The Queen's Tale Page 3
“Next?” He rolled close, kissed her mouth softly, pushed up on one elbow and slung his leg over her. “Reach me the keys, so I can show you.”
“Keys?”
“I need my hands free, Mena, to do what comes next.”
This kiss opened her. His tongue erased the boundaries between them; thick and wet, it reminded her of having his cock in her mouth and she couldn’t hold back the sound of the hungry yearning she felt.
“Oh God, Mena. My hands. Now.”
“No.” She shifted out from under him and sat up. “No.”
Even handcuffed, he held so much power over her. Shaking, she pushed him flat on his back. She shifted to her knees, looked down into his wide blue eyes. “Twelve years I was married. I’ve never been the one to say how, when or where. I don’t need your hands. I need your cooperation.”
She crawled over him, one knee to either side of his hips, one hand flat over his heart, his wrists chained, hands open, reaching… She took his cock firmly in her other hand, and stopped breathing as she notched him into her wet folds. She meant to go slowly, to give herself time; it felt so different than she remembered, so full, warm, harder, stiffer…
But Dante had other ideas. He thrust quickly upward, crying out as if he were the invaded party, catching her wrists in his shackled hands.
Trapping her. Trapping himself.
“Oh, oh my.” Philomena tipped and rolled, locked in place above him.
“Again,” he groaned.
Panting, she tried to feel one thing separate from the rest, to repeat what he needed, to understand the sensations lighting her body on fire. She pushed back, sitting up straight, sending his cock higher inside.
Dante’s head tipped back, exposing his throat and releasing a gasping, guttural: “Oh, fuuuuck.”
Philomena nearly laughed aloud—again. Happiness bubbled through her, making her lighter and lighter inside. She lifted her hips off her heels and slid down hard and fast, hoping she might be able to make him do it again.
It worked. Three times in a row, in fact.
Then all at once, they began to gasp together. Lift to meet each other. Separate with intent. It was the sweetest feeling she’d ever experienced. Her palms pressed solidly over the bones and flesh of his hips, she lifted and fell… “Dante,” she whispered. “Shouldn’t we move to the bed?”
“Beds are for old, married people. Lovers prefer the carpet.”
“They do?”
“Or the wall, the closet, the carriage…”
His words filled her mind with images as his body filled her with sensations. “But why?”
“Lovers…need…quick…fierce.” Each of his words punctuated a thrust. “I’ll…teach you…Mena. Every…single…way.”
“How?”
His answer was startlingly swift. The muscles of his stomach tightened, his thighs flexed. He pushed forward with his chest, cradling her in the vee of his lifted torso and raised knees. The moment she’d adjusted her limbs for comfort, he pressed his advantage and carried her backward, flat onto the floor, rising on his splayed knees. Frustrated by his restraints, he pulled her into him, one side then the other, locking her tight to his body, her bottom wedged against the slant of his thighs, her knees wide on either side of his hips.
Here again, the sensation of him changed. How many different ways could it feel? Now there was more than his thickness and heat. She felt the stroke of some sweet, sharp nerve inside. She felt the pinch of tears.
“More, more. Oh, please…”
“More like this? How beautiful you are, my Mena, my queen.” Talking while tilting his hips the smallest amount, just enough, Dante pressed inside. He opened her with his body and his words. “Look at me here, on my knees for you. Still wearing your chains. You’re safe with me, yes you are, my queen….” His words wove a spell. “Let go.”
He bent forward and, with his teeth, caught the tiny blue ribbons that held her silk chemise closed. Tugging, tearing at her last covering, and always tilting, tipping, rocking her inside.
She hadn’t wanted to be naked in front of him. She’d chosen to keep that thin garment, mindful as a queen of every layer of meaning. A warning flared through her oversensitized body.
“Stop. Wait.” She squirmed and her own motions shrugged the fabric from her shoulders, exposing her. “Oh no, don’t. I’m too…”
“You’re beautiful. Let me see. Please.”
He locked her wrists in the circle of his fingers—held them tight as any handcuffs. He never stopped moving, stroking her, asking for something she didn’t know how to give.
“Mena, look at me, on my knees. Begging. Do you feel me begging?” He straightened his thighs, pulling her up into him. His shoulders relaxed, his eyes closed and he thrust, hard.
And did not stop.
She answered with a sound that mingled exclamation and warning. It was different again—the sweet and sharp punctuated by crashing violence. She arched her feet, digging her toes into the soft carpet, and still was rocked with each powerful thrust.
“Let go.” His voice was deep, clear, his words a command. “Let go. Now.”
No one could resist. No one.
She went in all directions, with a heart-stopping disintegration, disappearing inside and suddenly beginning again, all at once, all together.
“Yes!” he shouted, chest thrust forward, head back, fingers sprung open releasing her, snapping the chain between his cuffed hands.
The next moments were disorderly.
***
Philomena heard his footsteps, then the jingle and clink of keys and metal falling on the nearby chest of drawers. A rustle of linens preceded the soft warmth of a blanket falling around her, a pillow being tucked beneath her head.
He slipped in behind her, pulling her bottom into the warm nest of his body.
“Can we try the wall or the closet next?” she whispered, fighting to hear his answer before sleep.
“Another time, my queen. Rest.”
“Promise me.”
“Yes?”
“I know we have never encountered one another before in the palace,” she covered his hand where it lay against her belly. “But should you ever by chance come upon me, at court perhaps or even in some state procession, will you turn away? Quickly. Don’t speak to me. Don’t even look.”
She felt him pull back, cold air slipping between them. “Why?”
“I’m afraid.”
“Of what?”
“I will be another man’s queen. I’m afraid I will not remember my duty, should I ever see you again.”
With a sigh, the distance between them closed. “Fear not, my queen. Fear not.”
Philomena melted into his warmth and let herself go again…this time into deep, restful sleep.
“Poor queen,” Dev murmured.
The rain pattered softly now, on the roof. He pulled Maeve in close, rocking his hips steadily against the pillow of her ass, nestling his cock along the damp warmth of her cleft. He could come like this, spooning, her voice creating pictures in his mind. The longer the story, the harder it was to resist.
“Only if we end it there,” she answered breathily.
“There’s more then?” He flicked a finger casually, and grinned when she squeaked.
“Would you like more?”
He thrust and withdrew, slowly. Letting them both enjoy the wait. “Always.”
The next day was diabolically beautiful. The sun shone. The birds sang.
The queen wept.
Discipline supported her. She bathed, dressed and sat for her hair exactly as always. Exactly as if it did not matter.
The moment she swept into the church, in a sigh of lacy silk, the organist stopped. The audience rustled to its feet. Philomena’s eyes filled with tears and blurred the particulars of the faces around her. Her people.
One foot in front of the next.
Duty.
As she stepped up onto the dais, the king she would marry took h
er elbow. She nearly resisted.
And then she nearly fainted.
His smile dripped wicked satisfaction. His voice was pitched for her alone. “It is quite frightening how well your lord chamberlain knows you.”
“Dante?”
“King Western Border to you, my dear.” He pulled her closer to whisper in her ear. “Tonight, we use the bed. And you wear the handcuffs.”
Thank heavens her veil disguised the shocking, meltingly hot blush that kissed her body.
But he felt it. She knew he did.
“Your Highness.”
“Absolutely, Your Highness,” she agreed.
“Happy after all,” he cooed in her ear.
“I like a happy ending, don’t you?”
He rolled over her, crushing her flat beneath him and reaching over the side of the bed until he found the slippery silk of a discarded stocking. Her giggle was hard to hear around the mouthful of pillow. “Very. Allow me to demonstrate my appreciation for your creativity.”
Dev grabbed one of her hands and knotted the material around her wrist. He flipped her onto her back, wrapping the stocking around the spindle of the bed frame in one smooth motion. Her arm stretched over her head. He grabbed her other wrist and looped the loose end of her stocking around it.
She cocked an eyebrow as she watched him go about the business of tying her to the bed. “That stocking is Donna Karan.”
“Oh?”
“Silk.”
“Never looked better on you,” he said, letting his eyes feast on the sight of her. “Handy, too.”
“You’re cheating. In my story, the king was the helpless one.”
“The king never cheats.” He nipped the tip of her breast, and sucked it hard, exactly the way Dante had kissed his queen. “The king makes the rules. Tonight, we pick up where your story left off.”
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.
All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II B.V./S.à.r.l. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.
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MIRA is a registered trademark of Harlequin Enterprises Limited,
used under licence.
Published in Great Britain 2009
MIRA Books, Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road,
Richmond, Surrey, TW9 1SR
© Grace D'Otare 2006
ISBN 978-1-408-91326-0
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Shall we have a story
Copyright