Blood Curse

6 Spanked

Their hackney carriage lurched away from the curb, and Ravenhunt joined her on the seat. Ophelia peppered him with questions.

“Where are we going? To more experts? What is it you want to show me—really what is it? Because I can’t see how you can show me about what you . . . said. About not touching! I don’t think that is even possible.”

She knew she was acting unlike her normal self. Usually she was quiet. A “fade into the wallpaper” girl. A girl whose duty it was to be isolated and alone, and one of the easiest ways to accomplish that was to keep one’s mouth closed. All those questions she threw at him surprised even her. They rushed out with such speed she had to gasp for breath.

“It is possible.” Through the carriage window, the glow of a street flare reflected on Ravenhunt’s dark eyes, making them bright and silvery.

“Of course you choose the most unhelpful answer to share with me. Then my questions must be—how?”

“You’ll see.”

“Not good enough,” she shot back. Ravenhunt was tall, well-built, strong—and insanely courageous, for who else would stand in front of a pistol shot to protect someone? She should be intimidated by him. But she no longer felt that way.

“Tell me how,” she demanded.

He shrugged. “First we build anticipation.”

With the jingle of traces, the creak of wheels on cobbles, the hackney stopped. “Here we are,” Ravenhunt informed her, his eyes masked by shadow, his voice as smooth as sin.

She folded her arms over her chest. She was willing to sit for hours—a prisoner is accustomed to long stretches of utter silence, immobility, and boredom. “Where is here?”

“I take it you won’t move until I tell you.”

“I am more than willing to bankrupt you in hackney fares by sitting here for weeks. Years, even.”

He laughed in the gloom. “All right. This is a club where couples come to engage in sexual adventure.”

“What? I am not leaving this carriage.”

“You are.”

How unconcerned he sounded, as though her disobedience was of no consequence.

Squirming with frustration, she knew she was going to lose this round. She guessed he intended to carry her inside. He didn’t seem to worry about touching her.

Then she spotted it. He held the small, thick, leather-bound book in his hand. Mr. Guidon had given it to him, and she had watched him flip through the pages while the bookseller had spoken with her. She had seen Ravenhunt’s dark brows shoot up while he read.

She thought he’d left the book at Guidon’s. Obviously he hadn’t. While they had been in Mr. Guidon’s parlor, he had not let her take even a glance at it. No matter how much she had asked and begged, he wouldn’t tell her what it was. She couldn’t try to pull it free of him—it was an old book, likely very rare.

But her argument had distracted him. She caught her breath. And lunged.

One instant the book was there, temptingly close to her hand. The next it was over his head.

“You move so quickly sometimes I cannot even see you.”

Ravenhunt did not say a word. He tucked the book into an inner breast pocket of his coat.

“What are you?” Ophelia asked. “You know everything about me. Please tell me more about you. I want to know.”

Raven could not tell her the truth. But he had to give her some kind of plausible story. “I’m like you. Mostly normal, but with a few unusual powers that ordinary people do not possess. It’s those powers that make me a . . . vampire hunter, an assassin of vampires.” It was partly the truth, partly a damned audacious lie.

Needing to bring an end to the discussion, Raven jumped down from the hackney to the cobbled street, then handed Lady Ophelia down.

As he had her hand she bit her lip. “You touch me so much. Are you not afraid of what it will eventually do?”

“I enjoy touching you, and I enjoy knowing that my touches are some of the very few you’ve enjoyed.” He gazed directly into her deep blue eyes. “I’m not afraid of you, Lady Ophelia. Now you aren’t afraid of me anymore. I think this new state of affairs between us will mean an enjoyable evening.”

“Enjoyable? I don’t think so.” From beneath the oversized hood of her borrowed cloak, she cast a nervous glance toward the house. Her tongue flicked over her lips, leaving a gleam of moisture that sent one more jolt of arousal to his already hard cock. Another thing to fight while fighting his hunger.

He lifted her hand and kissed it until she gave soft, breathy moans. “It will,” he promised.

“All right. I believe you,” she whispered.

He offered his arm. She laid her hand lightly on his forearm and let him lead her up the steps. He felt pain but didn’t show it.

He wasn’t as confident as he let her believe. How would she react to the club? Lady Ophelia was innocent, extremely so. As a prisoner, she had been more cloistered than a nun.

Would she be frightened by bold sexual displays?

Hell, he would have to deal with it if it happened. He wanted her to recognize that sexual pleasure was natural and normal, and that she didn’t need to fear it. Playing voyeur might arouse her, giving him the chance to start his mission to take her power.

He’d selected this club for a reason. It was a house on the edge of Mayfair, and since it served both ladies and gentlemen of the ton, it was the epitome of elegant erotic fun.

He detected Lady Ophelia’s quick breaths before he rapped on the door. “Don’t be frightened.”

She jerked nervously with each thump of his fist on the door. “Easy for you to say,” she muttered. “I suppose you come here all the time.”

“No, I have never been here.” Couples came here, and he had never been part of a couple—this was not the kind of place he would have taken his fiancée. He’d never had a regular mistress. “It will be an adventure for both of us. You will see that sex is enjoyable without the problems of love and marriage.”

He slid his arm around her waist, but she jumped away so quickly he never even felt the pain. “Problems of love?”

“It’s fraught with problems—” He broke off. Damn, he was supposed to make her fall in love with him for her own protection. On the other hand, maybe this was a role that could work in his favor. When he’d been engaged, his wife-to-be had endeavored to change him. She had told him women always viewed husbands as projects of improvement. Maybe he needed to pretend to be jaded about love—hell, not really pretend— then let Ophelia convince him of how precious it was. Nothing would be more guaranteed to win her heart.

As long as she didn’t find out he was a vampire.

“Love is a complicated thing, and leads to much unhappiness.” He put on his best Byronic brood. “This is about pleasure. Here, you have to let me touch you. We have to appear to be an amorous couple in search of adventure. Mr. and Mrs. Ravenhunt.”

“Oh heavens, really?”

She seemed more horrified to pretend to be his wife than to enter the sex club.

“Yes,” he growled. “It will ensure you are protected. Stay close to me. That way no man can whisk you away and try to seduce you more forcefully.”

“Forcefully!” she squeaked. “I do not want to go in here.”

“There’s nothing to fear. They will be too afraid of me to do anything to you. I promise.” He lifted her gloved hand and kissed it. Pain singed his lips but he refused to stop.

She jerked her hand away. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself. I’ll do this—but I think it’s hopeless.”

It couldn’t be. Not if he wanted to save both her and Frederica. But he had to lead her slowly. He knocked quick and hard. The doorman eyed him through the grille, then opened the door.

In moments, they were inside. Red silk covered the walls, along with prints of tattooed and bejeweled men and women in a multitude of sexual positions. Lady Ophelia’s cheeks turned as red as the walls. Above them, strips of white silk flowed from the chandelier to the walls, giving a tent-like look to the room. He handed her cloak, along with his coat and hat, to the beefy doorman, and they were strolling from the large foyer, with its exotic décor to a hallway painted and decorated to look like an exotic oriental garden, though the statues were of Greek gods and goddesses. Like a terrified animal, Lady Ophelia slid her gaze hurriedly around, as if seeking danger. Would she run if she saw something that frightened her? Propelling her along the paneled hall, he kept watch on her and not everything around them.

“These statues are magnificent,” she exclaimed. She ran away from him, and planted herself in front of a muscular Atlas, bent beneath the weight of the earth. Her fingertips were pressed to her full lower lip as she made soft sighs of pure admiration.

“You enjoy art—or just his admirable proportions?” Raven asked it teasingly, but he admired the glow of vivid pleasure in her eyes. When Ophelia was happy, she sparkled like a star.

“I love such classic statues. I have—” She hesitated.

“What?” he coaxed.

“I have done my own sculptures. Trapped with Mrs. Darkwell, I had to do something or go mad.”

“That was why you were savoring the Elgin Marbles at the museum.”

She nodded, but he saw the light fading in her eyes, as if it were extinguished by the memory of the early evenings they had spent together there. Probably because it reminded her she had been duped and kidnapped.

“You can touch,” he told her. “Given the scandalous things done here, I don’t believe anyone will mind.”

She shook her head fiercely. “I shouldn’t. You are like the serpent in Eden, tempting me to do so many things I shouldn’t.”

“There are no ‘shouldn’ts’ for you anymore. You are special and unique, and the normal rules of Society do not apply to you.”

Her face looked grim. “That is true.”

“It does not have to be all cursed.” He led her hand to the bicep of the muscular marble arm. “You love sculpture, you want to touch it. Indulge yourself.”

She was as stiff as a board as he moved her fingers over the smooth contours of the stone. He forced her to trace the sinuous lines up to the shoulder. Then her lips parted to exhale quick breaths, and Raven knew he was breaking though the cold shield of unhappiness that had quickly enveloped her.

“It is remarkable work,” she whispered, as if they were in church and she was afraid to shatter the reverent atmosphere. Her eyes shone, glowing with more than admiration. She loved this.

“So you are a female sculptress? That’s unusual.”

“I—I suppose.” She glanced at him, but she didn’t stop touching the marble Atlas in front of them.

It had been more than a hobby, he realized. She couldn’t touch anyone, yet like any human she had yearned to do it. Not just feel someone’s touch and savor those expressions of affection and love, but give them herself.

He had assumed he had become heartless when he’d been changed into a vampire and had been made soulless. But he knew he had a heart—it cracked for her with a considerable shot of pain.

“I would like to see your work someday,” he said softly, by her ear.

“Oh. Oh, you wouldn’t be able to. Everything is at Mrs. Darkwell’s and I can never go back there—”

“That’s true,” he said darkly. “I would never let you go back. You are going to be free, Ophelia. I vow it.”

She looked down the hall. “There are more statues—” She broke off. A blush ran down her face like a stage curtain dropping. “Oh my goodness,” she whispered, her voice strangled.

Turning, he saw the reason for her flushed cheeks and shock. Many other statues lined the ample hallway, but they depicted sex. Muscular men mounted dainty Grecian goddesses from on top, underneath, from behind. One group showed a woman in savage ecstasy being penetrated by two figures—each half-bull, half-man, with cocks the size of cricket bats.

“You aren’t going to expect . . . any of that, are you?” she asked.

She was frightened. But it was his duty to transform her from a woman who had learned not to touch into a wanton lover. “Only the fun things. It will just be between the two of us.”

For one moment, he toyed with removing choice from the equation. As a vampire, he had the power to compel a woman to offer her throat. He could control a mortal’s thoughts; he could make her do anything he wanted. That was the kind of undead being he was. But here, now, that wasn’t what he was allowed to do. Guidon told him he needed her consent; he needed her to be willing. He could not manipulate her mind, or he would not be able to take her power.

“Why do you hunt and kill vampires?” she asked quietly, surprising him. He thought he’d distracted her from that. “There were vampires at Mrs. Darkwell’s. They didn’t hurt anyone.”

“Some do. We shouldn’t speak of this here. People wouldn’t understand.”

She glanced around. Laughter came from down the hall, but they were currently alone in the statue-filled corridor, with its watered silk walls and gleaming floor. “I should not be here. What if I touch someone or someone touches me? It doesn’t take much for me to hurt someone . . . normal.”

“I will keep you by me and ensure no one touches you.” He put his hands on her shoulders and placed her in front of him. Behind her, Raven gritted his teeth as pain shot through his arms. At least she didn’t appear to feel it. He propelled her toward the laughter and noise at the end of the hall. On the way, he lifted his right hand from her shoulder, whisked a glass of champagne from a footman’s silver tray, and pressed it into her hand.

She wrinkled her nose and peered at the slender flute, the golden liquid, the popping bubbles, as if he’d given her a witch’s brew. “I’ve never had champagne.”

“Try it. If you want to be free of your power, you are going to have to spread your wings a little and fly into adventure.”

He watched her slim, gloved fingers pinch the stem. Her lower lip plumped as she rested the gilt rim of the glass on it, then sipped. Her eyes widened, large and blue. A soft giggle escaped. “It tickles,” she whispered.

He bent close to her small, delicate ear. Her golden curls brushed his lips. “See. Pleasures await when you are adventurous.”

He let his breath whisper over her ear. But getting so close he breathed her scent, and it was a damned mistake. Fang eruption occurred, and he had to hide them. At least he stood at her back, where she could not see.

The drawing room doors were open, and he directed her inside. He kept his attention on people around them—to ensure no one collided with Ophelia. His glower made men step back and women retreat to give them space. Gentlemen near the door wore tailcoats, waistcoats, trousers, cravats. Fully dressed, they wouldn’t shock Ophelia. Most of the women wore just shifts, corsets, petticoats. Or filmy nightdresses of silk. Though in the middle of the room there was probably an energetic orgy taking place, with eager males penetrating every orifice of bounteous and willing women.

“Oh, he’s tied up!” Ophelia cried.

Raven looked up. His jaw dropped down.

He was staring at a muscular, naked arse. The crowd had gathered in a circle around the display in the center of the room. A riding crop whistled through the air and landed with a sharp thwak on the tight, rounded rump. Broad shoulders jerked, muscles twitched, and a black scarf tied at the back of his head showed he was blindfolded. He looked about two-and-twenty, with curly blond hair. His arms stretched above his head, his wrists tied together. Ropes ran from his bound hands to hooks in the ceiling.

Hades, Raven had thought this was a club where, if there was play of this sort, the males were dominant, the women submissive. Apparently, he’d chosen the wrong one.

Another woman stepped forward—the dominant females wore corsets dyed black with their large bosoms jiggling on top of the boning. She spanked the young man with a wooden paddle. A third attended to his rump with the flat of her hand.

Ophelia twisted to face him, her eyes as large as saucers. “You wish me to tie you up and smack you with things?”

“No. Wrong club,” he muttered. “Come, this is enough for tonight.” Between visiting Guidon and coming here, they had spent enough time out. He should get her home before dawn.

“Was this your idea of what we would do instead of touching? Spanking?” she asked, her eyes wide and guileless.

The image of spanking her voluptuous bottom speared him. But he was not going to have her do it to him. He should have known Lady Ophelia would not be so easily quelled.

“It can be erotic,” he said. “But I—”

“Well, if it’s what you wanted to do,” she said briskly, “I’ll start on you.”

A bark of a laugh left his lips. That was not going to happen. He could not deal with being struck, not by a woman. Not after his years with Queen Jade.

“No, you will not. We are going to return to the house.”

“You want to go home already? We just arrived.”

“I did not expect the men would be submissive,” he growled. “I don’t want to give you too many ideas. We need to go. It’s almost dawn.”

Damnation, he was rattled. He should not have said that.

“You do not really want me to spank you, do you, Ravenhunt?”

“Indeed, I do not.” But he gave her a smile filled with devilment, thoroughly mischievous. They had stepped into the foyer of his house. Using the key she had swiped earlier, he locked the door, then slid four bolts across to secure it.

Yes, he had definitely allowed her to escape earlier, for those heavy, awkward bolts had been left open. Now he was making sure his house was completely secure.

She couldn’t bear to think of men who wanted to kill her. She was too tired.

Spanking. Ophelia never would have dreamed she would think about spanking a man so she did not have to think about assassins and mad scientists.

He turned to her. Moonlight spilled in through small windows flanking the door, sending blue streaks through his hair, casting blue shadows across his crisply sculpted features.

His was a beautiful face. Her fingers tingled. Suddenly she was compelled to sculpt it. To remember every detail so she could slowly coax marble to flow in those magnificent lines.

“To be honest,” he said, “I was planning to spank you.”

She quirked a brow. “I wouldn’t like that. It would hurt.”

“I would never hurt you.” His voice was smooth as chocolate, deep and husky. “Think of the way it would tease your skin.”

“A blow would not tease me!”

“A soft blow. Just enough to ignite your nerve endings. Enough to make your skin sensitive and your nerves sizzle. To send a rush of electric sensation through your body. To make your quim ache and pulse. To make you feel, my dear. I could make you come, just by spanking you.”

“Come? Come where?” she asked, confused.

“Coming means the orgasm you will have.”

She looked at him, lost. “What is that?”

“When your body feels pleasure—when it feels sexual stimulation—tension builds inside you. Your body works toward a climax, with the pleasure building and building until you want to scream. Then it explodes inside you, on a wave of pleasure that melts your soul, my love.”

She shivered. His husky voice was like a magic spell. She almost said yes. “Spanking is a punishment.”

“In this case, it would be erotic foreplay.”

Ophelia shook her head. His mouth hardened, forming harsh lines to bracket his firm, bronze-pink lips. “A deal,” he offered, gruffly. “You spank me first, then I do it to you.”

She frowned.

“Come, love. I’m allowing you to do it first.”

“All right.” But her agreement was a lie. She was not going to be struck on her bottom—no matter what he thought she’d agreed to. “Do we go up to the bedroom? What about your room? I haven’t seen any other bedchamber that looks like it is used.”

She had almost forgotten about that. It was another mystery about him.

He shrugged. For a man who had got what he wanted, he looked troubled. “My line of work—killing vampires—keeps me awake at nights. That’s when I hunt them. So I don’t need to use a bedchamber.” A sharp tug of his gloved hand and he’d undone his cravat. He let it drop to the floor of the foyer.

Ravenhunt was undressing right here.

It startled her and he smiled. “Your mouth is a huge O, Ophelia. You shouldn’t be shocked. You’ve seen my naked body before.”

Yes, all muscle and lean sinewy strength, and it had been shocking. “Why do you hunt vampires at night? They sleep in the day—I learned that at Mrs. Darkwell’s. They are dormant and vulnerable. Isn’t that the best time to go after them?”

There was a pause while he took off his tailcoat, then his waistcoat, and he let those fall carelessly, too. “You have to know where their lairs are. It is easier to protect the populace by hunting at night, so you can assassinate a vampire before it takes a victim.”

That made sense, but she felt there was something not quite right. “You’d still need somewhere to sleep. You would just do it in the day.”

“Since I have no servants, I just use a daybed in the study. It’s easier than having to tend to more unnecessary rooms myself.”

“Why do you have no servants? Is it because you keep kidnapping women and that’s hard to explain?”

“The hunting and killing of vampires is an odd profession. We’re supposed to keep people from learning vampires do exist. Along with other beings with special powers, like us.”

One quick whisk of his arms and he pulled his shirt off, baring his perfect torso. “It’s too cold and impersonal in here for a spanking to be any fun.”

He started off, his clothes over his arm, and Ophelia followed. In for a penny, in for a pound. She had come back with him to his house, knowing full well what she had agreed to. In that club, she’d glimpsed other things happening in the corners of the room, when she’d quickly averted her eyes from the naked stranger who was tied up.

There was one woman on a man’s lap, the skirts of her shift pushed up and her naked legs spread over his. She was leaning back with her back against his chest, and his hands were between her legs. Her bottom rose and fell on him with a rhythmic motion. They were doing something private and intimate in front of so many people, and they were doing it so they could both watch the man in the middle of the room.

Shocking, yes. But she’d felt a wave of hot . . . awareness.

Ravenhunt led her to a door at the other end of the hallway from hers. “The master’s apartments,” he said, pushing it open. “If I used a bedchamber, this would be the one.”

It was the room she’d looked in earlier. In the center was the enormous bed—it stood at the height of her waist, with a dusty canopy soaring above. The counterpane was smooth and clean, but she suspected if she struck it, a cloud of motes would fly into the air. Balls of dust gathered like tiny kittens here and there on the floor.

He strode in and opened a chest that sat at the foot of the bed. “Ah, here it is. Thought it was here.” Straightening, he had a much smaller wooden chest tucked under his arm.

It wasn’t until they reached her room that he satisfied her curiosity. He set the small trunk on the vanity table and flipped open the lid. Out of it, he took a long thing that looked like a small whip, with a black leather-wrapped handle, and a long leather strap that dangled. Next he withdrew a wooden object, with a smooth, rounded paddle and a wood handle.

“What are those?”

“Accoutrements for spanking.”

“You have a chest filled with things to use for hitting someone’s bottom?”

“Not only that. They are all kinds of devices for enhancing sexual play. All gentlemen keep them. We spend much of our time when we aren’t using them dreaming of how we will.”

She was sure Ravenhunt was teasing her.

He led her back to her bedroom, where he tossed the wooden paddle onto the bed. “We should get started.” His shoulders shook as he undid his trousers. His long lashes shielded his eyes, but she thought he looked . . . not aroused, but troubled.

One swift motion of his hand shoved his trousers down. Underneath, he wore nothing. His muscled, taut bottom was bared to her.

He planted his hands on the bed, spread his legs with his trousers bunched around the top of his boots. He hung his head, his straight black hair falling around his face.

She was supposed to smack him. With the paddle.

She couldn’t use her hand without really hurting him.

All right. He wanted it. It was like a dare—and she’d never had the chance to do daring things. She’d been locked up for so long.

Curling her fingers around the smooth, varnished handle, she lifted the paddle. Held it above his bottom.

Oh heavens, she didn’t want to hit anything so perfect. Pale, firm, and defined by the muscles beneath his smooth skin, his rump was a work of art.

Wouldn’t smacking it be like a desecration?

“Come on, Ophelia,” he groaned. “Do it.”

She closed her eyes. Swung. But lost her courage at the end of the arc and arrested it, so the paddle only lightly tapped him.

Ravenhunt’s breath came out in a fast, harsh stream. She couldn’t see his face, but his back was tense and he made a growling sound. Then he groaned, “Excellent. But you can do it harder next time.”

“It doesn’t hurt?”

“It hurts in a good way. That’s part of the—of the pleasure.” She tried again, being more firm. A quick slap to his hard right cheek. It barely jiggled, since his bottom was so taut.

His head bucked, his long, lean body braced on arms locked straight. So straight, the muscles bulged and his veins were like cords looped around his forearms. “God, that was good.”

“You liked that?” Was there something to this she didn’t quite understand? She would assume it wasn’t pleasurable at all. But he twisted to face her, and there was such an intense expression on his face. Harsh lines ringed his mouth. His eyes were bright and intense. “Spank me again. You can’t leave me hanging now.”

She obliged, trying with a bit more force.

His deep, throaty moan vibrated through her. Goodness, he did like this. A thrill ran down her spine, a sensation that shot down between her legs and throbbed there, aching and demanding.

Instead of hitting him, she ran the flat of the paddle over the curve of his rump. If only it could be her hand touching him. Feeling how soft his skin was, even over that hard, solid muscle. She noticed the dusting of dark hair. She longed to coast her hand all over him, even down between his legs from the back and touch the fascinating large ballocks that dangled there.

She couldn’t touch him. Certainly not there. Smoke rose when they touched. Contact with her obviously burned him, and she couldn’t inflict that on tender places.

Oh, but she wished she could touch him.

“You do?” he asked softly.

Had she said it out loud? She must have. “Yes,” she cried. “I want to grope your backside, and fondle the muscles on your arms, and put my arms around you, and—and—”

“Then do it,” he said.

She smacked his bottom lightly with the paddle. “I can’t. I’d hurt you.”

“You know, love, I really don’t care. It would be worth it to be touched by you.”

Crazily, madly, she put the palm of her hand against his rump. Against the red mark the paddle had made.

But Ravenhunt flinched and smoke rose, and she snatched her hand away.

“Spank me,” he urged, and she heard the note of laughter in his voice. Turning, he winked at her, his long lashes flashing over his dark eye. She giggled.

When had she last giggled? She couldn’t remember. Never had she thought it would be over a bare bottom and a session of spanking. This was utterly surprising. It was fun.

“Come on, love, you’re killing me with suspense. I’m on the brink of a colossal erotic explosion. It hurts.”

Goodness, she was not doing her duty here. She lifted the paddle and swacked him. She paddled his bottom lightly, then firmly, then gave one daring, hard smack.

“God,” he muttered. His hips moved back and forth rhythmically, in time to her spanking.

“I had no idea,” he growled, “it could feel so good—”

He broke off and shifted, so he was sideways across the bed. Her eyes went huge. From here, she could see his private parts. Huge and straight and thick and sticking straight out.

He wrapped his hand around the enormous shaft. Between moans, he gasped, “You are amazing. The most erotic woman with a paddle I could dream of.”

Ophelia giggled shyly, then gasped herself. His hand ran along the length of his erection. He gripped tight, pulling at it.

How stunning. How marvelous. How strange. He was so rough with it. Surely those strokes, in that fearsome grip, must hurt.

And his moans . . . so loud, so intense, they made shivers go down her spine.

She spanked him again, and suddenly his head jerked, his body bucked, and he let out a cry of agony. His shaft seemed to swell to incredible proportions before her eyes. He jerked his hips up at the same moment a white fluid shot forth from his erection and spattered over his hand.

She gaped at him, the paddle dangling from her hand.

He straightened, and he cleaned his hand on a corner of the disordered bedsheet.

“Spectacular,” he murmured.

Before she could think of a thing to say, he moved with his amazing speed. Next thing she knew he had the paddle in his hand and he grinned rakishly at her.

“Your turn,” he said.