Storywitch's "Book of Shadows"

Thanks for your patience, everyone! Here’s Part V. Elisa and Mal’s story is due June 30, so I’m not sure if I’ll have another segment before I complete that, what with the Lori Foster conference this month as well. The summer months always seem to be my busiest time, and despite my best intentions to write a new segment every two weeks, I may have to stretch it out a little bit to be sure I get your books to you on time (smile). I want to finish Afterlife in July (I’d hoped to have it done in June), but I’m pretty sure I can get you Mason and Jessica Part 6 no later than early July. Hope you enjoy this in the meantime!

* * * * *

Though he’d said his plane would land soon, she knew his definition of soon and hers were different in this instance. It was a good thing the third mark gave a servant’s body even more stamina, not just for exertion, but for stillness, because it took him several hours to get home. She’d actually expected it to take longer, so she’d gone into a near trance, keeping her eyes down, focused on her naked body as he commanded. But she wasn’t idle in that trance.

While she waited, her mind rewrote the words he’d spoken in her mind. And each time she did, she crafted them into a new scenario where she would serve at his pleasure. At first, she imagined just the two of them here, alone. He had her locked on a wheel rack, her body arched up toward him, muscles straining, and he was dripping candlewax over her breasts, tiny, artful patters of drops where she flinched and trembled at each heated touch. He would do it until the curves, the sensitive nipples, were fair molded beneath waxes flavored with vanilla, sandalwood, smoke. And then he’d smooth his fingers over those moldings, denying the skin beneath his touch, taunting her as he circled the tip of a hard, wax-coated nipple.

But she needed to be braver, and so she was. The next fantasy, she was here with him, but others were watching. He attached clamps to her nipples and clit, ran three silken ribbons from each of those attachments and gave the ends to nine in the audience. She had to dance for him as if they were alone, feeling the pressure of those ribbons tighten and slacken depending on which way she turned, how she undulated her hips, arched her back, lifted her foot and turned into the silken restraints. Eventually, he had all the ribbons again, and he bade her stand still as he increased the pressure on those tethers, pulling at the clamps on clit and nipples until the pain and pleasure were excruciating, until she begged him for mercy, to let her come to him. When he gave her permission, he had her turn, wrap herself in the ribbons, so that when she reached him she was immobilized. Then he laid her on a table where they could watch her, reach out and…

She had to back away from that one, move onto another. She’d also kept those nine watchers in the shadows, their faces blurred. She had to do better than that.

There was an oak chair in this dungeon room, a large chair for a powerful man. The kind of chair that would have been placed at the head of the table in a great hall, and it might in fact be from a medieval time period, for it had artwork reminiscent of that era carved in the tall back. In her next scenario, he sat in the chair and lifted her onto his lap, guided her down onto his cock, holding her back against his body as he faced her outward. The hands came, those faceless guests coming forward to cup her breasts, stroke her hair, her face. Fingers teased her parted lips, invaded and explored her mouth, and Mason whispered to her to suck on those fingers. Then they slid down her stomach, a wet trail, and painted that moisture on the stretched lips of her sex around his cock, stimulating the sense of fullness inside of her.

She realized she was imagining all those hands as his hands, as if she were in a room full of Masons, so every touch was his, no matter from which direction it came. She tried to imagine those hands as the hands of strangers, and found she had to accelerate it, like fast forward on the movie player. Then she had to take some time, breathe, get her nerves under control. She had to do better than this, damn it.

She kept going though, thinking up scene after scene, even venturing into dark areas of pain and restraint that made things inside of her stomach flop uneasily, while other parts of her body responded in an altogether different way as she imagined him doing the restraining, inflicting the pain.

If she kept up at this rate, she was going to have a new version of 1001 Nights laid out in her mind, just like Scheherazade. Only instead of trying to stave off her Fate at her lord’s hands, she was welcoming it. However, if he didn’t get here soon, she might just die from an explosion of bottled-up lust.

She was doing it to herself, of course. As she crafted her erotic stories, even with the jittering of nerves, arousal ebbed and flowed. Her nipples hardened into points under her gaze. What had dried in tracks on her smooth legs dampened anew as moisture gathered in her pussy, trickled along the pocket of her thigh, teased her knee cap. A few times during her more passionate imaginings, a shudder gripped her like a convulsion. If she tightened up enough, she might send herself over, just from her visions. But she of course refused herself. That was her Master’s decision.

He was silent in her mind, but now that he was in range, she hoped he saw every heated moment of every scenario. If he would talk to her, he might embellish them with ideas of his own. Not just to share as a story, but as a promised future reality where he would add the ruthless carnality of his vampire nature to the mix, taking each fantasy to an even deeper, more intense level. She was ready for it. She was sure of it.

She’d reached fifty-six detailed erotic vignettes and staved off several near misses in bringing herself to orgasm when she suddenly felt him. He was home.

His presence in the house was the difference between a gray shadow, half-dream state and full-bodied color and life, sweeping through her. She gave a soft prayer of thanks for his safe return, for the fact he was a part of her life. It was something she did every time he came back to her, and though he didn’t yet speak to her, or give her leave to speak in his mind, he let her feel the reassuring touch of his presence, responding to that fervent thanks with a brief sense of tenderness. No matter how she’d goaded his temper, he loved her. She knew that was what was most important, and she was willing to do whatever he wanted from her, but she couldn’t retreat from this. Tightening her chin, she knew she’d fight him on that, if she had to do it.

As soon as she had the stray thought, the tenderness became something different, heat with a dangerous edge. Despite his acknowledgment of her prayer, his feelings about what she’d done had not mellowed or abated. He was an extremely old vampire for his kind, and despite his reclusive nature from the vampire world, in some ways he was even more unyielding on matters of obedience and respect than the other Council members. She also knew he had a way of considering things from all angles, exploring his options thoroughly before he decided exactly how he would handle a situation. And he’d had three hours to decide how he would deal with her.

Though he didn’t speak, he did open a visual channel into his mind for her. He went to his room first, rather than coming to her first thing. He blocked her from his thoughts, but she saw him leave the suitcase on the bed. Enrique would put things away for him, of course. Mason slid off his tie, the silk of it slipping through his long fingers. Through his eyes she watched as he unbuttoned his shirt, shrugged it off his shoulders, giving her a glimpse of the tiger tattoo sketched into his flesh, marked with his blood to hold it there. She swallowed on a dry throat at how that tiger rippled as he tossed the shirt over a chair. He unhooked his trousers, a simple, casual gesture that sent her pulse rabbiting. She could only see through his eyes, but she could imagine how they dropped low on his hips. He was moving with that catlike way of walking he had, that striated terrain at his abdomen shifting as he moved into the bathroom and–for the love of fucking God–turned on the shower.

She’d stirred herself to near climax by imagining all the different ways she could serve him, be taken over by him. One of them had featured her on her knees in his shower, taking him in her mouth, the head of his cock pushing deep into her throat. Her eyes were shut from the spray of the water, everything focused on his scent, the heated steam, the clutch of his hand in her hair. Only she wasn’t really there. She was here, looking through his viewpoint as he ran soap along his broad chest, then down, sliding his hand around the base of an enormously erect cock rising from between powerful thighs, a nest of heavy testicles. Her pussy contracted on itself, weeping anew, and her palms were sweating as she held them in tight fists.

She wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t cry out or plea. This might be Mason underscoring the control he held as her Master, which, in a torturous way, was an encouraging sign. This was part of her punishment. Still, the size of that erection said he’d most definitely been listening to the different stories she’d imagined. Fifty-six vignettes, filled with salacious details that, for as indepth as she’d thought they’d been, didn’t come close to this mind-view of his body. She’d missed having him sheltering her at night as she slept, how often he touched her and allowed himself to be touched. And now here he was, so close it felt like she could reach down through his gaze and caress that hard organ, the line of hip and thigh. She wanted to be pressed up against him, nipping that chest, curling her hands in his wet long hair, the long copper strands gone to near black in the shower. She’d reach around to soap the muscular buttocks and his hands would close over her wrists as she tried to tease the seam between. His smile, the light in his eyes, could make her heart stutter. He loved it when she played with him like a mischievous child.

But now she experienced all that through this screen, this distance, that left her hands and her body empty. He was too far away, and she couldn’t bear it another moment. She wanted to get up, run up those stairs, run to that shower. She didn’t though, but it was a near thing. She was breathing fast, a sob catching in her throat.

He didn’t linger overlong there, thank all the gods. He pulled on jeans and a close-fitting long sleeved tee, pushing up the sleeves. He didn’t bother with anything beneath the denim, and she knew just how good his lower body looked in it. As an Old World male, he wore dress clothes as easily as many men wore jeans, though he looked devastating in both. She preferred him in Bedouin robes most of all. When his arms closed around her, she could find his body through the wide sleeves or open front, if he only wore a tunic. But tonight, the jeans and knit shirt that delineated that mouthwatering physique worked for her.

He still didn’t come to her. He ordered a glass of wine from the kitchen staff, and partook of it by himself in the dining room. He asked them to light the brace of candles on the table and spent some time studying the tapers while he sipped the wine. As he considered the way the ivory wax dripped down the sides and pooled in the silver catch tray, she wondered if he was imagining her first scenario, dripping hot wax on her flesh. As he studied the flame, Melinda, one of the kitchen girls, brought him a small sampling of fruit and cheese. His gaze shifted and alighted on a peach half, the mauve-orange deep color. The fruit was so ripe it glistened with the juices along where it had been cut just now.

Oh, holy hell.

Jess swallowed as he picked it up, turned it over to the peel side to stroke that light fuzz that was like a woman’s skin. When he returned to the fruit portion, he slid his finger along the valley where the pit had been cut away, leaving just a channel of slick flesh to taste. As he traced that area, he put pressure on it, making the juices swell around his fingertip. It made his knuckle, start to glisten, the way it did when he slid his fingers inside of her, stroked the walls of her pussy and made her writhe under his clever touch.

When he brought the peach to his mouth, she couldn’t see through his eyes, but she was tormented by other senses. He nibbled at it, licked and sucked the juices away, and she felt every stroke of the tongue, the prick of his teeth, in the sound of his enjoyment of the fruit. He loved watching her climax from his mouth, and he did it often, sometimes waking her from sleep with his lips between her legs, his tongue pushing into her pussy and swirling her into pleasurable waking.

“My lord…” She’d made the hushed plea before she could help herself, and spoken aloud, the syllables echoing in the chamber.

He didn’t respond, but he did put down the fruit and take another swallow of his wine. Then he rose and left the room. If he wandered off to his favored reading room to give War and Peace a leisurely perusal, she swore she was going to find something pointy and wooden and go after him with a vengeance.

The brief moment of desperate humor disappeared, though. He was in fact headed for the dungeon, and as he came in her direction, that silent, pensive intensity became something else. Studied, focused and deliberate, more than a hint of dangerous heat coming off of him. Mason was not a dramatic or overly vain man. She already knew the shower, the wine and fruit had not been idle teasing. He’d been making a point, driving up her need to an excruciating level simply because he could demand that from her. He could demand it from her eternally and endlessly. For the first time since she’d launched her goal to get Mason to remove the kid gloves, she realized he’d always known just how to dish out a Master’s torment. In fact, she had a feeling he could make Raithe look like an amateur. Whereas Raithe had copped out, using terror and pain, Mason could destroy a woman utterly with mere sensual command of all her senses, taking over her mind and soul at once.

He didn’t speak to Enrique or Amara, either. That sent a trickle of nervousness through her, because she had wanted to hear the rumble of his voice, get some sense of his mood from it. His silence gave things a more ominous tone. Had he spoken in their minds, or sent them off with a look that told them they were dismissed and he would handle their part in this later? Regardless, she heard the sounds of their retreat, leaving her alone with him…and this dungeon room.

She started trembling in earnest the moment he started down the stairs. He was barefoot, but he wasn’t less intimidating out of his shoes. She made herself stay as he’d bade her, eyes down, robe pooled about her naked form. As he’d ordered, Mara had turned up the heat, so all during her wait she’d felt the warmth of the vented air at her back. Now, though, she wished the room had been cold. She wanted to give him that gift, rely on his body alone to drive the cold back, bring warmth back to her skin.

He’d stopped in the doorway, and she felt his gaze on her now. She could hear her breath, the quick patter of her pulse. Oh, how she wanted to look at him, drink in every inch of him with her eyes. She could smell his scent, that unique musk, a male cologne and Mason mix that reminded her of desert sand and hot sun, jasmine blooms.

Having you shiver with cold would not please me, habiba. As your Master, I will not permit you a moment of distress.

She didn’t want to do anything to keep him from touching her one second longer than necessary, but she reminded herself of the stakes here, what she had to win. “If that’s the case,” she said softly, “then I’ve failed you, my lord. Because every time you leave me, I feel nothing but distress. Until you return.”

Silence. She closed her eyes, holding onto her resolve with everything she had, for in a minute she would abandon it just to feel his arms around her. Then he muttered an oath in Arabic, low and vicious. Before she could think of how to reply, or if a reply was even necessary, he was in front of her. As she opened her eyes, she had a glimpse of those bare feet, the columns of his thighs and what they cradled in denim between them. He kept her pressed down on her knees with a hand that coiled into her hair. She reveled in that single touch. Oh, how she wanted to lift up on her knees, catch her fingers in his belt loops and press her mouth against that line of taut skin just above the waistband, dipping beneath the hem of the shirt.

Lock your wrists behind you, habiba. You have no permission to touch me.

She obeyed, but then those hands tangling in her hair pulled her back with enough strength she felt his ability to snap her neck. It conveyed his temper, even as it put her in a position to look into his face.

But she didn’t. She made herself keep her eyes down. It would drive her completely crazy to sit here, to experience him through all her senses but sight. He could make her do this for hours until she might be weeping with the desire to look at him, but she still wouldn’t lift her gaze until he commanded her to do so. She would prove her devotion, her commitment to him, the fact she could obey him without question or thought, no matter what she was asked to do. Anything to stay by his side.

Even in her mind, she knew that sounded too desperate, too raw, but she would hide nothing from him. He might pick up that note of distress, but everything she was thinking was true. The desire to submit, surrender to a Master, was a part of her soul Raithe had exploited and warped. His most heinous crime against her was making her believe it was wrong. Mason had healed that, had brought that part of her to a depth and intensity she kept wanting to take deeper and deeper, every day. Looking at that way, it was really all his fault she had this limitless need to serve him, right?

Okay, she’d pushed it with that one. The next creative oath was fervent enough to tell her she was in serious trouble. She just wasn’t sure what kind yet. It wouldn’t matter. She wouldn’t have done this if she couldn’t handle the consequences. She was ready for that. But she wasn’t ready for his next words.

He tightened his grip, pulling at her scalp, his thumb pressed just beneath her ear. “On the way here, I realized you were right about one thing. I haven’t fully asserted myself as your Master. Otherwise, you would not have so utterly mistaken what I require from you.”

The velvet growl of his voice was stern, unyielding. It was a note she’d heard him use before with Enrique and Mara, but never with her. Not yet. Now that it was turned full force in her direction, it gave her anticipatory shivers, but the words themselves stopped her in her tracks.

“M-my lord?”

Instead of answering, he jerked up her chin with two fingers, filled her gaze with fierce amber eyes and the planes of a ruthlessly handsome face. It was a flash impression, for a moment later, he clamped his hot and demanding mouth over hers.

Oh, God. Bliss. It didn’t matter that the kiss was relentless, brutal. He wasn’t just demanding complete submission from her. He was taking it, with the erotic thrust of his tongue and the strength of his hand, sliding from her chin to take a firm grip of her throat, holding her in place and controlling the kiss entirely.

This was an entirely different energy from him, something she’d only caught hints and promises of…until now. While she couldn’t deny feeling a trickle of apprehension from it, it wasn’t a shadow of Raithe. It was the sensual thrill of fear a submissive was supposed to feel from a Master like this. She couldn’t stop the tremor through every muscle in her body, but she could open her mind to him fully, hope he was seeing how it was different with him.

Just his hand on her throat and their mouths touching, yet she fairly screwed her clasped hands into a knot at her back trying to keep them there. Her thighs were so slick she thought she’d never been so wet without a climax. She whimpered into his mouth, reveling in those strong fingers, the overwhelming mouth.

When he lifted his head, she could barely remember what he’d said, but at his stern, uncompromising stare, she forced herself to recall it, moistening her lips to speak, though it was little more than a whisper. “Wh-what have I mistaken, my lord?”

“The reason I do not take you with me to Council meetings has nothing to do with your past. For all that I cannot tolerate knowing that you still struggle with your nightmares—”

“But you make them better.”

“Jessica.” He pressed that clever mouth to her temple, his hand squeezing. His fingers were so long they could almost reach her nape. “If you speak without leave again I will gag you with the thickest phallus I can find on that wall, one long enough to press into the back of your throat, remind you of what it’s like to take my cock there. I would get a particular pleasure at seeing those clever lips of yours stretched hard around it when you climax.”

He knew her terror of sexual toys, but he called one forth now, gave her the vivid image of him making her open her mouth for it, take it all the way in and then remain still as he strapped it around her head. The fear she felt dissipated at the sensual imagining of his hands, the way his eyes would dwell, hot and desire-filled, on her face, lingering on her lips.

“Now,” he continued, a dangerous predator’s purring edge, “you will listen and hear your Master. The reason I do not take you with me is this. I will not tolerate another man’s hands on you. Period.”

Enough savagery was injected into his tone that instinct kept her still, though the astounding words themselves froze her in place, their meaning wrapping around her heart, a binding and confirmation at once.

“When Lyssa and Danny brought Jacob and Dev here, certain things were different that night. But still, I warned you even then.” He shifted, letting her see he was studying the room around them. “While all of this was not a wise course of action, it was goaded by what you correctly sensed. As you have grown more confident in your trust in me, my desire to be a more lighthanded Master has steadily evaporated. And perhaps you are ready for that. We will see. But first, we will get one thing very clear.”

He tilted up her face so she was so close to those eyes that amber flame was all she saw. “You are mine. As I told you from the plane, when I saw Enrique’s hands on you”—now he changed his angle, bringing her head down so his breath whispered over her cheek—“I was ready to tear him to pieces.”

She knew he was a lethal opponent, had seen that side of him in life threatening situations. But even having seen that, the male holding her now was revealing the animal side of his nature more decidedly than she’d ever experienced. It was all directed at her, the full weight of it.

“I am not like other vampires, habiba. Have you forgotten? Three hundred some years ago, I handfasted with a Bedouin girl. There was a reason who and what she was appealed to me. Though I don’t agree with the brutality, the abuse of power that can come with restricting women’s lives, I have a full understanding of the male need to protect what he considers his, on every level. It’s part of who and what I am. Do you understand me?”

“Y-yes. I think so.”

“Yes, what?” His tone sharpened, another delicious and new thrill.

“Yes, Master.”

“I doubt you actually do. But by the time we are done in here, you will. You will be very, very clear on what kind of Master I am.”

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