My Lady's Choosing: An Interactive Romance Novel(100)
“I wish to lose all of my senses with you,” you say. You feel a deep pull of pleasure in your sex as he shudders with visible delight.
He retrieves the blindfold from his belongings and wraps it delicately over your eyes. As he tightens the fabric, his bare chest brushes against your breasts. Your nipples harden, the apexes of two pleasure pyramids ready to be pillaged by vandals.
His own nipples respond to the response of your nipples, and as your sight darkens, your other sensations come alive.
“Kiss me,” you whisper. You sense his plush mouth hovering near yours. You feel the heat from the fire warm your face, and the heat from your own desire warm your sex. “My neck first,” you say, just before his lips brush your own. “Make me wait.”
The giant man with the sphinx hands sinks into the sand and expels a sigh of total lust and abandon. He kisses your neck as Cleopatra did Antony for the first time: with nothing but total certainty, epic cleverness, and deadly desire.
You feel more womanly than ever before, full and free and wild, yet also wholly in control. “Lower,” you whisper into what you think might be his ear. He obliges, and you feel his hands stroke the line of your neck, all the way down into the valley of the pharaohs between your breasts. Your body spasms with delight.
“I have taken orders most of my life,” Fabien whispers harshly, but not unkindly, into the shell of your ear. “I will happily continue to take yours, but I beg you, now let me please you with mystery, my lady.” He slides his tongue across your collarbone. Caresses the inside of your elbow. Traces the outline of your knee.
“You are the charmer, and I am the snake,” he says, before filling your mouth with a kiss that makes you strain against your bindings for more. “But let this snake dance…for you.”
You are heady with not knowing where his charmed-snake tongue will strike next. You kiss, hungrily, deeply, softly, and soon your sex is filled with the charm of Fabien’s agile tongue and clever fingers.
“Yes,” you cry. “Oh yes!” You think you will wake the spirit of Nefertiti with your pleasure. With only a vague memory of what started you on this delightful excavation of your own desire, you straddle what you soon feel to be Fabien’s erect obelisk.
“I have known longing before, but not this kind of desire,” you say. “It feels as if we are two halves of a scarab torn asunder, finally rejoining our fates in this desert midnight.” You undulate rhythmically atop him, a genie rubbing its own lamp. “Free me from my bindings, and let two become one.”
“Yes,” he cries. “Oh yes, my queen.” He unties your binds, freeing both his hands and yours to grant your wishes deep into each other—and into the night.
Together, you set off on a truly magic carpet ride.
Afterward, basking in the afterglow, you ask to share a cup of wine. He procures two earthenware mugs and pours a bit of wine from a flask into each.
“I feel drunk enough on you, chérie,” he says with a laugh. You can tell that, for the first time in a long time, he feels genuinely relaxed and happy. You would think the same of yourself, had you not recently been kidnapped and taken into the desert. Still, your heart twinges with a little guilt as you kiss him deeply and, while he is distracted, slip into his wine a drop of the sleeping draught you always carry in case the Dowager Dragon had trouble falling asleep after a long night of hateful and petty gossip.
“A toast to two becoming one,” Fabien says, his Nile-green eyes almost smiling.
“To two becoming one,” you echo. Fabien drinks deep. He is sleeping like the pharaohs in their tombs when you take the camel meant for you away from him, far into the desert, and deep into the night.
Turn to this page.
You race after the apparition in double time, hitching up your skirts almost to your thighs, hurrying with ground-eating strides.
You chase the filmy, flimsy thing up the stairs, almost to the entrance of Lord Craven’s sleeping chambers, and you think you have it cornered. You reach out a hand to grab the flying raven hair, but the ghost rounds a bend and you trip on the final stair.
You are sent flying, throwing out hands out to break your fall. You slide across the runner, burning yourself along the way. Yet when you rise, you are alone. All that is left of the ghost is the pain in your palms.
What the devil is going on here?
If you think this is a bunch of damned nonsense, go to Lord Craven and demand answers. Turn to this page.
If you suspect that this ghost truly has come to haunt you from beyond the veil, you must seek advice and comfort from Mrs. Butts. Turn to this page.
You turn slowly to face him. Rafe Caddington. He is beautiful, in the way a tiger is beautiful. Or a snake. Deadly beasts all share a certain elegance. And arrogance. His hand has traveled up the length of your arm and come to rest at the point where your neck meets your collarbone. He circles the edge of your clavicle with his gloved thumb and emits the softest “augh” at the tiny gasp the action elicits from you.
Your eyes narrow, and you manage to slap him full in the face. You can do nothing to cool the burning heat dancing in your lower regions, but that is neither here nor there. Cad touches his cheekbone and looks at you with derisive pleasure rather than anger.
“Is all this inquisition necessary?” Cad asks, his eyes locked on your own in what you wonder is an attempt at mesmerism. “You do realize, good woman, that you are in Manberley and not the castle at Udolpho?”