The Dark Forest: A Collection Of Erotic Fairytales(24)

Beatrice could feel the hard ridge of his shaft press into her stomach as his hand swept over her torso. Her lips felt bruised and swollen when, as if taking pity on her untoward response to his kiss, Rhys’ mouth moved to bite and suck the tender skin of her neck. She moaned, allowing her head to fall back, giving him unfettered access. Bracing herself against his chest, her fingers skimmed along the smooth leather surface of his jerkin feeling the impressive swell and bunch of his muscled chest beneath.

This wasn’t happening. She wasn’t allowing herself to be handled by this beast of a man, this servant, in the middle of a deserted field! It was as if some unseen force controlled her actions, her response to his touch. Like everything else, she fought it.

Driven by an insatiable need to feel her skin, to see her delicate flesh exposed to his heated gaze, Rhys released his grip on her riding crop hand and started to work on the velvet frog clasps at her throat. Feeling her beneath his hand became as sustenance to him.

Beatrice seized upon the moment. Raising her hand, she slashed the riding crop towards his head.

Rhys’ instincts were too swift. Raising his forearm, he deflected the blow. Twisting his wrist, he wrenched the crop from her grasp. Beatrice watched in astonishment as he broke the thick wooden rod with the strength of one hand as if it were no more than a twig. The sight releasing an unholy flutter in her stomach, despite the danger it implied.

“So releasing your claws on me was not enough for my fierce feline? You want to draw blood under the lash as well?” he ground out.

His words brought Beatrice’s gaze to the four thin lines of blood that streaked his hollowed cheek and roughened jaw. Far from marring his beauty, in some base primitive way, they only added to it.

“You have no right to handle me thus,” she lashed out with her words if not with her crop.

“I’m taking the right,” he responded sharply through clenched teeth.

Grabbing a fistful of her locks, Rhys led Beatrice over to his horse. Reaching into his boot, he retrieved his knife. Beatrice cried out when he flicked the sharp blade open. He could see the rampant fear in her eyes and yet she refused to plead or appease him.

Beautiful, spirited and stubborn. A dangerous but heady combination.

Giving her a look of warning before releasing her hair, Rhys cut a long, thin strap from the stirrup leather on his saddle. Once more reaching for her unwilling form, Rhys dragged her by the upper arm over to a nearby blackthorn tree. Its dark bark giving its twisted branches an ominous appearance in the faded light. Just like in her dream, crept the unwarranted thought.

Realizing his intent, Beatrice turned to escape, no longer caring about her chances of outrunning him. Rhys easily captured her around her small waist. Lifting her off the ground, he carried her back to the tree. Beatrice squirmed, kicked, screamed and cursed…all to no avail.

Wrapping the leather strap around her wrists, Rhys then secured the ends around a stiff, spiny branch high above her head. Her toes barely touching the earth.

Beatrice pulled against the straps, feeling the leather stretch and bite but not loosen.

“You are going to regret this! I will see you horse-whipped! Do you hear me?” she screamed. Her fear building. This was too close to her dream. Was she about to be ravished in the woods by the beast?

Rhys walked back to his saddle to retrieve his leather riding gloves. Pulling the black leather tight over his hands, he thought about the punishment he was about to dole out to his future bride. Instinctively, he knew if he so much as touched her exposed skin with his own, his control would snap. He would fuck her against the tree like an animal rutting in the woods. The thin piece of leather was her only protection from him.

“Wait till my father hears of this! You will be run out of the village with pitchforks and torches!” she threatened.

Moving to stand behind her stretched body, Rhys whispered against her neck, “For this, I would brave the sharp point of a pike and the burn of any flame.”

Rhys tore at the button holding her skirt and petticoat in place. The skirt fell to the cold earth, tangling about her kicking feet. Expertly pulling on the intricate ribboned ties of her riding trousers, Beatrice felt the kiss of the cold night air on her bare bottom as the trousers, her last defense, joined her skirt on the ground.

Rhys took a moment to appreciate the wild vision. Her arms stretched far above her head. The ample curve of her bottom on full display. The top of her slim thighs wrapped in the lace of her stockings. The leather of her boots covering her shapely calves. The contrast between the rich plum of her riding jacket and her creamy pale skin. Moving to circle her suspended form, Rhys’ piercing gaze sought her cunny. The light gold curls did nothing to hide her core. Soon, he thought. Soon, he would bury his cock so deep inside of her she would never question his authority over her body.

“I’ll kill you myself for this,” she sputtered.

Rhys stepped forward, pressing his chest against her own. Beatrice stilled as he stared at her open mouth. A moment passed. They shared a breath. She could feel the tension radiating from his body as if he were holding himself in check. One strong arm circled her narrow waist, pulling her even closer. Beatrice’s body shuddered as her bare cunny made contact with his cloth covered thick shaft. The thin wool of his breeches a feeble barrier. This wasn’t happening, she thought, for not the first time. She was not responding to the touch of this beast of a man!

Finally, he reached up to release the leather straps. The moment the pressure on her arms gave way, her body fell even more into his own. Amber eyes clashed with cold jade at the contact. Beatrice tilted her head back as Rhys lowered his. Their lips barely touched, a mere whisper but it was enough. Beatrice broke the spell.