The Dark Forest: A Collection Of Erotic Fairytales(23)
Beatrice unwittingly focused on his mouth. Entranced almost against her will. Words were coming out but she didn’t hear. His lips were well-formed, flashing peeks of straight, white teeth as he talked. Whenever his jaw moved, his cheeks would hollow, emphasizing the sharp planes of his handsome features. There was a dark hint of stubble. Would it feel rough against her smooth cheek, she wondered distractedly before chastising herself for allowing his handsome features to distract her from her task.
Casting hesitant, furtive glances over the darkened lavender fields, Beatrice searched for an escape. There was not a soul within sight to assist her. The nearest copse of trees, her only hope of a hiding place, were too far off. He would catch her in the open field long before she reached it, especially hampered as she was by her heavy skirts.
“I will give chase, Beatrice.”
The confident manner in which he delivered such a frank statement gave it even more dark menace.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” she snapped, angered he had read her thoughts. “And you do not have my permission to call me by my given name,” she haughtily added for emphasis.
Rhys stepped forward. His thighs crushing the soft wool of her riding skirt as he forced her back against the cold, stone wall. His large, warm hand reached down to engulf her small fist in his own, trapping her riding crop, her only weapon, within his strong grasp. Moving his other hand to wrap along her jaw, caressing her delicate skin, cooled by the night air. Beatrice’s protest died in her throat the moment he touched her.
Leaning scandalously close, he whispered against her lips, “What should I call you?”
Beatrice inhaled the spicy, sweet scent of his breath. Sarsaparilla root. His skin radiated warmth and the earthy scent of cedarwood. Some hidden primal instinct urged her to press closer to his heat, to banish the chill from the night air. She resisted its pull.
Capturing her gaze, Rhys allowed his lips to skim the soft fullness of her own. “Shall I call you Beauty?” he murmured.
Moving his mouth along the curve of her jaw, he let the sharp edge of his teeth nip at her tender skin, “Or shall I call you Beastly?” he teased.
Enraged by the hated moniker, Beatrice tried to wrench from his grasp. His grip on her small hand was too strong. With her struggles, his thickly muscled thigh pressed against her skirts, forcing itself between her legs. Jagged points from the hard rock wall pushed painfully against her bottom. Raising her free hand, Beatrice swiped her fingers down his cheek, catching his flesh with her reddened claws, leaving a thin trail of blood.
Her moment of triumph withered like a petal on the vine the moment she saw the light of ferocious determination in his eye.
Chapter Four
Damn, she is magnificent, thought Rhys.
When Rhys caught sight of his intended bride, expertly handling her horse as she rode out of the stable yard, there was no small amount of masculine appreciation mixed in with his anger at her scandalous and risky behavior. The tales of her beauty had not been exaggerated but that was nothing compared to the untamed sight of her wild spirit.
Now after her wild ride, her gorgeous thick curls ran riot down her back and shoulders. Their tawny length the color of spun gold. The small lavender buds tangled among her tresses gave her a fae appearance. Her bright amber eyes glinted with hints of grassy green as her anger was stoked. Large and cat-like, they expressed her every emotion, leaving nothing hidden from him. He could read in their unique depths rage fused in fire with desire. Her full red lips, open as she breathed deeply through her fury, showed sharp, pristine teeth. A vision of those teeth ruthlessly scraping along his shaft as he forced his cock deep down her throat brought a low, dark rumble from deep within his chest.
A beautiful woman was as plentiful as a field of flowers. Beautiful, yes. Unique, sadly no. Yet, a woman with fire and spirit, that was a rare creature indeed. Something within him rose up and howled at the thought of bringing to heel a woman with so much fight and determination.
Moving his free hand to grasp the slender column of her neck, he squeezed. Her pulse skittered and jumped under the pressure of his hand. Moving his hand higher, Rhys forced her head back, exposing more of her vulnerable neck to his strong grip.
A strained, gasping sound escaped her lips as Beatrice reached up to claw at his wrist, unable to dislodge his hold. Dizzying panic swirled with desire, fear and fury at his calm dominance over her.
Rhys relished the surge of power he felt as he held her very breath in the palm of his hand.
“Perhaps I’ll just call you mine,” he growled.
Rhys’ mouth descended on hers. Stealing the very air. His grip on her throat eased as his tongue swept into her mouth to take possession. Allowing no quarter. Learning her taste. Learning her scent.
No one had ever dared kissed her. Not one of her father’s lily-livered marriage prospects had ever had the courage to touch her hand let alone force their attentions on her. After exalting in the unfamiliar sensation of his tongue as it swirled and danced about her own, Beatrice did the only thing she could…she bit down.
Far from deterring him, the metallic tang of blood and sudden sting of pain only spurred him on. Pushing his tongue deeper into her mouth, Rhys ground his hips into her soft flesh, hating the restrictive barrier of her cashmere skirt. His hand slid from her throat, down the front of her riding habit. Frustrated, he moved his hand more frantically over the embroidered fabric, searching. The heavy brocade of her riding coat, along with the press of her corset, kept the curves of her bosom a mystery to him.