The Dark Forest: A Collection Of Erotic Fairytales(30)
The curtain still floated through the open doorway. Rhys gritted his teeth. The damn little fool. Knowing how effortless it was for him to reach her open window just emphasized how that buffoon Gaston could have handily gotten to her as well. A great many things were about to change for his fierce feline he thought.
Pushing the curtain aside, Rhys stalked into her bedroom.
Chapter Six
Beatrice sensed his presence behind her before she saw him. There was no sound. No warning. Just the subtle scent of cedarwood and a sudden charge to the air.
Sitting at her vanity, careful to keep her eyes downcast and away from the mirror so as not to alert him to her awareness, she slowly moved her hand to grasp her crystal perfume diffuser. The sharp cut edges pressed against her palm as she lifted its heavy weight. Raising her eyes to the mirror, amber clashed with anger-darkened emerald.
Rhys stood framed in the balcony doorway. Beatrice had seen many shirtless men working in the fields over her lifetime, but nothing compared to the powerful sight of her stable master. Broad shoulders topped a defined, bronzed chest lightly dusted with dark hair. Black breeches were slung low and partially unlaced over his narrow hips and flat stomach. He was all taut muscle as you would expect from a man who made his way in the world through hard labor. His thick black hair was wet. Unfashionably long, it was slightly curling at the ends, framing the savage look etched across his face, from the hardened jaw to his narrowed eyes.
Beatrice looked down at his clenched fists. Having only been touched by his leather gloves, Beatrice wondered if his hands would feel rough against her soft skin. She gave herself a mental shake. She would never know because he was leaving her bedroom this instant precisely the way he came.
Spinning on her small upholstered stool, Beatrice flung the heavy object at his head before dashing for the door. She heard the high pitched sound of shattering crystal just as her fingertips grazed the cold, brass handle of her bedchamber door.
A heavy weight settled around her middle, Beatrice looked down to see one tanned, sinewed arm. Yanked off her feet, her back made contact with a warm wall of unrelenting muscle.
Rhys leaned down and whispered harshly into her ear, “I need another taste.”
Beatrice sucked in a full breath preparing to scream.
Rhys wrapped his lips around the soft skin of her earlobe before gently biting down on the sensitive flesh with his teeth, as a warning. “You already know what my hand on your bottom feels like, scream and your sweet unprotected cunny will get the same treatment.”
Beatrice’s breath hitched as she swallowed her cry for help. She hated the flutter in her stomach his harsh words caused. It was against her nature her heart railed. She shouldn’t feel anything but anger at his attempts to control and master her.
“Good girl,” mouthed Rhys as he ran his tongue down the slim column of her throat, tasting as much as inhaling the rich scent of rose on her skin.
“What do you want?” asked Beatrice through clenched teeth even though she could feel the answer burn through the thin fabric of her dressing gown at her lower back.
Tightening his hold on her waist, he murmured, “I want the same thing you do.”
“Your head on a spike? Watching you be drawn and quartered? Chased out of the village at the end of a pitchfork?” railed Beatrice with false sweetness.
Rhys moved his large hand up her body till he cupped her unbound breast. Lifting the breast up as if to test its weight, he could feel the ridge of her erect nipple press against the center of his palm. Pressing his fingertips deeper into her flesh, he lightly squeezed. More than enough to fill a man’s hand, he thought bemused.
Beatrice fisted the folds of her dressing gown as she swayed slightly on her feet. Had he been watching her from the balcony during her bath? Had he been observing her far before she sensed his nearness? How else would he have known she longed to know the feel of his hand on her breast, that she had touched her own body while envisioning it was his strong, work-roughened hands?
“We both know that is not what you really want,” he knowingly chuckled.
Breaking free, Beatrice ran across the room. The cold, dark green marble floor chilling her feet through her silk slippers.
Frozen grass. Chilled feet. Just like in her dream. The curse.
As he slowly prowled after her, Rhys tossed a small wooden spindle chair out of his path. The delicately carved chair crashing against the wall, falling to pieces. Dipping his head low, his intent gaze focused on her, his prey.
The sound of splintering wood. Startling bright green eyes framed with thick obsidian hair. Just like in her dream. The beast.
Beatrice scrambled for something to throw at him. Reaching behind her, she tossed the contents of her vanity. Throwing a hairbrush, her pot of nail powder, another perfume bottle. All deflected. He kept coming.
Grabbing her raised arm, Rhys spun her around to once against plaster her back against his front. He dragged her over to the ornate floor length mirror which stood near her wardrobe cabinet.
Wrapping his arm around Beatrice’s small waist, Rhys grabbed a fistful of her hair and forced her to gaze at their reflection. “Deny it,” he growled. “Deny the truth in your own reflection.”
“Get your hands off me you…you brute…you…you stable master!”
Ignoring her outburst, Rhys’ voice cracked like a whip. “Your eyes are bright with desire. When you are excited, they glitter as if gilded. Your cheeks are tinged with rose. Your lips open. Your breath fast and uneven. Shall I go on, my fierce feline?” he seductively taunted.