...“Have a care, lady. You know naught what manner of man I am.”
“I know you’re no coward. Quite the opposite. I think you’re wonderfully courageous to stick to your ideals. You must suffer a lot of ridicule for it, but know this—you’re a better and braver man than those who call you ‘worthless.’”
“I’m worse than worthless!”
His arms clench around me, and in one swift move, he twists and swings us to the side. Suddenly I’m on my back, trapped between soft moss and hard man—caught breathless and burning in the smoky blue scorch of a wildfire stare.
“I’m cursed,” he hisses. “You should flee from me. A beast blackens my soul.”
No, shit? The gallant Sir Jekyll has a Hyde side, after all?
Oh, be still, my beating heart!
And, no, I’m not thinking clearly. Who could think, period, at a time like this? Electric shivers course through me. Every nerve ending thrums with excitement. He’s just said the magic word.
“Beast? I love beasts. Let’s free yours now.” Growling like a hungry lioness, I reverse our positions—shove, roll, and pin him to the ground. The hell with dainty and feminine. Sometimes being a tall, muscular woman pays off. He can overpower me, I’m sure, but I want him to prove it. Even more, I want him to want to prove it. Showing him my strength will challenge him to display his own…I hope. A wrestling match makes for thrilling foreplay.
Especially if we wrestle in the raw—hot, naked skin to skin.
Rowrrr… I kneel over him, straddling his thighs.
“Aren’t you uncomfortable in these wet clothes? They’ll dry faster if we spread them out on the grass. C’mon,” I urge. “I’ll help you undress if you help me.”
Wolfred grapples for my hands as I hike up his mail shirt and tunic. “Only the round face of the moon frees my beast, lady. And believe me, you do not want to meet him.”
“Oh, yes, I do.” I let out a low, naughty laugh. Surely he’s jesting. “Moon? What are you, a werewolf?”
I stop short, stunned and staring at what I’ve just uncovered. A beast indeed. Wow. I do adore medieval garments. He’s wearing the early style hose. Similar to tights they stretch from toe to waist, but in two separate pieces, without a crotch seam to join them. Hence, one of the best erections I’ve ever seen is aimed at me, like a bazooka.
No, make that the best. A steel club cased in smooth silk, long and hard and thick as my wrist. More than a beast, a monster. Moby Dick, the denizen of the deep. And me, who’s always been a seafood fanatic—I see food, I eat it. Salivating, I lean forward, determined to discover if Moby tastes and feels as good as he looks.
“Aye,” Wolfred says on a harsh breath.
He might be answering my question. Except I can’t remember what I’ve just asked him, so I’m going to assume he’s giving me permission to wrap my lips around his scrumptious cock and suck his brains out, lick him to the edge of ecstasy—then sit on him and ride him over the brink. My vaginal muscles spasm at the prospect, and slick cream pools in my panties. Which reminds me…
My tights aren’t the medieval kind. Shit. How fast can I strip?
“Hold that pose,” I tell him, quickly, while fumbling with my belt buckle. “Don’t move! I’ll only be a sec.”
My belt pops open, and I fling it aside, then yank my tunic up and over my head. This leaves me in a red sports bra, the green tights, and ankle boots. I suspect I look like some kind of depraved and demented, overgrown Christmas elf with a glandular problem.
Wolfred’s jaw drops in shock. I wriggle out of my bra, and he makes a strangling noise in his throat.
I hope this means he enjoys the view. My tits are one of my few attractive features—firm and full, not girlie mag centerfold quality, but not bad. I steal a moment to rub my hands over them and squeeze, stirring my nipples into tight peaks. Moby Dick jumps in response, like a stallion straining at the bit, and a deep, guttural groan rumbles out of the man to which it’s attached. Music to my ears.
“You can touch me, too,” I promise Wolfred in my sultriest whisper. “You can do anything you want with me. Just let me ditch these damn tights and my body is all yours, noble knight.”
“A noble piece of shit, you mean. Don’t waste it on him, babe. Not with me here.”
My spine stiffens.
Uh-oh… Who said that?
Clutching my arms over my breasts, I peer about in all directions, but I can’t see anyone except Wolfred, whom I’m still straddling, and who looks as spooked as I feel.
Wary-eyed, he grabs me by the waist, hoists me off to the side, and leaps to his feet, wincing a bit in the process. It must hurt to move so fast with a big boner bobbing between one’s legs. I snatch my tunic off the ground, struggle into it—crap, I think I just put it on backward—and scramble upright to stand beside him.
“Where are you? Show yourself!” he demands.
“Who are you?” I add.
Malicious laughter answers us.
“They call me Wicked,” a voice like ice hisses close to my ear. “I’m your kinkiest dreams come true...”