Wicked Games (32 page)

With a single violent gesture, Alan reached up and dragged at the buckle of her gag until it fell free and she was able to suck in a grateful breath.

“God, she's tiny,” the captain grunted. “I don't think I've ever had such a tight asshole.” Slowly he began to withdraw, his organ sliding along her well-greased channel. Rose squirmed, finding something almost satisfying about the feeling. The deep, relentless burn of the cream he'd used was soothed by his hard, ruthless cock.

He stroked inside again as Alan withdrew. Rose felt the two thick shafts pass each other in her helplessly spread body. She could only writhe. “Nooo,” she moaned, though she'd die if they stopped.

“Yes.” Alan dipped his head and found her swollen lips, kissing her with hungry intensity. Taylor's thick fingers caressed her nipples again, plucking and rolling even as he fucked her ass with lingering strokes. At the same time, Alan's pelvis ground into her clit, his rod shuttling back and forth in her wet sex.

Rose tossed her head, feeling surrounded by male muscle and bone. There seemed to be far more than four hands on her, and she felt plugged to the throat with cock. It should have hurt. Instead, she felt only a voluptuous pleasure that grew with every stroke.

“I envy you, McReynolds,” Taylor growled suddenly. “Having a tight, luscious little captive like this to bugger and fuck. No wonder you haven't told headquarters.”

Alan's hands tightened on her rump. “They'd just put her in some dark little hole of a jail. Much better to . . .” He drove in a hard, deep thrust. “. . . take care of her privately.”

“And so piquant to have a Reb spy at your mercy.” He circled his hips and she whimpered as his organ tormented her rectum.

“Yes.” Alan's eyes blazed down into her. “Bound and helpless.” His voice roughened, his face darkening. “Ready for . . . whatever I want . . .” He groaned.

They were driving into her quickly now, merciless in hunger. Each stroke stretched and tormented her, stuffed her, jolted her with a blend of delight and pain.

Taylor came first, freezing with his organ buried to the balls in her ass, growling like a wolf. The feeling of his big cock impaling her provided a painful counterpoint to Alan's last pounding lunges, his hips digging into her clit.

Rose convulsed with a scream as the pleasure exploded through her in a long, pulsing eruption. Even as her orgasm crested, she heard Alan's triumphant bellow.

•   •   •

A
lan's hot mouth closed over Rose's clit. Gently, relentlessly, he began to suck as her thighs twitched with the first pulsing waves of orgasm. Catching his dark head close, she came, keening and twisting as though with a seizure. And still he drew on her button, driving her higher, harder, until she fell back, limp and sated, her thighs spread on the cool sheets.

Dimly, Rose felt him draw away, heard the creak and shift of the bed as he moved up to lie beside her. And, even in her satisfaction, she found herself wishing that he'd entered her, ridden her hard instead of simply bringing her to ecstasy with his mouth.

A niggle of dissatisfaction pierced her pleasure. Two weeks had gone by since Alan and Taylor had taken her together, and nothing had been the same.

As if realizing that he'd gone too far that night, Alan hadn't touched her for three days afterward. Rose hadn't minded at the time; she was so sore from the violent fucking she'd gotten that she was hardly up to anything more.

But as time went on, she realized things had changed. True, sometimes he still took her almost ruthlessly, but for the most part, he'd treated her like spun glass. He hadn't tied her, hadn't spanked her, hadn't buggered her. Hadn't even questioned her.

It came as a nasty shock to Rose when she realized she wished he would.

There'd been something so violently arousing about those times, about her helplessness, about watching his control slip until at last he had no choice but to take her. She might have been his prisoner, but he'd been a captive, too.

Now all that seemed to be over. Had he gotten bored with her? Was he keeping her out of some sense of duty or guilt or some combination of the two?

“Rose,” Alan said, “there's something I've got to tell you.”

Frowning, she looked at him. He met her eyes, then looked away. Rolling off the bed, he paced to the window as if he couldn't meet her eyes.

Was he about to send her to prison? Was he going to let her go? And why did she suddenly feel this sinking fear—not of incarceration, but of never seeing him again?

“What is it, Alan?” Rose heard the steadiness in her own voice and was relieved. At least her desolation didn't show.

He braced a muscled forearm against the window frame and leaned against it, his back rippling. “There's something I've been keeping from you. Something important.”

The last of her sensual languor disappeared. “What? What's happening?”

“Lee surrendered two weeks ago.” Stunned, Rose could only stare.

Alan laughed, a short, harsh bark of sound. “The day after Taylor and I tortured you, as a matter of fact.”

She licked her lips and found her voice. “Why didn't you tell me?”

His broad shoulders rounded a moment, then straightened with a jerk. “Because I knew you'd demand I let you go. And I didn't want your last memory of me to be my brutalizing you with that bastard Taylor.”

She should be angry. She knew that. So why did she feel this perverse leap of joy?

No, she knew why. It meant Alan still loved her, even knowing she was a spy. He hadn't wanted to let her go.

“I've made arrangements to get you a proper gown,” he continued, sounding almost matter-of-fact. “I had to do some fancy lying to your landlady to explain why you disappeared for so long, but I think I've pulled it off. You'll want to bathe and dress first, but I'll take you home as soon as you're finished.”

“What if I don't want to go home?”

Alan's head jerked around toward her as his eyes widened. “Not go home? Why?”

Rose stared at him searchingly. “Why did it matter so much that the night with Taylor was not our last together?”

He pivoted to face her, both hands going behind his back, feet bracing until he stood at parade rest. “Because it was wrong. I had no business taking you to him like that, letting him . . .” He stopped and swallowed, looking away. “The other things I did were bad enough, but allowing Taylor to sodomize you . . . I don't know what I was thinking. When I saw you sucking him, I . . .” He drew in a hard breath. “You don't do things like that to the woman you love.”

“Love.” The bloom of joy she felt burst wide into wonder. “But I'm a Rebel spy, Alan. I lied to you. I . . .”

“You were serving your country.”

“So were you. You had to get me to talk.”

His mouth twisted into a bitter line. “That wasn't patriotism. That was lust. That was something dark and . . .”

“Exciting.”

Alan looked at her, caught between shame and defiance. “Yes, it was. It was wrong. You said yourself, I'm no gentleman to do such things and enjoy them.”

“Then I'm no lady. Because there were times . . .” Rose broke off and took a deep breath. “There were times I enjoyed them, too. It was exciting, being at your mercy, feeling your hunger. Even the punishments . . . I don't know why I felt that way, but I did. I do.” She clenched her fists. “And I don't want to leave.”

His eyes flared with something hot and dark. Then he looked away. “You can't stay.”

“Why not?”

“It wouldn't be wise.”

“When have we ever been wise?

“Rose,” he exploded, wheeling toward her, “there are times I want to take you like that again. I dream about you tied up and helpless, squirming under that damn silk whip. I dream about buggering you, about making you get down on your knees, making you suck me the way you did Taylor. You've got to get away from me.”

“What if,” Rose said carefully, heart pounding, “I have the same dreams?”

“How can you?” Disbelief and despair vibrated in his voice.

“How can I go back to being a proper Southern belle, all cool and distant and painfully proper?” She took a deep breath. “How can I do that when I remember what it felt like to be at your mercy—and love every minute of it? I can't, Alan. And I don't want to.”

Deliberately she moved between the canopy supports of the bed, turned her back to him, and lifted her hands, grabbing the overhead rails.

Slowly, disbelieving, he took a step toward her, then two. Then he turned away and strode toward the bureau. He reached into the top drawer and brought out a length of rope and a bottle of mineral oil.

Five minutes later, Rose was roped securely to the bed frame, whimpering as Major Alan McReynolds drove his cock into her ass in long, violent digs. But even as her rectum burned under his assault, she sighed in pleasure and relief. She was still his captive.

And he was still hers.

Turn the page for an excerpt from

OATH OF SERVICE

Appearing in
Love Bites
, Angela Knight's new anthology of erotic vampire stories

T
he dominant hauled his pretty companion across his lap and flipped up her short PVC skirt to reveal lacy stockings, a garter belt, and no panties at all. Despite her protesting yelps, he proceeded to spank her in hard, ruthless swats.

Morgana Le Fay tensed, her first instinct to feed him a magical blast that would put him through the nearest wall.

That was not, however, the kind of thing one could do in the middle of a nightclub in front of half the population of New York. Especially when the “victim's” moan sounded far more like pleasure than pain.

Morgana sent a tendril of magic into the little blonde's mind to discover she'd been deliberately bratting—whatever that was—to goad her boyfriend into just that response. Judging by her hot arousal, she was thoroughly relishing every stinging impact of his broad hand.

As for the man, a probe of his mind revealed he knew his lover had been trying to manipulate him. It gave him the excuse to pretend an anger he didn't feel, while meting out a punishment they both enjoyed.

Well, really, Morgana, what did you expect? It
is
a BDSM club . . .

Morgana watched the girl's long legs flash, kicking in mock protest. Those creamy buttocks were going nicely rosy, much to the obvious enjoyment of the male patrons who'd turned to watch.

The Maja looked away, trying to ignore her own flare of heat.
Keep your mind on the job, witch. Somebody's killing these people . . . and using magic to do it. You don't have time for nasty fantasies if you want to stop the bastard.

She scanned the area, keeping her gaze casual, though it was anything but. The Whip Hand was one of New York's most exclusive clubs, whether devoted to BDSM or more vanilla activities. The membership leaned toward upwardly mobile—if kinky—professionals: doctors, lawyers, bankers, stockbrokers, a celebrity or two. The place accordingly had an air of expensive seduction, between the long, massive bar and the surrounding tables and chairs, all of them dark oak carved with crosses and writhing nude bodies. The bar was surrounded by “dungeon” rooms equipped with St. Andrews crosses, spanking benches, and other assorted gear designed for tying people up and doing painfully erotic things to them. The overall effect was a sense of sensual menace, rather as if Torquemada had decided to run a bordello between torturing alleged witches.

Adding to the atmosphere of sensuality, smoky jazz filled the air instead of the usual deafening rock du jour that made hearing a luxury at other clubs. Given Morgana's sensitive Maja hearing, she approved, though the overall witch-torturing theme made her twitch. She'd come entirely too close to getting hanged by a fanatical priest once. It hadn't been erotic at all.

Though if Percival had been doing the torturing . . .
Stop that.

Involuntarily, her gaze flashed across the bar to the rear booth where her team sat. They were dressed in The Whip Hand's idea of proper attire for dominants: expensive tooled-leather pants, boots, tight black T-shirts. Thanks to their enchanted scabbards, the long swords they wore diagonally across their backs were invisible. Guns would be of little use against the monster they were hunting.

Looking at them lounging around that table like a trio of lions on the veldt, Morgana felt a spurt of heat. She knew better, but she was still human—more or less. If a woman didn't feel a tingle at the sight of Percival, Cador, and Marrok looking ready to break all Ten Commandments, she needed to check her pulse.

Someone who didn't know them would probably register Marrok first. He looked the most menacing of the three, being six-five and brawny as a bull, with a broad, stubbled jaw, deep-set brown eyes, and a long Roman nose over a lazily sensual mouth. Despite the faint air of brutishness, in reality he was a laughing, genial soul who often played peacemaker between his hot-tempered and lethal teammates.

Which made what happened if you managed to truly anger him all the more shocking. On those rare occasions, his berserker rages could make even Arthur Pendragon step softly.

Then there was Cador. At six feet tall, he was shorter than the others, but that only made him look more muscular, with the sculpted brawn a man built when he spent hours a day swinging a long sword.

If that wasn't enough to make a woman's heart beat faster, Cador had shoulder-length hair, which, in combat, he wore tightly braided to his skull. That curling mane would have drawn the eye regardless, but the effect was intensified by its color, a rich, dark auburn.

His features were utterly perfect, as if God had calculated every angle for maximum impact on the female eye. Thick auburn brows dipped over laughing eyes the striking turquoise blue of the Caribbean. His nose was a perfectly straight and knife-blade narrow, while his wide, mobile mouth was prone toward deceptively charming smiles.

Deceptive, because Cador had a sadistic streak as broad as the Thames. He was not the kind of man you wanted to meet in combat, particularly if you'd done something to piss him off. He made no secret of his dislike of Morgana, though he was chivalrous enough to manage cool civility most of the time.

Last—but hardly least, since he was the trio's leader—there was Percival. At six-three, he was a bit leaner than the others, with all the muscular power, explosive speed, and hypnotic grace of a jaguar.

He had a long, starkly masculine face, with prominent angular cheekbones, a hawkish nose, and a sensualist's mouth. He wore his thick honey-gold hair just long enough to curl, and his gray eyes were cool and watchful. There was something about him that suggested a kind of erotic cruelty Morgana really shouldn't have found intriguing.

Any one of the three men could make any woman stare. All three of them together posed a safety hazard to any female in their collective orbit. Morgana wasn't surprised when a passing well-endowed redhead walked right into the chair in her path.

Marrok caught her before she could fall on her face. Lifting her to her feet, the big man leaned down to speak to her, probably asking if she was all right. Then he turned and headed back to the booth, apparently unaware of the longing look the girl shot his mile-wide back.

Technically speaking, he shouldn't have rescued her. He'd had to react far faster than humanly possible to catch her before she hit the ground. Morgana also knew he couldn't help himself; Marrok
was
one of the Knights of the Round Table. Though come to think of it, Percival hadn't even budged. Cador had probably considered it, but Marrok had beaten him to it. Besides, Cador would have gotten the girl's cell number, sexual opportunist that he was.

“Mmmm.” A woman purred to her companion off to Morgana's right. “Wouldn't you love to be the meat in that sandwich?”

“They're probably gay.”

The woman snorted. “Not the way they keep watching that chick in the red corset.”

Morgana was wearing a red corset.

“The one in black leather looks like he'd like to take her into one of the scene rooms and chain her to a St. Andrews cross.”

Percival wore black leather, though she hadn't noticed him watching her. The idea that he had been sent another wave of heat through Morgana that only intensified at a female scream. The sound was more suggestive of a really good orgasm than pain.

For a moment, Morgana could almost see it: herself, naked, chained to one of the X-shaped bondage crosses as Percival stalked around her, a leather flogger in his hand . . .

Don't be ridiculous. Percival probably would like to flog you, but it would have nothing to do with sex.
Like most of the witches and vampires in Avalon, he seemed to consider Morgana a cold-blooded, manipulative bitch.

And he was right.

•   •   •

A
girl strutted past, a pair of clamps swinging from her generous breasts. They looked damned painful, judging by the swollen red condition of the nipples they gripped.

“God, I'd love to put a pair of those on Morgana,” Marrok murmured, saying exactly what Percival was thinking.

Snorting, Cador took a swig of his Corona. “She'd geld you with a fireball.”

“Yeah, but it would be worth it.”

As the clamped girl jiggled past Morgana, the witch's eyes slid down to the clamps, then flicked directly to Percival's face. Her vivid green eyes darkened with lust. His cock hardened in a searing liquid rush.

In the middle of a fucking mission to keep a werewolf from eating more women. Percival's temper began to steam. It burned all the hotter because he was as angry at himself as he was at her.

Passing his thumb over the signet ring on his right hand, he activated the spell that allowed them to communicate during missions.
“Get your head out of your cunt and on the fucking job, Morgana. If one of these women dies because of you, I swear to Saint Michael I will bend you over the Round Table and whip the ass off you!”

“You forget yourself, Lord Percival.
I
am leading this mission!”

“
Then lead it
,” Percival snarled, “
and quit turning it into fucking amateur hour.
”

A white-hot stiletto of agony stabbed between his eyes, so savagely intense it almost tore a gasp of pain from his mouth. He bit it back.

“
Goddammit Morgana!
” Marrok growled in the link, “
Cador and I didn't do anything. Why hit us?
”
Morgana's spell must've caught the pair as it traveled through their spelled rings. Morgana made no reply; she'd evidently closed the mental link.

“Sorry,” Percival growled.

Cador grunted and took another deep swallow of his beer, auburn brows dipping in a frown. “I don't like the way this is going. She's too distracted. I've never seen her this off her game.”

He was right. They'd worked with Morgana for centuries now, and Percival knew she normally maintained an icy focus on the mission at hand. That, plus her magical power, intelligence, and ruthless dedication meant they rarely failed to achieve their objective.

What's more, Morgana never admitted defeat. She'd do whatever it took to succeed, refusing to yield to physical or mental exhaustion. She pushed herself so hard that she'd won the respect of all three knights, even Cador, who personally disliked her. Percival had seen her keep casting spells to defend the team when she was so badly wounded he was surprised she was even conscious. Again and again, she'd proven she was willing to die for them—and they, in turn, would die for her.

Which didn't mean she couldn't royally piss them all off. Today's little psychic zap was hardly unusual behavior for her.

Which was why he'd had more than one fantasy of turning her over his lap for the spanking she'd been asking for.

Among other things . . .

Cador returned to his favorite topic. “So when are we going to look for another Maja partner?”

Marrok glowered at him. “When you can name one with as much raw power as Morgana Le Fay.”

“Well, it doesn't have to be just one Maja,” Cador pointed out. “Two or even three . . .”

“Might be equivalent to Morgana's power, but not of her experience or talent for magical combat strategy.” Percival rattled the ice in his glass impatiently. “Nobody is as good in a magical duel as Morgana. Except maybe Kel, and he's a shape-shifting dragon.”

Cador pursed his lips, considering. “Gwen's pretty damn good.”

“True, but Arthur is hardly going to let us have Gwen, is he?” Marrok leaned in, his jaw taking on a familiar stubborn jut.

As the two knights began arguing about which Maja would make a better addition to their partnership, Percival's gaze drifted back to Morgana. He'd known the witch fifteen centuries now, years of desperate combat, furious arguments, and steely friendship.

Centuries ago, the four of them had been among the first twenty-four people to drink from Merlin's enchanted Grail. The potion it contained had magically changed them all, transforming the twelve Knights of the Round Table into vampires, or Magi, while twelve women, including Morgana and Queen Guinevere, had become witches, or Majae.

In the centuries since, those twenty-four had become ten thousand, as their descendants joined them in the battle to protect humanity against its own self-destructive impulses. Collectively they were called the Magekind, sworn to use their impressive abilities to hunt those like the magical killer who was their target tonight.

Today they all lived in Avalon, an enchanted city of immortals located in the Mageverse, a parallel universe where magic was a universal force like gravity or electromagnetism. That universe's version of Earth was also home to everything from fairies to dragons and elemental gods.

Mortal Earth, meanwhile, remained home to werewolves like the one they were hunting today. He was a nasty bastard. Over the past two months, seventeen women had vanished from nightclubs around the country, only to be found the next day as piles of gnawed bone.

He'd evidently
eaten
them.

The human authorities had yet to put all the pieces together. Which was fortunate, given the questions that particular realization would raise.

Because the victims' bodies had been reduced to skeletal remains so quickly, the mortal authorities assumed they'd been dead much longer than they were. Thus they'd excluded individuals who had been missing less than a month. All of which made identification much harder, since police needed some idea who a victim might be in order to obtain dental records to compare skulls to.

Unlike the police, however, Percival and his team had Morgana. Last night the witch had a vision that some kind of magical predator was abducting, murdering, and eating women. Women who'd been taken from nightclubs.

Merlin's Grimoire—an enchanted talking book that was a cross between Watson the IBM supercomputer and something out of a Harry Potter movie—had found newspaper articles from around the country detailing skeletal remains believed to be the victims of animal attacks.