by Sierra Summers and VJ Summers
Ebook ISBN: 04331-01388
[ Vampire BDSM Romance, MF ]
Vampire and Dom, Master Victor has had his eye on Willa for a long time; long enough to know that she belongs to him, body and soul. Now he just needs to prove it to her.
Orlando MonMarte leaned nonchalantly against the balcony railing, gazing down at his House with a surge of satisfied pleasure. As he watched the people below, a mix of humans and those who were more — or sometimes much less — than human, he recalled a time when those of his kind had been forced to hide in the shadows, deny their very existence.
“You look unusually satisfied, ma cher.” He felt her presence before she spoke. Regine. She’d been his closest friend for over a century, and his occasional lover for nearly as long. She was the only family he claimed, the only person he allowed close enough to see the dreams he so fiercely protected.
“Eh, it is a good night,” he replied. “A good mix of Master and slave.”
“I see.” Her hand was soft and white against the black of his jacket, her crimson nails like blood-tipped daggers. “And is there a slave to tempt the elusive Master Orlando? A soft, sweet poussin, or a hard-bodied canard?”
“Not tonight, love.” Tonight he had a different entertainment in mind. “Victor’s little rabbit is back.” He gestured to the plump, dark-haired woman trying to make herself invisible in a corner. “And he, I think, is ready to claim her.”
“Well, it is Beltane, mon coeur. The day when the Lord reunites with his lady.”
Orlando smiled at the amusement in Regine’s voice. “Let us just hope that what they beget is not a new sun. I don’t think that is the sort of fire Victor would wish to start.”
* * *
Willa stood in the corner, half covered in shadow. It was the perfect place to people-watch without being obvious or noticed. She clung to her tall glass of champagne, wanting nothing more than to be invisible, as she scanned the room from left to right.
The House of MonMarte was an erotic haven for those who enjoyed the rougher side of sex with exotic partners. Willa was no stranger to handcuffs and a paddle. She’d chosen most of her previous lovers based on the fact that they, too, indulged in the BDSM lifestyle. She’d tried to resist her friend Lisa’s pleas that Willa accompany her to the exclusive home yet again, but the lure was irresistible.
No, Willa’s sudden case of nerves had nothing to do with being in the mansion or the sensual perversions happening around her. The reason she wished the floor would swallow her up was standing near the fireplace across the room. She couldn’t count how many times she’d watched him from afar. She never wandered close to him, nor sought him out as a potential partner for the evening. He was so far out of her league it wasn’t even funny. That didn’t stop her from looking, or lusting, though; and he’d been front and center of many fantasies she’d had alone in her bed with nothing but some lube and her favorite vibrator.
Victor Breon. His name alone produced a reaction. Her nipples tightened, her thighs quivered and her lace panties dampened.
He was the perfect romance novel hero. The artist in her itched to paint him. Naked and on his back, he’d have one arm under his head and the other would rest across his flat stomach; long, elegant fingers pointing tauntingly downward. She imagined thick thighs and narrow hips. She’d place a sheet along his hip, wanting only a hint of what he might be carrying between his strong legs. His fangs would be down and she would paint a trickle of blood at the corner of his full mouth.
Damn but she wanted him, and not just to paint. She yearned to know what it felt like to be controlled by one of the sexiest vampires to ever walk the planet. She wasn’t a fool, though. Victor Breon was always in the company of some statuesque beauty, usually blonde and definitely stacked. Her five foot four frame and short brown hair wasn’t his preferred partner. She bet her small rounded stature would inspire no lust in him whatsoever. It didn’t stop her from coming here to watch him, even though she always swore she’d never return.
“More Champagne, Mademoiselle?” a slave asked, plucking a glass off his tray. She smiled and drained the rest of her drink before accepting the new one. The bubbles hit her belly and she giggled involuntarily. She loved the way champagne made her feel, light and airy and without a care in the world. Normally she only allowed herself one glass but tonight Lisa was driving, so Willa was on her third. Not drunk, but definitely light-headed, she moved to a pair of French doors; some fresh air would feel good and might help to cool down her heated body.
Willa walked out into the expansive gardens, wandering along the lush green grass. She kicked off her shoes, savoring the refreshing, velvety dampness of the lawn beneath her feet, and moved further into the garden beyond the flowers beds. Tall hedges, well over six feet, surrounded her on either side, providing a sense of intimacy laced with apprehension. She came upon a large marble table alongside a bench and had a brief mental image of a woman — herself — stretched out on the table, a bound sacrifice to a specific Master. Sitting on the cool surface of the table, she gazed at the full moon.
Tipping her head back, she closed her eyes and imagined Victor behind her, slowly running his hands along her arms, kissing the back of her neck and nibbling, softly at first, then harder, until sharp fangs stung soft skin. His hands would move slowly, surely, to cup her full breasts, stealing her breath. The scene played vividly in her mind and she lifted one hand to her left breast. She slipped her hand inside her low cut bodice, stroking her nipple.
She moaned a little as she moved her other hand to her thigh to pull up the skirt of her black silk dress. Her hand dragged across her panties. Soaking wet. She opened her eyes and checked to see if anyone was near, but the height of the hedges afforded her privacy.
She dipped two fingers between her lower lips and stroked around her tight clit. Hot pleasure shot through her and she moved her fingers faster, playing with her full lower lips and pinching her nipple even tighter. The slight pain rippled from her breast straight to her core. She leaned back on the surface of the wide table, propped on one elbow, and spread her legs wider, allowing her fingers to slip inside her entrance and stroke the wet flesh there. She pushed them as deep as she could reach and moved them sensuously back and forth, her hips rising and falling in rhythm with her stroking.
She cried out and her back arched off the bench as her orgasm rode up her spine; she was only a few strokes away. He’d be standing behind her, watching her, controlling her.
“Do not come.” Willa froze, a breath away from explosion, reacting mindlessly to the low, accented voice that seemed to float straight out of her fantasy to wrap around her.
She knew that voice. Even if she’d only ever heard it from a distance in real life, she’d heard it often enough in her fantasies and dreams. It was the voice of her fantasy Master, Victor Breon. Scrambling back to an upright position, she snapped her knees together.
“Keep your thighs open.” The voice — it couldn’t really be Victor, that had to be the champagne talking — was filled with such sensual command that she immediately spread her legs again, helpless to resist. She heard him grunt his satisfaction. “You insult your hosts by coming out here alone instead of finding someone to share your pleasure with.” His voice deepened. “You are a very badly trained submissive Willa.”
“How do you know my name?” She hardly recognized the breathless quality to her voice. She hadn’t turned her head, didn’t dare look; she was too afraid it was all a dream.
“Of course I know your name, Willa Amber. I learn everything about my submissives.” He voice was closer now. He couldn’t be more than a few feet away.
She inhaled deeply as his words washed over her, warming her belly. She licked her dry lips, struggling to find her voice. “You sound sure that I’ll agree to be your anything.” It was a breach of protocol when addressing a Master, but then he wasn’t her Master. Not yet.
She waited for his angry response, but he only chuckled. “I am sure Willa. I’ve seen you, hiding along the wall. Watching me. I’ve seen the way your nipples peak against your top. I’ve seen how you clench your thighs together when you think no one is looking. I also know that you haven’t had a man between your luscious thighs in almost a year. My Willa,” his voice rasped over her, sending a shiver in its wake, “I am already your Master.”
Her face burned a little more with each word he spoke. She wanted to deny everything he was saying. She wished she could muster the anger she should be experiencing at his invasion of her privacy. Hell, she should get up and walk away and never return to this house. She drew a deep breath, catching the faint spice of his scent. To hell with shoulda, woulda, coulda. She was not about to walk away from her living, breathing fantasy.
“I know almost nothing about you,” she said, hearing the tremor in her voice and recognizing it for what it was: the signal of her surrender.
“Au contraire. You know that you yearn for me with every fiber of your being.” A hard, cool finger traced along the arch of her neck, and Willa was still to afraid to open her eyes; terrified he might disappear, like every other fantasy she’d had of him. “You know that I will take you to limits you did not even imagine existed. You know that my touch alone can set your soul to flight. You know I am vampire, you know I am Cajun and you know that I can Master you like no other, mon poussin.”
Oh I bet you can, she thought to herself, as her pussy began to ache. She jumped slightly when he laid his large cool hand on her ankle. He finally came into view, back-lit by the moon so that she couldn’t make out any details except the width of his shoulders and the gleam of his blue eyes. They were glowing slightly around the iris, a sure sign he was aroused.
His hand continued to travel up her calf, cupping her knee, stopping where the dress met skin. He took his hand away and Willa stifled a whimper.
“Raise your arms.” He command was direct, his tone authoritative. He moved to the end of the bench. Taking one of her arms, he raised it above her head and wrapped a nylon strap around it. He repeated the action with her other hand, bringing them together and anchoring them to something. She wasn’t sure what; all she knew was that she couldn’t move them.
“You’ve earned a punishment, my pet,” he murmured, moving along the side of the table, stroking cool fingers along her ribs through the thin silk of her dress. “You’ve insulted your hosts, and you’ve lied to me by denying what you know to be true.”
She closed her eyes and concentrated on the feel of his fingers gliding along her side, craving their touch on her bare flesh. It was almost as if he read her mind. In a sudden move he ripped her dress in two. The cool night air hit her sensitized skin, shivering over her flesh. Her nipples were so hard they literally hurt.
A small lantern flared to life, drawing her gaze to the man who lit it. Her eyes widened as she gazed at her Master. Standing shirtless, his long raven hair falling past his shoulders, he was everything she’d imagined, and more. His body was male fucking perfection. His chest was broad and pale; each tiny nipple was pierced with two silver hoops.
Willa’s mouth watered as she imagined tugging on the hoops with her teeth.
“Your safe word is luscious.” Just the sound of the word from his full, dark lips sent a ripple through her pussy.
He’d moved to stand at the foot of the table, where he’d have the best view of her as she laid spread out like a banquet before him. She’d been so caught up in the reality of his presence, rapt in the moment, that she’d forgotten to be self-conscious. Until now. Now, as Victor’s glowing blue eyes mapped every swell and curve of her unfashionably curvy frame, all Willa’s insecurities flooded back. Her eyes closed and she swallowed painfully. Was he toying with her? What could someone as beautiful, as perfect as Victor want with someone as… ordinary as her?
“Another punishment already, mon poussin?” His voice, though low, contained a thread of menace that hadn’t been present in his earlier threat. “Look at me,” he snapped, and Willa’s eyes popped open. He looked angry, aristocratic nose flared to pull in air, lips flat and grim. The shiver that skated over her this time wasn’t arousal.
“What did I do wrong?” she ventured, unsure of the source of his anger.
“You question my choice of pet,” he answered coldly. “You denigrate my possession and deny its value.” She thought she must still look confused because he huffed out an irritated breath. “You doubt your beauty, your worth to me, because you feel compelled to conform to some arbitrary social ‘norm’.” He drifted closer, and the tight line of his mouth softened just a bit. “By criticizing yourself, you criticize me, mon poussin. I do not choose that which is imperfect.” Those glowing blue eyes held her paralyzed. “I have chosen you.”