrusting his tongue repeatedly into her mouth.

She nearly whimpered at the sensation. Did he know? Did all men have a secret understanding of that part of a woman’s anatomy? George pulled at his hair until Harry’s lips broke away from hers. His knee continued its maddening motion. She looked into his eyes, heavy-lidded and burning green, and saw devastating knowledge. Harry knew exactly what he was doing to her. It wasn’t fair! He would have her lying in a puddle of want before she could even discover him.

“Stop.”

The word came out more a gasp than a command, but Harry stilled at once. “My lady?”

“I said I wanted to see
you.
” George dismounted his knee. That really was the only word for it.

Harry spread his arms wide. “Here I am.”

“Naked.”

For the first time, there was a trace of unease in his face. “As my lady wishes.” But he made no move.

She saw it in his eyes; she’d have to undress him herself. She bit her lip, excited and uncertain at the same time. “Sit there.” She pointed to the armchair by the fire.

He obeyed, lounging back, his legs sprawled.

She hesitated.

“I’m yours to do with as you wish, my lady,” he said. The words came out a purr, as if a great cat had granted her leave to pet it.

If she balked now, she’d never find out. She knelt and carefully undid the buttons on his shirt. His hands were draped casually over the chair’s arms, and he made no move to help. She reached the last button and spread the halves of his shirt wide, examining him. The lines of his neck tendons ran down into the hills of his shoulders, smooth and taut. Below, he had small brown nipples, puckered like her own. She touched one with a fingertip and then traced the bumpy ridge of the surrounding dark circle.

He made a sound.

Her gaze flicked to his. His eyes glowed under lowered lids, and his nostrils were flared; otherwise he was still. She looked back to his bare chest. In the center grew dark hairs, and she brushed over them to feel their texture. They were smooth, damp underneath with his sweat. She followed the trail of hair down to his belly where it encircled his navel. How strange. And the hair skimmed lower. It must meet up with . . . She searched the placket of his trousers for the buttons that closed it. His manhood stood up stiffly within the fabric. From the corner of her eye, she saw his hands grip the chair arms, but he let her have her way. She found the buttons. Her hands trembled and one button popped off. She undid the placket and slowly peeled it back while struggling to draw breath.

It
stood up all by itself, larger than she’d ever imagined, poking through his smallclothes. The statues lied. There was no way this could fit beneath those puny fig leaves.

It was ruddier than the flesh of his belly, and she could see veins throbbing along the length. The head was bigger than the rest, shining and red. The hair at the base was damp, and when she leaned forward—oh, dear Lord— she could smell him. Male musk, heavy and intoxicating.

George didn’t know the etiquette of the situation, whether it was done or not, but she reached out. If she died tomorrow and had to make accounting for her eternal soul before the gates of heaven and St. Peter himself, she would not regret it: She touched Harry Pye’s cock.

He groaned and lifted his hips.

But she was distracted by her discovery. The skin was soft, like the finest kid glove, and it moved separately from the muscle beneath. She skimmed her palm over the shaft up to the head and found liquid leaking from a slit. Was this the seed of life?

He groaned again. This time he grabbed her and lifted her to his lap, obscuring that most interesting part of his body.

“You’re going to kill me, my lady.” He worked at the hooks at the back of her gown. “I promise on my father’s grave that you may look at my naked body for hours, or as long as I can stand it,
later.
But right now”—her gown gaped forward, and he pulled it and her shift down— “I need to see
your
naked body.”

She frowned, about to protest, but he had the entire bodice off now, and he bent his head and sucked on her nipple. She gazed down at his head, shocked; then the sensation caught up with the act and she inhaled. She knew men were fascinated with breasts, but she’d no idea.

Oh, my, was this usual?
Perhaps it didn’t matter—he tongued his way to her other breast and sucked on that one as well—because it felt so erotic. So evocative. Now her hips moved, swiveling of their own accord. He chuckled and she felt the vibration through her nipple.

And then he bit gently.

“Oh, please.” She was startled at the huskiness of her own voice. She didn’t know for what she begged.

But Harry knew. He shifted and dragged her gown from off her body. He pulled off her slippers one at a time and let them drop to the floor. She lay across his lap like some odalisque, naked except for her stockings and garters, his cock pressed into her hip. She should have been embarrassed, she knew. If she were proper at all, she would’ve run away, screaming. Which only proved what she’d suspected for some time: She’d lost all sense of propriety. For when Harry lifted his head and slowly,
very
slowly, perused her naked body, she actually arched her back as if to display herself.

“You’re so beautiful.” His voice was guttural, deep and rasping. “Here”—he touched her swollen nipples—“they look like red berries in snow. Here”—he smoothed his hand on the curve of her belly—“so soft, like down. And here.” His fingers combed into the auburn curls surrounding her womanhood. His hand tightened on her mound for a moment. His face was carnal in the firelight, the lines in sharp relief, his lips drawn back. He slid his long middle finger between her folds.

She shut her eyes as he touched her there.

“Do you like it softly?” His finger brushed over her. “Or firmly?” He stroked.

“L-like that,” she sighed. She spread her thighs a little more.

“Kiss me,” he whispered, and turned his head to brush feather kisses across her lips.

She moaned into his mouth. Her hands tangled in his hair and roamed over the warm skin of his shoulders. And all the while his finger stroked until the tension built to unbearable levels, and he thrust his tongue into her mouth. George arched, feeling her heart beat out of her chest and the warmth seeping, spreading, from her middle. She felt shaken, as if she’d taken a journey from which there was no return.

He petted her, gentle and consoling.

When she began to drift, he lifted her, stood, and walked to his bedroom. He lay her down on his narrow bed and stepped back deliberately. Harry watched her—for resistance?—as he stripped out of his remaining clothes. She lay there limply, anticipating whatever he would do next. Then he climbed over her and poised for a moment on all fours, a hungry beast about to devour his prey.

His very willing prey.

“It may hurt.” He searched her eyes.

“I don’t care.” She pulled his head down to hers.

He met her lips and nudged her legs apart with his own. She felt him at her entrance. He lifted his head and braced himself on one hand, then thrust himself into her. Or at least she thought he did. He drew back a little and thrust again, and more flesh entered her. Good Lord, would all of him . . .? Another thrust and she gasped. It hurt. It pinched. It burned. He glanced at her face, grit his teeth, and thrust powerfully. His pelvis met hers.

She whimpered. She felt full—too full.

Above her, he was still. A bead of sweat dripped off the side of his face and fell on her collarbone. “All right?” It was a grunt.

No.
She nodded and hazarded a smile.

“Brave girl,” he whispered.

He leaned down to kiss her and slowly moved his hips. He seemed to grind against her without actually shifting his manhood. That was quite nice. She explored his back, the bunched shoulder muscles, the valley of his spine, damp with sweat. She moved lower and felt his buttocks flex as he finally moved inside her. It wasn’t painful, but it wasn’t as nice as his finger had been before. She concentrated on teasing his tongue with her own. And pressing her fingers into the muscles of his bottom because they were oddly fascinating to her. She wished she could see his backside right now. She felt tender. He pumped. The feel of his manhood sliding in and out of her was rather interesting.

George idly wondered what they must look like.

Then all thought fled, for he had pressed his hand against her
there.
And somehow, the combination of his fingers and his thrusting cock was really altogether perfect. She gripped his hips and began to move her own. Utterly without rhythm, but it didn’t seem to matter. Almost . . .
Oh, heavens!
She actually saw stars. She broke their kiss to arch her head into the pillow in a bliss like none she’d ever felt before.

He was suddenly gone from her body, and she felt warmth splattering onto her belly. She opened her eyes in time to see Harry throw his head back and shout. The tendons in his neck stood out, and his upper body glistened with sweat.

He was the most magnificent thing she’d ever seen.

But it had been simple.

He’d chosen a sheep pasture on his own land. Isolated at night but close enough to the road so she’d be found before she rotted entirely away. It was important to associate this with the sheep poisonings. These farmers were a dull lot, and if the connections weren’t made for them, they might not see the obvious.

He could have tried to get the woman to drink the brew he’d made, but it’d been quicker to simply force it down her throat. Then he’d sat back and waited. The woman had sworn and cried at his treatment—she had already been drunk when he’d found her. Then, after a while, she’d clutched her stomach. Vomited. Shat.

And finally died.

Silas sighed and stretched, his muscles cramped from sitting so long on a damp boulder. He stood up and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. He walked over to the stinking corpse and unwrapped the carved stag. Carefully he placed it a few steps from the woman. Close enough to be found but far enough away to have been dropped. He looked critically at the scene he’d created and found it good.

He smiled to himself and walked away.