The Dark Forest: A Collection Of Erotic Fairytales(32)

“Keep your eyes open,” he ordered.

Beatrice’s eyes flew open to clash with his own in the mirror.

“I want you to see all the beautiful colors of your arousal. A pinkened cunny, desire filled golden eyes, an expanse of ivory skin.”

At his taunting words, Beatrice’s finger slipped between her nether lips. Sliding through the silken dew of her arousal, she moved the tip of her finger back and forth. Back and forth. Increasing the pressure with each sweep.

“That’s it, love. Don’t stop,” he breathed against her ear. Entranced by the sight of her pleasuring herself. Her long red-tipped fingers dipping in and out of her cunny. Shimmering with her own dew, the undeniable proof of her arousal. She could fight him all she wanted. He knew the truth. Her body knew the truth.

She could feel the harsh outlines of his own arousal pressing against her back. How far was she going to allow him to take this? Did she have a choice?

She could smell the citrus, clove and lime oil from his bay rum soap. There was also a hint of fresh grass and the slightly mineral smell of fresh water. He must have bathed in the river that ran along the edge of her father’s property. His body felt cool and damp against her own. The thin remnants of her silk dressing gown which clung to her back offered no protection. Cool drops of water dripped from his wet hair to fall on her bared shoulder. The chill of the water a sharp contrast from her punishment heated skin.

Focusing on the swarthy hand which once again cupped her breast. The chestnut, sun-kissed skin engulfing her pampered ivory flesh. His scent. The sounds of his breathing. The touch of his breath on her neck. The power of his presence. Her own swirling emotions. Beatrice slipped a second finger along the seam of her lips. Teasing the outer edge of her cunny as her fingertip pressed against the bud. She used the curved tip of her nail to cause that delicious pinch of pain she always secretly craved before finding a release. Twisting against his restraining arm, Beatrice arched her back.

Rhys hardened his grip on her left breast as his free hand wrapped around her throat. Feeling the flutter of her quickened breath against his palm. Lifting her up, the toes of her slippers barely touched the cold marble as she was suspended in his embrace. His hand on her throat. His arm holding her tight above the floor. It gave her a weightless, breathless feel…detached from all reality. Floating as if in a dream.

She looked on their reflection in the mirror as if they were characters in a storybook.

Lovers entwined.

Aggressive adversaries.

It wasn’t real. It was all too real.

The image warped. Spinning and swirling. Colors, sights and sounds twisting and blending.

Rhys moved his hand from her throat to grasp her jaw. Forcing her head back, he swallowed her cry of release. Pushing in deep, she tasted of red wine and supplication.

Rhys swept an arm under her knees just as they weakened. Raising her into his strong arms, he carried Beatrice’s momentarily passive form to the large bed which dominated the room.

Placing her among the plush cerulean bedcovers, Rhys paused to admire how her bright, tawny locks fanned out about her like a peacock’s pride. The delicate pink flush of her ivory skin all the more pronounced against the deep royal blue blanket. Her bruised and swollen lips a beautiful garnet. He made a note to commission a gold necklace with the largest garnet he could find to grace her neck. He wanted to be forever reminded of this moment. Her golden hair…kissed crimson lips…and his necklace wrapped around her throat…a physical token of his constant presence.

Before those amber eyes opened filled with reproach and fire, Rhys acted quickly. Gripping the heavy braided cord which held back her bed curtains, Rhys secured her wrists with a tight knot.

“What do you think you’re doing?” screeched Beatrice as she tried to sit up brutally snatched from her blissful aftermath.

Ignoring her outburst, Rhys secured the remaining cord to the post at the center of her mahogany headboard.

“Untie me this instant,” Beatrice ranted as she shifted her hips side to side on the bed, trying to turn onto her stomach to preserve what was left of her modesty.

Staring down at her prone, bare form, Rhys reached for the buttons on his breeches.

Beatrice stilled. Taking in the hard, toned muscles of his chest and the flat planes of his stomach, she swallowed…whether it was in fear or anticipation she didn’t know. She watched as his large hands carefully handled each small bone button. Watched as more skin was slowly exposed, still as swarthy and dark as his upper body. Oh my, she thought with trepidation. It must mean he was accustomed to being unclothed in the sunshine. Perhaps bathing in the river. A vision of his hard, naked body sluicing through the crisp, blue water sprang before her eyes. The rivulets of water would trickle through his chest hair, following the deeply cut path of each defined muscle.

Her reverie was broken the moment his breeches fell to the marble floor. Beatrice focused on the useless bit of cloth. Focused on the course brown fabric. On his toes as they peeked out beneath. Focused on anything but him…and that!

“Look at me, Bea.” His rough voice darkened with desire.

“No one calls me Bea,” she breathed, keeping her eyes trained down.

“I do.”

Beatrice could not resist looking at his face then. His green eyes were warmed to the deep, rich color of forest moss. In their depths, she could see his intent. This was no seduction. No limp-wrist attempt at wooing her like the men her father was constantly parading in front of her like male breeding studs.