The Story of Son(6)
Author: J.R. Ward

"Are you sure? What happened?"

"You made me orgasm." He frowned as if he were trying to figure out whether that was a good thing. "It felt fabulous."

"Can you do that again?"

God, she couldn't wait. "With you? Absolutely."

His smile was guileless, nothing but a generous, kind lift to that amazing mouth of his. "I want you to do that again. You're beautiful when that happens."

"Then touch me between my legs," she whispered against his lips. "And I will."

Michael rolled off her while pressing kisses to her br**sts as if he hated leaving them. Then he took his hand and moved it down over her stomach, pushing the robe completely aside.

She had a passing moment of worry. She had no idea how he'd react to her nak*d.

He tilted his head to one side as the silk fell off her body. "You have hair there."

"Don't you?"

He shook his head. "I like yours," he murmured, running his fingers back and forth ever so lightly. "It's so soft."

"There's something even softer."

"There is?"

She spread her legs and guided him where she wanted him to go. At the first surge of contact, she bit her lip and torqued—

Michael moaned. "You're . . . slick."

"I'm ready for you."

He took his hand up and stared at his fingers, then rubbed them together. "It's like silk." Before she could say another thing, he slipped them into his mouth. Closing his eyes, he sucked at what had touched her.

Which brought her right to the edge again. "Michael. . ."

And that was when breakfast arrived.

5

As the sound of a metal gate slamming shut ricocheted around the stone walls, the smell of bacon wafted over. Michael looked torn.

"Later," she said.

"You need to eat."

"Later."

"No, now. I am. . . very hungry for you. I will come to you when you are finished." With that, he went over for the tray, which had arrived in that bread box thing by the door. He brought the food over by the bed, then dissolved into the darkness.

As the sounds of the chains ceased, Claire pulled the robe around her. It was hard to imagine that she could be frustrated after the release he'd just given her. But she was. She wanted him inside of her.

Claire lifted the lid, looked at the food, and went cold. "This is lunch."

The bacon was in a quiche and there was a glass of wine as well as a fruit tart.

"You slept through breakfast and I didn't want you to eat cold food."

Jesus, she had only a day and a half left. Under normal circumstances that would be cause for celebration, assuming she was going to make it out alive so she could come back for him. But the fact that she had to leave him, even if she was returning to free him, made her anxious as hell.

"Michael, I'm going to get you out of here." When there was no answer, she leapt off the bed with an urgency grounded in her fear of the future. "Did you hear me?"

She started to walk in the direction of the black corner.

"Stop," he commanded.

"No." She grabbed the candleholder that was flickering on the bedside table and held it in front of herself as she marched straight across the room.

"Come no closer—"

As the light penetrated the dark corner, she gasped. Four lengths of chain hung from the wall with shackles on the ends, two about five feet up from the bottom, two right at floor level.

"What is this?" she hissed. "Michael. . . what do they do to you here?"

"It is where I must go when my rooms are cleaned. Or when my visitors come and depart. I must lock myself in and I am released later after Fletcher makes me sleep."

"He drugs you?" Although it wasn't like she didn't believe the butler was capable of that shit. "Have you ever tried to escape?"

"Enough. You will eat now."

"To hell with food. Answer me." Her sharp voice came from the desperation in her chest. She couldn't bear the idea of him suffering. "Have you tried to get out?"

"It was long ago. And only once. Never again."

"Why?"

He walked away from her, the chain on his ankle seething over the stone floor.

"Why, Michael?"

"I was punished."

Oh, God. "How."

"They tried to take something from me. In the end, I prevailed, but someone got hurt. So never more do I protest. Now, eat. I must come to you soon." He sat down in front of his drawings, picked up a pencil, and got to work. As quiet as he was, she knew he'd shut her out until she did what he'd asked.

He might be shy and modest, but he was not a pushover. That was for sure.

The only reason she went back to the bed and started to eat was because her mind was scheming and it was a way to pass the time. As she thought about freeing him, and worried about what had been done to him, she looked over at the dark corner, then around the room.

"Please turn on all the lights."

He did so immediately and the place was flooded with illumination.

Claire shifted her eyes back to the dark corner where the chains hung from the wall. She feared retribution for him. She really did. If she left, and they knew she was coming back. . .

She couldn't leave him here. It was too dangerous if they'd already tried to hurt him once.

Back to plan A. She was taking him with her.

As she put down the fork, she knew what she had to do. Michael would have to play a small role; she would take care of everything else. But he was coming with her. There was no way she would risk leaving him here.

She was wiping her mouth when she realized there was only one plate.

"Was this for both of us?" she asked, suddenly horrified. She'd finished a good half of the quiche.

"No. Just for you." He looked over his shoulder. "Please, don't stop. I want you to be full."

As she started in again with the food, he seemed to take a disproportionate happiness in her eating, practically glowing with satisfaction. And it was a strange, freeing joy to be encouraged like that. Accepted like that. So much of the dating scene in Manhattan was about staying sharp and keeping tight: being thin and in fashion while sitting across from a professional suit and tie. Keeping the conversation going through talk about Broadway plays and what was in the Times and who you knew. One-upping each other in a sophisticated way.

When Claire put the plate back on the tray, she was full. Satisfied. Relaxed in spite of the horrible situation. Sleep tugged at her like a child on a pant leg, wanting to embrace her.

She closed her eyes, and shortly thereafter all but one of the candles went out and she felt the bed moving.

Michael's voice was in her ear. "I need to take from you."

She offered her neck without reservation and urged him on top of her. With a groan, he sank his fangs into her throat and positioned himself as she'd taught him to—between her thighs, his erection pushing against her core. She shifted beneath him, loosened her robe, and he took to the invitation with greed. His hands traveled over her skin, working downward in strokes with his warm, male palm.

As he slipped his fingers between her legs, he nursed at her throat.

Her orgasms shattered her, the combination of the bite and the sexual power of him too much to bear and how glorious that was.

When he finally released her neck, he licked at her for some time and she wanted more. So did he. His mouth went to her br**sts and she shamelessly pushed him lower, down the smooth skin of her stomach. She was delirious, blissed out, coasting on the heat between them.

She heard him gasp and knew he was looking at her core.

"You are delicate," he whispered. "And you glisten."

"Because of you."

"Where would a man . . . go?"

She couldn't believe he didn't have a clue, but then how would he? The kind of books he read couldn't have included female sexual anatomy.

She guided one of his fingers inside herself, arching as he penetrated her. "Here.. ." Her breath pumped harder. "Deep. In here."

He groaned and shut his eyes as if overwhelmed. In a very good way. "But you are small. You hold me so tightly now and yet I am much . . . larger where I am most male."

"Believe me, you would fit." She moved against his hand, pleasuring herself, wondering when the last time her inner harlot had come out.

Never.

He watched her body, her face, his eyes everywhere. His awe and fascination made it new for her, too.

"I find I want. . ." He cleared his throat. "I fear I have a. . . perversion."

"What is it?"

"I want to kiss you here," he said, running his thumb around her. "Because I want to swallow you."

"Then do it."

His eyes flared. "You would let me?"

"Oh, yes." She laid her knees wide, undulating her hips. "And it's not perverse."

His hands smoothed the insides of her thighs, holding her in place as his mouth dipped in for a kiss. He moaned into her flesh at the first contact of their lips, and his huge body shuddered, the bed magnifying the shimmying movement so that his erotic anticipation added to hers. He was slow at first, learning carefully, his eyes looking up over her mound and past her belly and br**sts to her face. He was watching her to make sure he was doing it right. And was he ever.

"Yes . . ." she said hoarsely. "God, yes, I love it."

He lifted his head and smiled at her; then he slipped his arms under her legs and lapped at her gently, slowly. At first. Soon, he was driving her hard, taking over until that purring sound he made became wild and cut through the darkness, the rhythmic pump paralleling the rush of her blood. There was no end to pleasure, no end to that swirling, darting tongue of his or his pliant lips or his hot breath against her or the orgasms she had.

When he finally lifted his head, she nearly wept.

She reached up and pulled him higher, ready to return the favor. Except, as she reached for the belt on his robe, he grabbed her hands.

"No."

She could see his erection. The silk outlined its thickness. "I want to—"

"No." His voice shot through the room and he shied away from her, shied away from what they both needed.

"We don't have to . . . make love." When he said nothing, she murmured, "Michael, you must be aching by now."

"I will ease myself."

"Let me ease you."

"No!" He shook his head sharply. Then rubbed his face. "Forgive me my short temper."

Considering how sexed up he must be, it was perfectly reasonable. "Just help me understand why."

"You will try to negotiate the reason."

"Because I want to be with you. I want to make you feel good."

"That cannot be."

He started to get off the bed.

"Don't you do this," she snapped. "Don't shut me out."

As Michael froze, she sat up and wrapped her arms around him. "I swear I will go slowly. We can stop whenever you want."

"You will not . . . want what I have."

"Don't make up my mind for me. And if you're embarrassed, get rid of all the light."

After a moment, the room plunged into darkness.

She kissed his shoulder and eased him back to the pillows. Along the way, she found the tie to his robe and slipped it free.

His breath was coming in short bursts as she put her palms on his chest and stroked the pads of pectorals and his tight n**ples. She went lower, on to his ribbed stomach, the muscles clenching under his smooth, hairless skin—

She ran into the head of his erection and they both gasped.

Dear . . . Lord. It hadn't dawned on her that it would be that long. But then . . . he was big all over.

Michael jerked and hissed as she gripped him with her hand. God, he was too thick for her to close her palm around, but she knew how to treat him right. She stroked him up and down and he moaned and worked his h*ps instinctually.

"I am . . ." He made an incoherent noise. "I am . . . so close. Already so close."

She eased off, sweeping down to the base of him and—

Claire froze. And he stopped breathing.

There was something wrong. An abnormal ridge that went down to his—

"Oh, Jesus . . . Michael."

He pushed her hand away.

"You needn't finish me," he rasped.

She threw herself on top of him to keep him from running. "They tried to castrate you."

Thank God they hadn't succeeded. "Why? Why did they—"

His body trembled, but not from anything sexual this time. "Mother thought. . . it would help control me. But I couldn't let them do it. I hurt the doctor. Badly. That was when the chains came." He forced her off him and she heard the rustle of his robe going back on. "I am dangerous."

Claire's throat was so tight she could barely speak. "Michael—"

"But I would never hurt you."

"I know. I don't doubt that."

He was silent for a time. "I don't want you to see what I look like."

"I don't care about a scar. I only care that it's you. That is what matters." She reached her hand out through the darkness. When it found his shoulder, he jumped. "I want to keep going. I want my mouth on you, just like you wanted your mouth on me."

There was a long silence.

"I fear you," he whispered.

"Dear Lord, why?"

"Because I want you to . . . do what you said. I want. . . you."

"Then lie down again. Nothing that passes between us will ever be wrong. Come back to me."

She found his hands and tugged at them until he eased back into the pillows. Then she split the robe below the tie and took him into her hand. He was partially erect and he swelled against her palm, instantly hardening to stone. When she went down on him, the blunt tip of him parting her lips and filling her mouth, he called out her name and shoved into the mattress with his heels, his body going rigid.

He tried to pull her away. "I shall finish in your—"