Lord of Darkness (Maiden Lane #5)(81)

Sweetly torturing.

Finally he broke, fisting his good hand in the coverlet as she ground down against him once more, not fast enough, not hard enough. “More.”

She glanced at his face and her lips curved in a secret smile as old as Eve’s before she leaned down, the tips of her breasts brushing his chest, her hands braced on his shoulders. “Like this?”

And she rode him, like a goddess triumphant, her face shining, her cunny gripping him fast and wet. He stared at her, even as his muscles tensed, even as he felt his lips draw back in a grimace of sexual bliss. She was too controlled, too assessing, and he was nearing his edge.

He caught her hand, bringing it to where they joined, pressing her fingers to her softness as her hips shuddered and lost their rhythm. “Touch yourself.”

He’d made it worse for himself; he knew it the moment her fingers curled into her pretty cunny. Her lips parted moistly, her head thrown back as she began to stroke herself, and it took everything he had to keep from spilling. To watch her pleasure herself as she rode his cock and not end this too soon.

“That’s it, darling,” he whispered low, coaching her, wanting to see her bring herself to fulfillment. “It’s sweet, isn’t it? Touching yourself, letting me watch. Do you like it? Do you enjoy putting on a show for me? Parting your pretty lips, letting me see how moist you’ve become, f*cking yourself on me?”

The crudity seemed to jolt something within her. Her eyes widened, her back arched, and he felt the muscles of her sheath grip him tight, so tight.

Right before he lost control himself.

Chapter Sixteen

The great black horse came down off the Peak of Whispers and Faith saw before them a vast, barren plain, stretching as far as the eye could see.

“Is this Hell?” she murmured in the Hellequin’s ear. He shook his head. “This is the Plain of Madness. It will take us two days to cross it.”

She shivered and huddled closer to the Hellequin’s big form, for even with the cloak it was growing colder. And as she did so, she looked down and saw white wisps swirling aimlessly in the dust on the ground. …

—From The Legend of the Hellequin

“Sir.”

Godric came fully awake in the darkness of his own bedroom, aware that it’d been Moulder whispering.

He blinked at the manservant, raising his eyebrows as the man merely tilted his head toward the hallway. Moulder was dressed in a rather ornate orange banyan and tasseled cap and held a single candlestick in his hand.

Godric pulled the coverlet more securely around Megs’s shoulders and slipped carefully from the bed. He quickly donned breeches, shirt, and banyan and then padded out of the room after Moulder.

“What is it?” he asked once they had made the hallway without waking Megs.

“Mr. Makepeace,” Moulder replied. “He’s here and he insisted on speaking with you, despite the hour.”

Godric could think of only one reason for the home’s manager to call on him in the middle of the night. “Show me.”

They descended the stairs silently to the ground floor.

Makepeace turned as they entered the study. “I’m sorry to disturb you, St. John.” He eyed Moulder, standing beside the closed door, for a moment before raising his brows. “Perhaps we could speak privately?”

“No need.” Godric gestured to one of the wing chairs in the room, waiting for his guest to seat himself before taking one. “Moulder is in my confidence.”

“Ah.” Makepeace nodded. “Then I shall come straight to the point. Alf told me not more than an hour ago that she had found the last workshop.”

Godric was up at once, stripping off the banyan. “Moulder, give me a hand here. We’ll have to take off the boards on my wrist.”

“Is that wise?” Makepeace was looking worriedly at his immobilized arm.

“We can’t wait—Alf might try to rescue her friend by herself.” Godric arched an eyebrow. “Unless you think we can persuade the third one of us to come and rescue the girls?” At Makepeace’s frown, he shook his head. “I’m our only choice. The wrist has healed well enough. If Moulder can fashion a smaller, softer brace—”

“Godric?”

All three men looked up at the sound of the study door opening. Megs stood there, her glorious hair tumbled about her shoulders, a hand at her throat holding her wrapper closed, and Godric immediately wondered if that was the only thing she wore.

But his lady wife had other matters on her mind. She came into the room and shut the door behind her. “What is happening, Godric?”

Moulder had found a sharp knife but was standing frozen. Godric took the knife and began awkwardly cutting the bindings holding the two boards on his left arm. “I have to go out.”

“May I?” Makepeace was beside him and Godric nodded, handing the knife over so the other man could work more ably on the bindings.

“As the Ghost of St. Giles?” Megs whispered.

“Yes.” Godric kept his eyes on the work that Makepeace was doing.

“You can’t.” He could feel her stepping closer; then her hand was on his shoulder. “Godric! This is madness. You’ve only begun to heal. You’ll break your wrist again if you go out, and who knows if the doctor will be able to set it. You could be crippled for life—assuming you’re not killed.” He heard her huff of desperate exasperation and then she was addressing Makepeace. “Why are you making him do this?”