Page 1 of The Dove
CHAPTER ONE
London 1819
he sting of cold stones against the bottoms of her bare feet reverberated up her legs, the frigid air lashing at her calves as she held her skirts aloft and ran. Her heart thundered, and her lungs burned as she struggled to breathe past the knot of fear lodged in her throat. The surface of her skin fairly tingled with awareness, the hairs on the back of her neck rising to stand on end. Glancing over her shoulder, she kept going, desperate to outrun the monster chasing her through the winding corridors of the dark, ominous castle. Torchlight cast shadows against the walls, and behind her, the hallway loomed like a never-ending tunnel with no bends nor turns.
Her eyes told her that nothing chased her, that the corridor behind her remained empty. Yet, her body, her very soul, told her something else.
He was coming.
The beast who had tormented her for weeks, torn her apart and made her like it … he was on her heels, breathing down her neck, snorting fire and ash. He delighted in torturing her, toying with her like a cat playing with a mouse before sinking its teeth in and ripping it to shreds.
Fear twisted in her gut, even as anticipation flooded her senses, her lips parting to allow the taste of the pursuit to dance upon her tongue. His scent clung to the air around her, the constant reminder of his presence unrelenting. Cedar … smoke … masculine musk. She could smell him, taste him, hear his voice in her head.
“Yes, little dove,” he rasped in the dark, his words echoing down the corridor. “Run! You know how I love to chase you.”
His demented laughter echoed from the walls around her, vibrating through her entire being. A desperate cry fell from her lips—part fear, part arousal. Her palms were as damp as the mound between her thighs.
Something slammed into her from behind, and she was thrown forward, face first onto the unrelenting stone floor. She gasped, struggling to recapture the breath that had been knocked from her. Kicking and flailing, she fought against the hands clutching her ankles and dragging her back into the darkness … into the jaw of the beast.
“No,” she whispered, even as he climbed over her, pinning her to the floor with his hard, massive body. “Please … no!”
Her lips protested, but her body surrendered, her back easing into a deep arch when he grasped a handful of her hair and yanked. She cried out, her scalp stinging and her shoulders aching, her cunt pulsing with need and her nipples going to stiff points. She could not see him, but she felt him, his thighs straddling her hips, the press of his chest against her back, the rasp of the stubble on his jaw against her ear, the sweep of his long, dark hair falling around her like a curtain. The hard ridge of his thick cock resting against her buttocks.
She heard him, his breath heavy and rasping from the exertions of the chase, his deep, resonant voice when he spoke.
“Mine,” he grunted in her ear.
Then, he was pressing her head against the stones, holding her captive with a brutal hold on her hair as he began snatching her skirts up. She squirmed beneath him; yet, he only laughed again, shoving a rough hand between her legs. Her screams of terror melted into whimpers of delight as he stroked her, invaded her with his fingers.
“Please,” she moaned, lifting her hips to invite him in deeper, the salt of her tears flooding her mouth as she wept. “Please … just let me go!”
The blunt tip of his prick touched her entrance, his mouth grazing her neck as he poised to enter her. His teeth scraped her earlobe, sending a shudder through her.
“Never,” he rasped, just before shoving the full length of his cock inside her sheath.
Lady Daphne Fairchild awoke with a jolt, her lips parted on a cry that echoed through her bedchamber. As her mind slowly floated up out of her vivid dream, she absorbed her surroundings.
The mauve damask canopy and sheer white curtains surrounding her bed tinted the light of the morning sun, turning the air around her into a soft pink haze. The matching sheets and counterpane were soaked with her sweat while dampened strands of hair clung to her face and neck. Her nightgown adhered to her skin, and the cool air caused by a waning fire made her break out in goose bumps. She would have liked to blame her hard, aching nipples on the chill in the air, but her yearning cunt proclaimed the truth.
As frightening as her dream had been, her body had become aroused.
With a heavy sigh, she plopped back onto the pillows and closed her eyes, slowing her breaths and trying to bring her galloping heart down to a normal cadence.
Behind her lowered eyelids, remnants of the dream flickered and flashed. Her nipples tingled as she remembered the feel of Adam’s chest against her back, his breath in her ear. Her inner channel clenched at the memory of his cock shoving into her. Whimpering, she bit her lower lip, squeezing her legs together to try to stifle the pounding between them … to smother the unrelenting desire that seemed to plague her day and night.
The sensation only increased, her depraved longing becoming too strong to ignore.
Releasing a frustrated huff, she reached beneath the bedclothes and lifted the hem of her nightgown. She would never be able to leave this bed until she did something about the agitation overwhelming her entire body. Tossing the bedclothes aside with one hand, she palmed the mound between her legs with the other, hissing from between clenched teeth on contact. She was swollen, aching, pulsating in time with each beat of her racing heart. Sinking a finger between her lower lips, she encountered her engorged clit and started agitating it with slow circles. Staring at the canopy hanging overhead, she released a sigh of relief, allowing her legs to fall open and her body to relax into the mattress.
Self-pleasure was not something she had done often before the thirty days and nights she had spent in Scotland, entombed in Castle Dunnottar. Now, however, she could hardly go two days without the need to climax, without relief from the longing that gnawed at her gut.
In truth, there were many things she’d never done before entering her ill-fated agreement with Lord Adam Callahan, Earl of Hartmoor. She had never allowed a man to shove his cock down her throat or penetrate her every orifice. She had never delighted in being spanked, or choked, or debased in the countless ways he had thought to use her. Yet, not only had she allowed it all, she hadenjoyedit all. Every unseemly act.
Another sound of impatience simmered in her throat, and she quickened her strokes, the soft pads of her fingers hardly affecting her. She needed calloused hands and a commanding touch. She needed a rough, masculine voice in her ear and the brutal clench of a hand on the back of her neck.
She needed dominance.
Closing her eyes once more, she did something she had promised herself she would never do again … She thought ofhim.
