Read Online Hotel Transylvania by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Ads: Link
night before, she had listened well into the early hours while Achille and his cronies talked in the library below. There had been sounds like chanting, and, much later, cries and comments that told her the men were enacting what her husband called the Rites of Athens. She closed her eyes and tried to compose her thoughts for prayer.
Dizziness overcame her, and she opened her eyes again in the vain hope that the images would come to rest. Her head ached abominably, and her ears rang.
The room seemed much darker now, and she thought perhaps she had slept, or was still sleeping. When she could not bring the tassles of the canopy that hung at the foot of her bed into focus, she turned her head to the wall. As she stared at the thick folds of the bed hangings, she thought that the cloth moved. She tried to turn away, and found that she could not.
His eyes were warm, very warm and hungry.
It was the dream again, and this time she felt herself move toward the image, shameful joy in her heart. She recognized the guilt of her passion, and surrendered to it, to his warm, insistent mouth, now on her lips, now on her throat.
His hands caressed her with a touch as light as gossamer, and full of fire. She could feel his weight beside her, and welcomed it, almost weeping as she drew him toward her.
In some remote part of her mind, she wondered if Achille had sent him to her as a terrible jest, but she could not imagine how even Achille could send a dream.
She felt herself warm and cold at once, and she strained to hold him nearer to her. His touch was gentle, expert, and drew her out of herself. There was a single sharp moment of pain, but it was followed so swiftly by ecstatic languor that it served only to punctuate her rapture. She was drifting, drifting, as insubstantial as music. The warm throb of her violoncello between her legs was nothing compared to this sweet, shining dream that fired her very veins with delight. This splendidly ravished sleep bore her as if on wings, or the wind. She felt her heart open as a flower opens, and slipped away into deep, silent slumber. There was no weight beside her, and the delicious thrumming of her blood subsided to that gentle tide of rest.
It was cold in the room when she woke, and the tumbled bedclothes gave her no protection and little warmth. She was cold, and now that the effect of the drug had dissipated, she felt numb and exhausted.
Guilt assaulted her as well. She knew that such dreams were as deep a sin as the act itself, for she who had committed adultery in her heart was an unfaithful wife in the eyes of Holy Church. Her Confessor had told her this was so, and without exception, for adultery was lust, and lust was one of the Seven Deadly Sins. She crossed herself, feeling hypocritical, and pulled the covers about her, shame coloring her face.
The prayers would not come. In vain she tried to fix her thoughts on heavenly things, and each time, she was pulled back to the blissful dream, and the delirious sensuality that it brought, the dream where her body sang a sacrament all its own that the austere example of the saints and martyrs could not dispel.
Her mind was still divided when die door opened and to her amazement, her husband came in. "Good morning, Madame. I trust I do not disturb you?" His mocking eyes saw her dishevelment as evidence of the drug's efficacy.
"Achille?" she asked, feeling a cold of another kind rise in her. She gathered the bedclothes around her in response to the disgust she saw in his face.
He walked toward her bed. "Come, Madame, come. We have guests belowstairs. It would be remiss of you not to put in an appearance to greet them." He held out his hand to her, and there was an implacability about him. This was not another one of his cruel jokes. This was another matter entirely. "Come, Madame," he repeated.
She frowned. "I am not dressed, Achille. Do you seek to make a mockery of your wife?" She hoped fervently that was all he had planned. "Can
Dizziness overcame her, and she opened her eyes again in the vain hope that the images would come to rest. Her head ached abominably, and her ears rang.
The room seemed much darker now, and she thought perhaps she had slept, or was still sleeping. When she could not bring the tassles of the canopy that hung at the foot of her bed into focus, she turned her head to the wall. As she stared at the thick folds of the bed hangings, she thought that the cloth moved. She tried to turn away, and found that she could not.
His eyes were warm, very warm and hungry.
It was the dream again, and this time she felt herself move toward the image, shameful joy in her heart. She recognized the guilt of her passion, and surrendered to it, to his warm, insistent mouth, now on her lips, now on her throat.
His hands caressed her with a touch as light as gossamer, and full of fire. She could feel his weight beside her, and welcomed it, almost weeping as she drew him toward her.
In some remote part of her mind, she wondered if Achille had sent him to her as a terrible jest, but she could not imagine how even Achille could send a dream.
She felt herself warm and cold at once, and she strained to hold him nearer to her. His touch was gentle, expert, and drew her out of herself. There was a single sharp moment of pain, but it was followed so swiftly by ecstatic languor that it served only to punctuate her rapture. She was drifting, drifting, as insubstantial as music. The warm throb of her violoncello between her legs was nothing compared to this sweet, shining dream that fired her very veins with delight. This splendidly ravished sleep bore her as if on wings, or the wind. She felt her heart open as a flower opens, and slipped away into deep, silent slumber. There was no weight beside her, and the delicious thrumming of her blood subsided to that gentle tide of rest.
It was cold in the room when she woke, and the tumbled bedclothes gave her no protection and little warmth. She was cold, and now that the effect of the drug had dissipated, she felt numb and exhausted.
Guilt assaulted her as well. She knew that such dreams were as deep a sin as the act itself, for she who had committed adultery in her heart was an unfaithful wife in the eyes of Holy Church. Her Confessor had told her this was so, and without exception, for adultery was lust, and lust was one of the Seven Deadly Sins. She crossed herself, feeling hypocritical, and pulled the covers about her, shame coloring her face.
The prayers would not come. In vain she tried to fix her thoughts on heavenly things, and each time, she was pulled back to the blissful dream, and the delirious sensuality that it brought, the dream where her body sang a sacrament all its own that the austere example of the saints and martyrs could not dispel.
Her mind was still divided when die door opened and to her amazement, her husband came in. "Good morning, Madame. I trust I do not disturb you?" His mocking eyes saw her dishevelment as evidence of the drug's efficacy.
"Achille?" she asked, feeling a cold of another kind rise in her. She gathered the bedclothes around her in response to the disgust she saw in his face.
He walked toward her bed. "Come, Madame, come. We have guests belowstairs. It would be remiss of you not to put in an appearance to greet them." He held out his hand to her, and there was an implacability about him. This was not another one of his cruel jokes. This was another matter entirely. "Come, Madame," he repeated.
She frowned. "I am not dressed, Achille. Do you seek to make a mockery of your wife?" She hoped fervently that was all he had planned. "Can
Similar Books
