opened. They glowed red like smoldering coals. Not human! Callan wanted to struggle, but he did not. The eyes examined him. She smiled. Fear trembled down his spine. “Your blue eyes saved you,” she said, in Arabic. “My servants knew you would please me.”
He didn’t have blue eyes. They were gray-green. But no one ever looked closely enough to notice that. The woman had no bodyguard. Callan was a big man who had fought against her invading army. Yet she thought herself secure alone with him. He must get out of here!
But he made no move to escape.
“Kneel up,” she said. Or maybe she had not said it at all. Her voice was inside his head. His skin crawled. He wouldn’t kneel to her! But the impulse to obey gnawed at him. He clenched his muscles in resistance. She smiled and her eyes went redder still. He gasped and doubled over. Pain burst in his brain. But he couldn’t look away. Slowly, jaw clenched, he got to his knees. She wanted his knees spread wider. His chest heaved with effort, but still, God help him, he spread them. His balls grew heavy and his cock swelled. How could he get an erection now, full in her view? The scent of cinnamon filled his senses.
“You are well enough,” she said, surveying him. “Es tu Anglais ou Français?”
He could not refuse to answer, but he hardly knew what to say. Scots by upbringing, Irish by birth. The last thing he would say was British. “Scots-Irish.” Close enough.
She switched to English. “You have the Celt in you. You remind me of Robert Le Bois.” Her eyes darkened to burgundy. Callan’s loins pulsed. The audience room was hot. Sweat trickled down his back. Wasn’t Le Bois the Frenchman who had taken Jerusalem in the First Crusade? Yet she talked as though she knew him personally. “He taught me that cruelty could be pleasurable by taking pleasure in his cruelty to me.” She beckoned Callan with one long, gilt-painted nail. He crawled up to the dais and knelt beside her. He was fully erect now, his balls almost bursting. “I may be developing a taste for British men.” Her voice was a seductive whisper in his ear. Her breath on his neck made his right side erupt in gooseflesh. He raised his chin, baring his throat, because she wanted that.
“The first taste,” she whispered, “is always the sweetest.” Her eyes went carmine. Her lips caressed his throat. Something sharp scraped there. Fear washed over him. Two sharp points of pain just under his jaw made him want to cry out in revulsion. She had bitten him! But he did not cry out. She held him by the nape of the neck as she sucked at the great artery in his throat. How could sucking his blood be sexual? Yet his cock throbbed in unison with the pull of her lips. He moaned, not sure whether it was in pleasure or in pain.
When she withdrew, blood smeared her mouth. She licked her lips, smiling over canines that were longer than human teeth could be. “I like blood salty with a man’s sweat.”
In his mind she bid him come to her. With revulsion in his heart he pulled himself up beside her and moved aside the diaphanous red fabric over her breast. Her nipple was tight in anticipation. He licked it softly as she let out a little moan. That was what she wanted. She tasted of salt and smelled of cinnamon. He moved to the other breast. She ran her fingers through his hair. He sucked at the nipple. She wanted him to suck harder and he did, rolling the tip between his lips. She allowed his hands on her body, cupping the other breast, moving over her belly and hip. Damp skin slid over damp skin. She wanted his cock now. She spread her knees. He parted the panels of her skirts and lay between her golden thighs. She pulled his buttocks down with both hands and he pressed into her as she lifted her hips to grind against him. She controlled the pace of his thrusting, dictated the arch of his back, the kisses he lavished on her neck and breasts. He thought he would burst, but he didn’t. His erection
He didn’t have blue eyes. They were gray-green. But no one ever looked closely enough to notice that. The woman had no bodyguard. Callan was a big man who had fought against her invading army. Yet she thought herself secure alone with him. He must get out of here!
But he made no move to escape.
“Kneel up,” she said. Or maybe she had not said it at all. Her voice was inside his head. His skin crawled. He wouldn’t kneel to her! But the impulse to obey gnawed at him. He clenched his muscles in resistance. She smiled and her eyes went redder still. He gasped and doubled over. Pain burst in his brain. But he couldn’t look away. Slowly, jaw clenched, he got to his knees. She wanted his knees spread wider. His chest heaved with effort, but still, God help him, he spread them. His balls grew heavy and his cock swelled. How could he get an erection now, full in her view? The scent of cinnamon filled his senses.
“You are well enough,” she said, surveying him. “Es tu Anglais ou Français?”
He could not refuse to answer, but he hardly knew what to say. Scots by upbringing, Irish by birth. The last thing he would say was British. “Scots-Irish.” Close enough.
She switched to English. “You have the Celt in you. You remind me of Robert Le Bois.” Her eyes darkened to burgundy. Callan’s loins pulsed. The audience room was hot. Sweat trickled down his back. Wasn’t Le Bois the Frenchman who had taken Jerusalem in the First Crusade? Yet she talked as though she knew him personally. “He taught me that cruelty could be pleasurable by taking pleasure in his cruelty to me.” She beckoned Callan with one long, gilt-painted nail. He crawled up to the dais and knelt beside her. He was fully erect now, his balls almost bursting. “I may be developing a taste for British men.” Her voice was a seductive whisper in his ear. Her breath on his neck made his right side erupt in gooseflesh. He raised his chin, baring his throat, because she wanted that.
“The first taste,” she whispered, “is always the sweetest.” Her eyes went carmine. Her lips caressed his throat. Something sharp scraped there. Fear washed over him. Two sharp points of pain just under his jaw made him want to cry out in revulsion. She had bitten him! But he did not cry out. She held him by the nape of the neck as she sucked at the great artery in his throat. How could sucking his blood be sexual? Yet his cock throbbed in unison with the pull of her lips. He moaned, not sure whether it was in pleasure or in pain.
When she withdrew, blood smeared her mouth. She licked her lips, smiling over canines that were longer than human teeth could be. “I like blood salty with a man’s sweat.”
In his mind she bid him come to her. With revulsion in his heart he pulled himself up beside her and moved aside the diaphanous red fabric over her breast. Her nipple was tight in anticipation. He licked it softly as she let out a little moan. That was what she wanted. She tasted of salt and smelled of cinnamon. He moved to the other breast. She ran her fingers through his hair. He sucked at the nipple. She wanted him to suck harder and he did, rolling the tip between his lips. She allowed his hands on her body, cupping the other breast, moving over her belly and hip. Damp skin slid over damp skin. She wanted his cock now. She spread her knees. He parted the panels of her skirts and lay between her golden thighs. She pulled his buttocks down with both hands and he pressed into her as she lifted her hips to grind against him. She controlled the pace of his thrusting, dictated the arch of his back, the kisses he lavished on her neck and breasts. He thought he would burst, but he didn’t. His erection
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