Microsoft Word - FortunesFool.rtf (27 page)

track of everything but the urgent, fast-rising need to come that roiled in his balls. Each time she pulled upward, his hips jerked and stuttered. He held back his groans by sheer force of will and the strength of a tightly clenched jaw. He could see his goal. Taste it, smell it. His entire body screamed at him to let go.

But when he closed his eyes, the little redhead's face hung before

him, accusing in its blank, dead stare. How could he let himself enjoy

this? Not two hours after watching Clarice bleed out all over him?

"Shh," Leah whispered, as if she knew what he was thinking.

"Pretend you're somewhere else."

He swallowed against the choking thickness in his throat. "I can't.

It's too hard. I can't do this."

"You can because you have to." Her grip tightened again. "Tell me your favorite fantasy. What do you think about when you're...you

know?"

"Jerking off?"

"Yeah." She sounded almost shy, and how funny was that, given the situation?

He sucked in a breath and tried to concentrate. "I like...uh..." He coughed. "Harem chicks."

"Harem chicks? You mean, like, veils and incense and belly

dancing?"

Christ, he couldn't believe he'd just admitted that. To anyone,

anywhere, much less to this woman under these circumstances. Did this

drug have some kind of truth serum properties too? God, he was so

fucked.

Leah sounded amused when she said, "Okay, I'll save the cultural

and gender sensitivity lectures for another time and we'll just go with it.

So...close your eyes and imagine I'm a..." she coughed, "harem chick."

He did as he was told.

She continued to speak, making her voice rise and fall as she wove

the fantasy. "I'm here to serve you and only you. Your pleasure is my only thought, my only concern."

"Tell me how we meet." He sounded rough and desperate in his own 177

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ears, and he hated it, but he couldn't stop himself. "Tell me how you lure me back to your secret room."

Leah didn't miss a beat. "We meet in the marketplace. I help you

buy some fruit from a vendor because you don't know the language, and

then I invite you back to a place I know where we can be alone. A hidden door in a blue-tiled wall leads to a room draped in veils."

He saw the scene behind his closed eyes. The movement of her hand

on his cock had slowed, but his pleasure at her touch was pure. No longer tainted by guilt and fear, if only for the moment. "Tell me what you're wearing."

"A sheer silk gown that looks like a running watercolor. Veils hide my face and hair, but when we're alone, I remove them. I remove

everything, and I dance for you to the drumbeats from the marketplace. I kneel at your feet and anoint you with oil, and touch you like this."

Her strokes grew swift and sure once more. She added a twist of the

wrist on each upward pull that yanked a grunt from him every time. He

felt the slow build again, and he strained toward it.

"I touch you like this," she repeated, "and the drums beat faster. You see nothing but the soft veils, you hear nothing but the drums, you feel nothing but my touch."

All at once his ears were full of a low pounding. Was it bleeding

from the dance floor above them? No...different...more exotic than even

Hotel California's house music. The rhythm pulled at him, thrumming in

his blood. The scent of sandalwood and patchouli drifted through his

head. He opened his eyes. Before him, in place of the Madre's dungeon,

was a blue veil rippling on a hot, dry breeze.

Leah's voice came in a husky murmur. "I use both hands on you, to

drive you to the breaking point. Past the barrier of control. Feel it. Feel this."His hips rocked forward, rutting and pumping in time with her working hands. His skin flushed hot and pebbled over with gooseflesh.

The pressure at the base of his spine and behind his balls built, and still he fought it, because now he feared the whole idea of coming. What if he ruptured something?

Then her fingertips found the head of his cock where it was wet and

slippery, and pressed lightly into the slit. He wrenched his neck as he

turned his face into his shoulder to muffle his shout. But even that flare of pain wasn't enough to dull the sharp bursts, one after another, that

marked his release. He twisted in the chains, rising up on his knees, and 178

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spurted helplessly over Leah's hands, his own thighs, and the floor.

His shoulders shrieked at him as he sagged and hung limply, letting

the shackles take this weight. Leah let him go, and he pulsed out that last of his orgasm untouched. He tried to lift his head. To look at her, to say something. But after another few seconds the only words in his brain

were four letters long and crafted of still more frustration and anger and fear.

Because the drug-induced craving? The tingle and sting across his

chest and belly that he'd been able to ignore while Leah had been

stroking him? It had returned. And what was worse? His dick was rising

from the dead right along with it.

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Leah wiped her hands on her nightshirt. They trembled, and her

heart thudded erratically in her chest. She could taste adrenaline on the back of her tongue, as if she'd just snatched a child from the path of a speeding car. Or defused a bomb.

Yeah, that last analogy was pretty accurate, wasn't it?

But that wasn't all she was feeling, and she'd be a liar if she said it

was, even if only to herself. Her nipples poked hard at the thin cotton of her shirt, and when she moved she could feel an achy swelling between

her legs. His reaction to her touch—his tormented pleasure and painful

satisfaction—had left her wet and wanting. Did that make her sick?

Twisted? As bad as the Madre Donnatella and her acolytes?

She mentally dragged herself away from that line of thought. No

time for that now.

She watched Colton carefully. After a few seconds, he lifted his

head and coughed, not quite meeting her eyes. What did you say in a

situation like this? She hoped he didn't try to thank her. Because

seriously...awkward.

But when he opened his mouth, it was only to groan. She watched

the muscles in his arms bunch and stretch, pulling against the chains and then falling slack. She glanced down and saw that his cock had risen

again, high and firm against his belly. Exactly what she'd been afraid of.

"It didn't work," he said. His voice was a gritty rasp.

"It's all right." She stepped forward and tried to catch his eye.

Couldn't let him get too much into his head, or this wouldn't work. "I thought maybe it would take more than once."

"More than once?" He sounded more weary than surprised. "Can't do that again. It'll kill me."

"Don't be so dramatic. I'll tell you what will kill you, though—the Madre, and she'll take joy in doing it slowly if she comes back and you're still...all worked up."

He shook his head. "And you're so sure she won't kill me anyway.

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Why?"

"I'm not sure. But which way would you rather die, Detective? A

quick slash to the throat, or..." She glanced over her shoulder at the glass-fronted cabinet in the corner. She knew what was likely inside. Bladed

instruments crafted for flaying skin from muscle. Vises made to crush

small extremities. She looked away and shuddered.

"Point taken."

She nodded. "And if we're lucky, she'll only beat you and leave you alive to play with tomorrow. That would buy us some time."

His smile was wry. "Yeah, that sounds like my kinda luck." He

cleared his throat and shifted his knees on the floor. His cock bobbed

with the movement. "I probably should've asked you this before,

but...even if you could find a paperclip or something, you probably can't jimmy the locks on these, right?" He shook his wrists in the shackles.

"Sorry, Detective. I'm an English professor, not a cat burglar. I

could quote you some Shakespeare, if you're bored."

He grinned. "Thought so."

"What?"

"Never mind." He sighed and rolled his shoulders. "All right, let's get on with it."

She saw the muscles in his abdomen quiver as she approached. She

reached out her hand to touch him, and he said, "Wait."

"What?"

He inclined his head, looking every-so-slightly sheepish. "I feel like I should...I dunno...kiss you or something."

She felt her face open up into a smile—her first since she'd landed

in this awful place. "That's not necessary. This isn't a date."

"No, but I'd feel better about it."

She stepped back again and considered him. "I'm going to say no,

Detective. But I'll tell you what—if and when we get out of this alive, I'll let you buy me dinner. And if that goes well, I'll let you kiss me good

night."

"Are you always this tough?"

She thought of Ray Delacroix's poor, twisted ear and smiled wider.

"You have to catch me in the right mood. I'm going to touch you now."

His whole body looked rubbed raw. Flushed red and glowing with

heat, as if from a bad sunburn. But his cock was the worst, and she

almost feared to lay her hand on it. What if she hurt him? What if she

hurt herself?

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Okay, that's just stupid.

But he was stunning, with his black-stubbled jaw and the all-over

blush and the slick sweatiness. And those nicely defined muscles—not

too big, not too small. Not even the dried blood-spatters on his skin could make her think otherwise. Stunning and about to be slowly tortured to

death for the Madre's amusement, if she didn't get down to business.

She reached out and took him in hand, listened to his rough groan,

and noted again how his cock fit so well in her palm. Another part of him that wasn't too big or too small, like some fucked-up version of

Goldilocks where the three bears preferred ball-gags and extra-large,

studded butt plugs to porridge. And speaking of the three bears...Skinny Brunette and Pixie Cut had said they'd be back in two hours. It'd been at least forty-five minutes and probably closer to sixty. Time to get this

show on the road.

She laid a steadying hand on his shoulder and collected some of the

slippery moisture at the head of his erection to ease the way as she

stroked. She'd need more finesse this time—a story about a subservient

woman dropping her veils and a quick, two-fisted jerk wouldn't do it.

Luckily, she'd been a pro at working men into a sexual frenzy once upon

a time. Back then, she'd been fearless about searching out a man's hidden kinks and exploiting them 'til he was...well...porridge in her hands. She and Goldilocks had a lot more in common than the average guy on the

street might guess.

She leaned in closer and murmured in his ear, "You know what I

think, Detective? I think you like being chained. I think it turns you on, just a little."

The entire line of his body stiffened at her words. His mouth, which

had fallen open just a bit, snapped shut. He turned his head to glare up at her, his pupils dilated with emotion—a brew of rage and lust she could

almost taste. "You're full of shit, lady."

"Call me Leah. And you think so?" She tightened her grip and

leaned still closer. "I think I'm right on the money. But let's see, shall we?"

She couldn't afford to be kind. Couldn't afford to avoid

embarrassing him. He might not have been ready to admit how much he

liked feeling helpless, but that was the least of his problems. She needed to find those kink buttons and press them, and she needed to do it fast.

Her gaze strayed to his hand, trapped inside the shackle. It flexed,

the fingers stretching and curling in time to her strokes. If she took a step 182

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in that direction...bent over just a bit...she could keep her grip on his cock and touch her mouth to the first knuckle.

She made contact. He grunted. She ran the tip of her tongue up and

down the crevice between his fingers. His whole hand convulsed,

twisting in the shackle.

"Fuck." His hoarse voice cracked between them like a gunshot.

She pulled away, but not before noticing the scar, thick and pale and

crescent-shaped, on the back of his hand. Identical to the mark on the

man in her dream...was it last night? It seemed like weeks ago.

She shook her head. No time now to consider what it might mean—

she'd think about it later. She moved to stand over him again. "Close your eyes. Listen carefully and let the story make a picture in your head."

She waited for acknowledgment. Finally, he jerked his head in what

might've been agreement, reluctance in every strained line of his body.

It was enough. She leaned in close once more and whispered,

"You're a member of the Sultan's household—a princeling or the son of a trusted advisor. You were caught committing a grave crime—spying on

the Sultan's favorite concubine in her bath. You've been arrested and

chained here to await execution."

He sucked in a noisy breath and swayed in the shackles. His head

dropped back against the bricks. He said, "Go on."

She lowered her voice further and spoke slowly, drawing out the

words. Using formal language to weave the fantasy. "I am the concubine.

I've slipped away from the harem to see you before you're put to death.

Your boldness has intrigued me, and I want to know this man who would

die for a glimpse of me." She gripped his cock with her four fingers and let her thumb wander where it would, tracing the pulsing vein on the