Page 42 of The Taking of House Westwood

He placed a hand over her lips, his other hand continuing its leisurely tour between the soft petals of her labia. His thumb explored the curls at the apex of her slit, the flesh pushed back to expose the focus of her desire. He looked up at her, grinning, his eyes bright in the moonlit room. “It’s so red, so swollen, Sophie.”

She turned her head away, closing her eyes tightly. She was mortified, but it was true. All she wanted was for him to touch it, to take her away in a flood of pleasure. It was a way to be somewhere else, if only for a moment, a place of pure bliss far removed from the dark, close confines of her miserable cell.

“Ah, ah!” she blurted out as his thumb moved over the hard button of flesh. “Yes, Owen! More!”

He laughed, a rumble of pure pleasure in his chest. She writhed beneath him, spreading her thighs wider. Her hands dove into the silky weight of his hair, and she held onto him as he dipped his head. His palm was over her mouth again, tight this time, and she struggled to free herself.

Then her eyes flew open, as his tongue darted over her congested clit. The sensation had her boiling within moments, and when he closed his soft lips over her inflamed flesh, she screamed into the firm clutch of his palm. Her climax spiraled higher and higher, his tongue playing over her clit again and again as he sucked her deeper into his mouth. Her fists clenched in his hair, pulling his face hard against her gushing sex. His fingers kept moving within her, the hint of an incisor against her clit, and she uttered a soul-deep moan.

He moved his mouth away, kissing her plump outer labia, his tongue flicking at the tender flesh of her inner lips. She felt his lips moved upon her “I’ve wanted this for so long, Sophie. So long.”

She sighed, a smile curving her lips. She felt wrung out, her thighs shaking. She stroked his hair, wanting the moment to stretch on for eternity. She could feel him playing with her, twirling her pubic hair that was drenched with his seed. He looked up at her, and lay his cheek upon the delicate flesh of her inner thigh. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, and she flushed all over again, realizing for the first time how strongly the small, cloistered chamber smelled of her arousal.

“Owen,” she placed a hand on his cheek, and he grinned again, his eyes still closed. Her heart melted at the look of pure contentment on his face. She wanted an eternity of days where she could bring a man such pleasure. But that wasn’t quite right, was it? There was only one man that she wanted, and that man was Owen.

He crawled slowly up her body, and she bit her lip, watching the rippling of his powerful shoulders, the broad muscles of his back, the hard pectorals. She let out a long pleased sigh as he curled his body around her. For the first time in months, she felt safe. He’d protect her, get her home. After that, who knew? She hoped, but that was all she’d allow herself until she was away from the evil that was House Westwood.

Pulling her body closer to him, he tucked her head under his chin, his long fingers twirling her locks above her ear. The beat of his heart and the deep sound of his breathing soothed her, brought her back to earth. She laid a hand on his hard chest, her fingertips making tiny circles against his skin.

“Rest now, Sophie.” He pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head. “We leave soon.”

Then she closed her eyes, letting relaxation drag her down into the sweet refuge of sleep.

Chapter Sixteen

“You don’t have to stay, Arnaud. I told you, he won’t hurt me.”

Arnaud sat back in the deep red cushions of an ornate chair, his fingers toying with the gold filigree stitched into the arm. “Humor me, Mistress. I only want to ensure your safety.”

She inclined her head, but frowned at him. “You worry too much.”

“It is my duty, Mistress.” His dark eyes were sharp, not leaving the woman and the man still laying in her arms. He had helped her move Clayton from the floor to lay on the bed, once more in her embrace, her back propped against the blood red velvet of the headboard. Clayton’s shirt was mostly undone, the smooth planes of a still strong chest laid bare.

The Lady’s fingers twirled and tugged at his chest hair. Occasionally, she would gently tweak one of the man’s nipples between delicate finger and thumb. Arnaud had discreetly looked away as the Lady had moved aside the top buttons of her robe, allowing Clayton’s head to lie directly upon the olive curves of her generous breasts. The bodice of her chemise had been loosened such that the white lace only just hid her nipples from Arnaud’s gaze.

“He will want her, Mistress. He won’t leave without her.”

She winked at her overseer. “If I have my way, neither one of them will be leaving here anytime soon.”

An unholy screeching noise of metal upon metal sounded from outside, followed by a tremendous boom that seemed to shake the ground beneath their feet. Arnaud stood, his hand on his sword, his eyes darting from the door to the window that looked down upon the courtyard below.

Lady Westwood’s cool eyes narrowed. “What was that awful—”

“The portcullis.” Arnaud strode for the door. He paused looking back at her. “Stay here. Someone has dropped the gate.”

The Mistress nodded, slipping out from under Clayton’s unconscious form. She rushed to her wardrobe, retrieving her short sword.

Walking to the window, she looked down upon the courtyard outside. “Gods,” she whispered, backing slowly away, drawing her sword from the intricately decorated scabbard.

There was a heavy thud against her door, and she whirled around, both hands on the grip of her weapon. The lethal point of the tip shook before her.

The door partially opened, and she glided toward it, silent, her blade raised for a killing blow. Then she lowered the sword, her expression puzzled.

Arnaud slipped through the door, leaning a heavy shoulder against the wood. He threw the bolt and locked it with shaking fingers. He turned his gaze to the Lady. His face looked ashen, his eyes wide, their movement nervous.

“Mistress, step back I beg you.” He turned back toward the door, bringing his own broadsword up before him. He slowly backed away from the door.

“How did so many get in?” she hissed, her own sword still up, standing somewhat behind the overseer. “Who are they?”

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