Wicked Games (14 page)

Gwen's first reaction was to recoil.
Mary, that would hurt!

But then another image flashed through her mind: Arthur's dark head bent over her breast, the sting of his fangs blending with the pleasure of his mouth working her nipple, tongue swirling in time to his long pulls. Desire flooded her, stark and hot, heavy as honey.

He transferred her wrists to his left hand and used his right to aim his cock at her mouth. “Suck me. Now.”

Gwen hesitated. She wasn't sure she liked this game he was playing. If it was a game, and not a cold prequel to something she wouldn't like at all.

“I'm getting impatient.” That intimate growl made wet heat bloom between her thighs. She leaned forward, arching her body even more, and engulfed the silken head of his cock. It tasted of arousal and salt and Arthur, and she damned near moaned at the taste, so lush and familiar even in the midst of this heartbreaking nightmare. A thought flashed through her mind:
Whatever he does to me, I'm going to make him remember this
. She angled her head to take him deeper down her working throat.

“You're not usually this submissive,” he said in a sensual growl. “I think I like it.”

Gwen ignored him, intent on his cock, sliding it as deep into her throat as she could, then pulling back slowly. An awkward process with her bound hands held over her head, yet somehow the discomfort of the pose made her more aware of him. Looming over her, with his big bare feet braced apart, his gaze predatory as he savored the sight of her lips wrapped around his cock.

Gwen could feel her pussy growing slicker with every sucking pull, every lick and erotic nibble. She wasn't really helpless, not with her magic, but she felt that way. And Jesu, it was arousing.

His free hand lifted, and she instinctively shied. Arthur hesitated, then curled his hand around his balls to caress himself. “You're not done.” He sounded cold and distant again, deep in his King-Arthur-is-pissed mode. “I want my dick deeper than that.”

Gwen thought about telling him what to do with his dick, but need growled louder than her pride. She drew off him to the fat plum head, then engulfed him again with a swirling lick.

“Deeper.” He rolled his hips. “Pretend I'm Lancelot.”

She gave serious thought to biting him for that, but instead sucked harder, rising on her knees, the better to angle her head down over the thick shaft.

There was pain buried beneath all that royal ice, and she'd never been able to resist Arthur in pain.

They both needed to escape what she'd done, if only for a moment. And she wanted—no, desperately needed—to forget just how bad the situation was.

Arthur's cock made a delicious distraction.

Watching Gwen suck him off while he held her bound wrists was so darkly erotic, Arthur knew he wasn't going to last long. “Deeper, Gwen,” he growled. “I want to hear you gag.”

She gave no indication she'd heard him. Instead she drew away entirely to swirl her tongue over the head of his cock, licking him with single-minded attention, as if he were covered in honey and she were trying to clean it off. And the sight of her—that beautiful face, blue eyes intent on his bobbing erection, licking, sucking, then taking him to the root, her full lips so soft, her throat so snug. Drowning him in sensation.

She didn't gag.

It was hard to play the bastard with Gwen's tongue dancing along his shaft. She seemed to know every single place his cock was most sensitive—the rim of the mushroom head, the vein that ran along its underside, the fold of skin along the bottom of the shaft.

And there was something dark and primitive in him that loved the sight of her bound on her knees with his shaft in her mouth. Hot arousal pumped through him as he looked down at her, watching her pretty pink lips stretched around his width as she worked him deeper and deeper still, until her nose was buried in his pubic hair. He rolled his hips, driven by that darkness in him, the need to take her roughly, make her submit. A hunger given even more power by her sensual response to his dominance.

Another ruthless thrust into that soft, clinging mouth. She sucked, pulling hard, once, twice, and . . .

Heat pulsed in his balls and poured up the shaft in a pumping rush. Arthur's head rocked at the stark, white-hot pleasure. Its blazing intensity drove every other thought out of his skull. “Swallow it, Gwen,” he gritted through his fangs. “Drink it down. Every drop.”

As he watched, his wife did just that, her lovely blue eyes rolling up to watch his face. At last she drew off his sated cock.

She fucked Lancelot.
The thought pierced him like a stiletto in the dark, a cold, slicing pain.

Arthur's lips curled into a smile. He suspected it looked vicious. “You do realize I had you suck me off so I'll last longer when I fuck your arse?” He pulled up on her wrists, lifting her to her feet with his Magus strength. “I'm going to take my time, really grind it in.” The king lifted a brow, recognizing what an utter prick he was being. “I assume Lancelot didn't beat me to it . . . ?”

“Damn you, Arthur!” Gwen spat, finally goaded into speech. Just as he'd intended. “I didn't mean to do this to you—to us. I was just trying to . . .” She broke off.

“To what? What were you trying to do? What happened, dammit?” He had to know. Ached, burned to know.

Her pretty face closed down in a stubborn expression he'd come to know all too well. Gwen had made up her mind. He wasn't going to get a word out of her. And he knew why.

She was protecting her lover.

Rage bolted through him, a bloody, jealous demon that curled his lips into a fanged snarl. “You should be worrying less about du Lac and more about yourself.”

He caught her around the waist, swung her toward the bed, and took her down with him.

They landed on the thick, feather-filled mattress, him on top, though he made sure his knees and elbows took most of his weight. Catching her bound wrists with one hand, he pinned them to the bed above her head. “You need to think about what I could do to you.” He was acutely aware of her soft breasts pressing against his chest.

Her nipples were hard.

He remembered the threat he'd made earlier—to bite one of those little peaks and drink. He hadn't meant it, had no intention of inflicting such pain on that tender, sensitive flesh.

But he wasn't above making her think he would. His wife needed to take him a hell of a lot more seriously—needed to grasp just how much danger she was in.

Kay had urged him to kill her.

Arthur loomed over Gwen, his big body pressing hers into the mattress. She should've been terrified. Instead she felt aroused. Hot. Wet and needy.

He braced on one arm, the other hand still holding her wrists, and studied her breasts with silken menace. “You don't seem to realize what I could do to you.” Slowly, his head lowered toward one of those stiff little peaks.

Gwen's heart banged like a rabbit's as her mouth went dry.

“I've always loved the taste of your nipples.” He gave her a lick that sent hot pleasure bolting through her. She managed not to whimper. “Now I'm wondering what it would be like to use these new fangs on them.”

Arthur looked up at her, his parted lips revealing sharp tips barely an inch from her left nipple. “I'm tempted, Gwen. I'm very, very tempted. But it would hurt, wouldn't it? You, I mean.” He laughed, dark and seductive. “
I'd
love it.”

She swallowed a whimper. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction.

The king bent his head over that tight, erect peak. His warm, soft lips brushed the tip as he whispered, “My fangs are sharp, Gwen. It wouldn't hurt. Much. Probably.” Turning his head back and forth, he flicked the peak with first one fang, then the other. “I could try it and see.” His black eyes flicked up to hers. “Shall I?”

Excitement jolted through her. She felt her lips curve in a taunting smile. “You wouldn't. You've never hurt a woman in your life.”

His heated gaze went cold. “Don't tempt me.”

Arthur closed his mouth around her nipple.

Gwen jolted, but he didn't bite. Instead he began to suck, his tongue swirling over and around the little point. Waves of sweet delight began to roll through her, until she had to fight the need to squirm.

She ached to touch him, ached to run her fingers along the hard muscle of broad shoulders and powerful arms, to tangle her hands in the thick black silk of his hair. But he still held her bound wrists pinned.

“Arthur,” she gasped, “untie me. I want to . . .”

He lifted his head and shot her a molten glare. “No.”

Arthur lowered his head again, but this time, he paused and ran the tips of his fangs along the curve of her breast, framing her nipple between them. It wasn't a bite, though he almost broke the skin. It was a message, Gwen realized:
you're helpless, and I can do whatever I want to you.

If any other man had done such a thing to her, Gwen would have force-fed him a magical fireball. But this was Arthur—the man she'd loved for seventeen years.

She'd always known he had an edge, a capacity for both steely menace and the ability to carry out his threats. She'd seen him reduce battle-hardened warriors to stammering terror with one icy glare.

But that edge had never been turned toward her. Arthur had always treated her with a lover's careful deference. Having him suddenly stretch her out beneath him and turn that ferocity on her somehow struck her as darkly erotic.

And she had no idea why.

By all rights this should terrify her, especially considering the situation. If he killed her for cuckolding him, nobody would even question it. He was, after all, High King; he answered to no one, with the possible exception of the Pope and God.

Yet Gwen felt no fear of him. Certainly not the way any intelligent woman should fear a man with total power. Instead, her perverse body heated with creamy arousal with every swirling lick, every scrape of his fangs.

Arthur went still. His head lifted as his perceptive gaze locked on hers. “Do you want me to bite you, Gwen?”

“Does it really matter to you what I want?”

“Not really.” He raked his fangs across her breast again, this time pricking her aching nipples in the process. “But you're welcome to pretend it does.”

“Then why don't you pretend whatever gets you hard.” Which was definitely not the kind of thing you said to the husband you'd just cuckolded.

He smiled, the expression so charming, she almost missed the lethal rage in the depths of his eyes. “I do believe I will.”

And he bit her.

Arthur had been right. His fangs were so sharp, she barely felt the sting as they sank into her breast on either side of her nipple. Just as the pain detonated in a needle-sharp burst, he began to suck. His tongue flicked and stroked, teasing starbursts of pleasure from the peak even as her breast throbbed.

This time she was unable to suppress her moans, her need to squirm.

He ignored her helpless struggles, intent on her blood. His free hand wandered down her body to stroke between her legs. Her hips rolled, urging him on.

But instead of seeking out her creamy pussy or desperate clit, he drove a finger up her arse. She froze, sucking in a breath.

Arthur went right on drinking, still playing his tongue across her nipple, each lazy lap sending smoky tendrils of pleasure through her in time to his swallows. Simultaneously, as if to remind her of his anal threats, his finger stroked in and out of her rump. The sensation felt as alien as the fangs in her breast, yet it was undeniably erotic. So arousing her hips began to rock again, fucking her own ass on that impaling finger.

Abruptly he drew his hand away and lifted his head. Gwen moaned helplessly as his fangs slid from her breast, leaving behind a pair of thin scarlet rivulets. He paused to lick them.

Feeling dazed, she watched him rise, tongue sliding over his lips to catch a last scarlet drop. “Well, that was tasty,” he told her as he walked over to wash his hands in the bedside basin. “Doing what I want and pretending you gave me permission has a great deal to recommend it.” His grin was downright nasty. “In fact, let's pretend you told me I could fuck you up that tight little arse.” He strolled over to the chest and picked up the bottle of lavender oil.

“Arthur . . .”

“If you say one more word,” he told her pleasantly, “I'll gag you. I think you need to remember who rules here. And it's damned well not you.” Deliberately he poured the oil onto the palm of his hand and started stroking his cock, his gaze still locked on her, hooded and feral.

Gwen stared back, her mouth so dry, she doubted she could speak even if he hadn't forbidden it.

She had long since lost track of how many times she'd made love to Arthur, but somehow his cock had never looked so very . . . threatening. She had made love to him only a few days before—his cock couldn't have grown since then, for God's sake. Except she could've sworn it had, its heavy shaft curving over fat, furry balls.
Thick, oh my God, he's thick. This is going to hurt
.

She wanted it anyway. Whether for its own wicked sake, or because she hoped it would soften his rage, she didn't know.

When he was finally satisfied he had his cock sufficiently slick, he stepped toward her. The long shaft swung with the motion, and she stared at it, helplessly fascinated.

Arthur laughed, the sound more than a little sinister. “I find the look of terror on your face perversely satisfying.” His grin broadened. “But I'll wager I'll find actually fucking your tight little hole even more delicious.”

He grabbed her by one hip and flipped her over onto her stomach, then pulled her onto her hands and knees. His hand landed on her neck, collaring it in long fingers and forcing her head back down. “Arse in the air, darling. That's better. Now, brace yourself.” His voice dropped to a growl. “This will hurt.”