Mists of Velvet (13 page)

Her own fingers parted her sex, spreading the wetness, circling the nubbin of nerves that ached. She needed more—him inside her, filling her. She couldn’t wait, so she pleasured herself. With a low growl, he suckled her hard and moved his hand down her body until his fingers curled with hers. He growled again as he showed her what he wanted, her fingers plunging inside her. He controlled her rhythm, how fast and hard he wanted her to touch herself—which was fast, forceful, and deep.

He had never been this way with her, this hard and demanding. But she did not fear it—or him. She only wanted more. And when he shoved her hand aside and slid his thick fingers into her, she cried out and accepted him, and the way he filled her.

When he used the pad of his thumb to circle her clitoris, she spread her legs wider, allowing him in closer. Feeling his breath on her skin and smelling the sheen of sweat on his only built up her desire, until she was digging her nails hard into his shoulders.

His beautiful eyes fixed on her, holding her steady with his ravenous gaze; then he pulled his fingers from her, brought them to his mouth, and tasted them. She felt as though she could hear his thoughts. He wanted to watch her take him into her mouth. He wanted her to know his taste, to watch her suck and lap at him.

Bronwnn was on fire. She ran her hands down her body, cupping her breasts, then lower, to her thighs, watching him track the progress of her fingers. She spread her legs wider, hoping he would put his powerful shoulders farther between them, set his mouth to her core, and taste her with his tongue and lips.

In her sexual frenzy, her fingertips grazed too close to the mark on her leg she always tried to avoid. With a gasp of alarm, she snatched her fingers away, but instantly her lover melted away and the other, hated images were upon her.

They were dark and disturbing images of a woman who had symbols carved onto her body. Her nipples were red and swollen, and she was moaning. And then she saw him—the flash of black, the hood covering his features—and she pressed her eyes shut in a futile attempt to stop the vision. But she knew better. She couldn’t stop it.

Inside her, she felt the evil, the scent of death and decay. She felt him, the Dark Mage, as surely as if they were the same person. She heard his thoughts, the cruel, biting taunts. And then she saw her dream lover—on top of a stone altar. He was tethered, naked. And there was a blade placed directly over his heart.

She tried to wake up, but it was futile. The vision never left voluntarily. It wasn’t hers to command. Covering her eyes with her hands, she rocked back and forth, but it kept coming in waves. Images of blood and ancient Celtic symbols, chanted incantations, and the acrid odor of incense washed over her. And then, the black hood fell back, revealing the mage’s face.

With a jolt, Bronwnn woke to her surroundings. She was breathing fast, the remnants of the vision making her tremble. Unsteady, she rose to her feet, and her eyes searched through the forest. It was quiet and still. Reeling from the vision, and from the sexual need that made her body tremble, she jumped down from the rock, landing far below on a winding path that led to her sanctuary.

The mage had sensed her, too. She was certain of it. There was a connection between them, some cursed bind that allowed her to track his movements, and she was not naive enough to believe that it was one-sided.

She must run and hide. Later, she would try to determine whether her vision had been of the past or of the future. Right now, she must take care of herself.

The change was smooth and painless. She simply had to think of it, and it happened. Now she was safe. The mage would not find her like this, not in this form, for she was no longer a pale-haired goddess, but a white wolf.

Groaning, Rhys felt himself being picked up and hauled up over a shoulder like a bag of flour. His head was swimming, and he felt as though he might vomit. And he hoped he did, right down the back of the bastard’s robe.

He couldn’t think through the pain and the dizziness and the beckoning darkness. But Rhys knew he had to or else he’d be awakening to the singing of a chorus of angels, his body carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey.

Through the double vision, Rhys saw that they had left the lit corridor and turned left. There was only one sconce to light the path. Shadows played on the walls, and Rhys strived to stay lucid and conscious. In order to escape, he’d need to know which way to go.

His captor’s boots scraped against stone. Rhys bounced against his shoulder. They were descending an ancient staircase. Above him, Rhys saw catacombs. It was a crypt of sorts.

Suddenly he heard a noise—a moan. It sounded like a woman—a sexually aroused woman.

“Look what I’ve brought you, lovely.”

Raising his head, Rhys saw a woman tied down to a stone slab. She was naked and marked. Her skin was bleeding, and there were bruises on her body. She trembled, her nerves flickering. “Yes,” she whispered as her gaze looked him over. Arching her back, she lifted her hips, showing him what could be his. “I want him inside me,” she murmured. “Please,” she begged. “The ache. It’s growing.”

From the darkness beyond where the woman lay, another sound, this one of chains, echoed in the silence. “Not again,” came a deep, distraught voice. “I beg you . . . Not another. I cannot bear it.”

“But you will,” his captor commanded. “Over and over, you will bear witness to my rise. You will watch my power supersede all powers.”

What the fuck was this? Where was he? Still under Velvet Haven? Rhys had never fathomed that below the mansion were catacombs. One thing was for sure—he had to find a way out of here before he became this psycho’s next sacrifice.

None too gently he was pulled down, his body slammed onto a hard, cold slab. Something shackled his wrists and ankles, and he fought to free himself. Raising his head, he saw the black leather straps that held him down.

“You son of a bitch,” he roared as he struggled to pull free of the bonds. But the mage just laughed, a demonic sound that echoed around them.

Next, his clothes were stripped from him. Rhys felt the cold blade glide against his skin as his shirt and jeans were cut away.

“Very nice,” the mage murmured as his palm traced over Rhys’ chest. “You will make me a lovely skin suit.”

“Fuck you,” Rhys spat, still struggling. If this murderer took Rhys’ body, he would definitely have the upper hand. Keir, Suriel, and perhaps even Bran would fall victim to this psychopath. He would be able to move among them with ease, pretending he was Rhys. He couldn’t let that happen.

“What’s this?” The mage lifted the end of the torc. “Ah, Celtic. A warrior people. Fearless in battle, and as fiercely spiritual as they are bloodthirsty.”

Rhys tried to look into the hood to see the face of the mage. But the hood was deep, and the shadows in the room made it impossible to see.

The mage bent low over him. “Are you spiritual, Rhys MacDonald?”

Rhys tried to bite whatever his teeth could grab hold of, but the mage pinned his head back against the stone with one strong hand on his forehead.

“I know the look in your eyes. It is not fear, but rage. You boil with it.”

Rhys opened his mouth to tell the bastard what he truly thought, but he found something shoved in instead. It tasted vile, and he spat it out. The mage laughed again.

“You amuse me. Your strength revitalizes me. You will be a powerful offering. And because you are so worthy, and you have not once begged for me to spare your life, I will keep your soul—and your flesh.”

The hard pit was shoved once more into his mouth, and this time, the mage’s hand clamped down on Rhys’ jaw, forcing him to keep it inside.

“Thorn-apple.” The word was whispered to him. “And incense. No ceremony is complete without them. You’ll like it. It’s a potent hallucinogen and aphrodisiac.”

The room suddenly began to stink of a cloying aroma, and Rhys gagged, both from the stench surrounding him and the taste in his mouth. But in mere seconds he was hallucinating, seeing images through a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes whirling before his eyes. Beyond him, the moans of the woman and the sounds of chains seemed to grow distant as a vision began to coalesce before him.

He felt his body grow warm, then hot, as the picture took shape. He saw himself taking a woman, one hand clutched in her hair, the other cupping and squeezing her breast. She was full and soft, and he wanted to suck her, taste her. Taking her mouth, he plunged his tongue between her lips, tasting her. She moaned, and his cock grew thicker, harder. He needed to bury himself inside the pussy he could smell and feel, so hot and wet between her thighs.

Her hands flew to his shoulders, and he tugged her hair harder, clasping her to him. She couldn’t push him away. He wouldn’t let her. Claiming her, he kissed her harder, taking her, and then he felt her nails digging into his shoulders; he felt how her body did not strive to get away but instead got closer to him, and his hunger grew more rabid.

Breaking off the kiss, his mouth traveled lower, inhaling her scent, feeling her soft, supple flesh against his lips and tongue. He moved lower, searching for the pink nipples he wanted in his mouth.

His vision swam, a profound sense of sexual need and hunger swamped him, and he bit down, capturing the erect nipple between his teeth, then rolling his tongue around the swelling tip. She cried out in pleasure, her body arching against him. The feel of her, all soft curves against him, made him shove against her, rubbing his cock against her hip.

Consumed now, he tasted her, sucking, nipping, while his other hand played with her breast. He was aware of her hand, lowering between their bodies, then the scent of her sex parting. With a growl, he told her he liked it, that he wanted her to play with herself. But he wanted to be part of it, too.

Wrapping his fingers around her wrist, he used pressure to show her what he wanted, her fingers in her cunt pushing in and out as she thought of his cock pushing deep inside her. She moaned, and he wondered if she would make that beautiful sound when he slid into her.

He imagined it, shoving his cock into her, pounding against her as he held her by her hair and watched her come beneath him.

Unable to wait any longer, he shoved her hand away and sank two fingers into her core. She was hot, wet, and so damned tight that he felt his cock begin to leak.

He couldn’t come yet. It was too soon. He wanted more. He needed to feel her for longer; to listen to her sounds that aroused him so much. Whatever poison the mage had given him made him feel as though he could fuck all night and never tire, never stop taking her.

Moving against her, he shouldered his way between her thighs. He was panting, sweating. He could smell the scent of her sex; he wanted to run the tip of his tongue along her seam and circle her clitoris. He wanted to suck on her, to spread her wide, to eat every inch of her. And when she smoothed her hands over her voluptuous body and captured her breasts, shoving them together, he imagined going down on her, watching as she played with her tits as he ate her. Pulling his fingers free, he licked them, tasting her at last as she watched him. She was not afraid of him, or of his desire. He saw that in her eyes. In his mind, he saw her taking his cock and tasting him, too.

The vision was so damned erotic, especially when he knew who the woman was. Experiencing this altered state of sexual excitement was exhilarating. Experiencing it while seeing
her
was beyond anything he had ever dreamt.

What little remained of his conscious thought recoiled at the thought of what was happening to him. How could he be aroused when he was strapped to a stone altar, ready to be carved to bits? But his mind’s will to fight wasn’t strong enough to counter the effects of the thorn-apple on his body—or the image of the woman lying on her back, her sex pink and glistening, and her nipples little points—waiting to be taken between his teeth once more.

“Good,” the mage murmured as he noticed his straining erection. “Now then, let us begin. My lovely little sacrifice is eager to have you.”

The scrape of metal against stone made him tense. Rhys saw the blade, glistening in the dim glow of the sconce. It was curved, and the hilt was encrusted with jewels. It was an athame; a sacred knife used in Annwyn; a ritual knife never intended to shed blood.

He felt the cool slide of the blade teasing along his skin. The woman was gone, but he tried to bring her back. He tried to think of where his vision was going to take him next. Images of supple fingers gliding over his skin took root, and he began to imagine his dream lover touching him. He could actually feel her fondling his cock, picking it up, and bringing her mouth down over the swollen head. He pictured himself clutching her hair and holding her there while she sucked him. The image was so arousing and vivid that he barely felt the first scrape of the blade against his skin. Only when the hot flush of blood seeped onto his chest and trickled down his side did he know he’d been cut. But the potent aphrodisiac he’d been given only heightened his arousal. The pain, coupled with the images, made him rock hard.