Cantrips: Volume #1: Minor Magics Crafted to Amuse and Entertain Read online

  “How does it feel?” he said, his intent gaze on her face.

  “Like I’m yours. Thank you, Master.”

  His eyes softened, a rueful tug to his mouth. “I’m still seriously tempted to turn you over and spank you for all of this.”

  “I’ll take that as proof you liked your birthday gift.”

  He snorted, but then he wound his fingers into her hair, until his hands were framing her face again. He lifted his upper body so that the pressure on the throbbing skin was released. A quiver ran through her as he adjusted his hips so he was seated at a different, deeper angle. When she let out a moan, humor left his gaze, and he bent to her breast. As he scraped the curve with his teeth, he traced it with his tongue, making lazy circles toward the center, the jutting nipple that fairly vibrated with need. Her legs twitched and he gave her a warning look.

  “You keep them spread and your ankles on the ground, angel. As far as you’re concerned, I have you tied out here with stakes and rope. In fact...” The tip of his tongue made another pass around the areola, evoking another whimper. She was becoming a symphony of needy sounds again, but she knew that would please him, make him harder. “I think that’s the perfect way to make sure you keep from abrading the burn. Tomorrow, when I’m working on my roses, I’m going to take garden stakes and soft rope and stake you out on the grass while I prune. And maybe I’ll use that bit I described, those two roses, to keep you quiet and focused only on everything going on inside of you. Put that small vibrator into your sweet cunt, let you come as many times, and as often, as it takes me to do my gardening. Sara will bring us both water when we need it, snacks. I’ll feed you, of course, tip the water to your lips. Run the ice cubes along your nipples, over your clit, if you’re getting too hot. Would you like that, angel?”

  She quivered, her breath shortening. “Sounds like a lot of work for you.”

  “I’m willing to make the sacrifice.” He placed a single, dragging lick over the right nipple and she cried out, but remained perfectly still, as still as a trembling body could stay. “Plus, if I get too hard watching your pussy cream over that vibrator, I’ll just feed my cock into my sweet slave’s mouth, have you take care of me.”

  “Tyler.” Her breath shuddered deep as he closed his mouth fully over the nipple this time, drew deep, making the suckling noises he knew could drive her crazy.

  Her pussy rippled over his length, and he put a hand between them to caress her clit in a slow, sensual circle, flicking back and forth over the engorged flesh, teasing rather than stroking it, making her body quiver harder. It didn’t seem possible that she could be close to coming again, but the way that brand seared into her flesh, keeping her hyperaware of its presence and meaning, along with his stimulation, made her think she was still riding the waves of the last orgasm.

  “Want you...to come with me,” she gasped, too close for finesse and teasing. “Please.”

  “You know when you say please, I can’t resist you, angel.” Tyler clamped down on the other nipple, suckling hard. Despite his earlier edict, he’d apparently decided he did want to feel the friction of her wet pussy gripping him, because he pulled half out and slid back in to the hilt, giving an extra thrust to take him that much deeper. It wrenched an animal sound of pleasure and effort from her throat. He kept his stomach off of hers, though.

  “It...if you abrade it...it makes a deeper mark,” she said, but he gave her a quelling look.

  “Not happening, angel. You’ll have to be happy with it as is.”

  “I am if you are. Thank you, Master. Thank you, Tyler.”

  “Christ, you kill me.” Another retreat, then the slow surge back in, with that extra twitch, sending a jolt through her nerve endings. “You keep talking to me. I want to hear your voice, know when you’re about to go over. I love it when I break you down like this, when you give me everything.”

  “You already have everything,” she whispered, her fingers clutching the grass where her spread arms lay. “Everything I am. I like...what you want to do tomorrow. I want to be still, and yours, and feel the sun... Hear the birds... And not worry about anything.”

  “Not worrying about anything now, are you, angel? You’ve given it all to me.” Those clever fingers flicked her clit again and Marguerite gasped over a tight spiral of response, searing a path up from between her legs, a near orgasm. If he did that a few more times, she’d be unable to hold back, and from the intent look in his amber eyes, he knew it. “Keep talking.”

  “Pretty horses here...can you...ride?”

  “Every Southern gentleman can.” His mouth was on her again, cruising down her sternum, his body performing that slow penetration and retreat that made her ache to lift her legs, clamp them around him. He knew how devastating it was to have an orgasm this way, with him controlling the build up. There’d been nights he’d strapped down her legs from hip to ankle, completely immobilizing her, so that not even a twitch of her lower body was possible. He’d licked her clit with that devil-blessed mouth until she’d come, so intensely she’d blacked out. She’d woken in his arms, him caring for her, massaging her legs, cleaning her. Though he was so aroused his cock was an iron bar pressed against her side, he’d insisted on caring for her first.

  “Will you wear...those tight pants? Boots?”

  “Wanton woman. You’d just be staring at my ass.”

  “And your big...riding crop.”

  He chuckled against her flesh, but she felt the flex of his hands in her hair, knew he was getting close to peak as well. She wanted to go together, and lifted her head slightly, capturing his attention. His hands slid beneath her neck, supporting her, tilting her head so her mouth was so close to his.

  “Together...please.” She was lost to the desires of her body, but this, this was pure emotion. She wanted to be together, melded together by that flood of release. He saw the need in her gaze, for he didn’t tease her, as he might otherwise.

  “Together, angel. Always. Ready?”

  She nodded.

  “Then come for me. Let me hear your cries.”

  That clever hand stopped making those light circles and instead stroked her with purpose, setting off a charge of reaction through her clit and pussy. As he did, he began to stroke harder within her, and with less defined thrusts, his own need coming up and over him, so that the leash of control broke. As her voice rose in the cry of release, he put his hands to her hips and increased his strength, hitting her labia and clit with every stroke, replacing his fingers with the overwhelming demand.

  She wanted to touch him, wanted to wrap arms and legs around him, but she obeyed him, leaving her limbs straining and straight, because it made the orgasm so much more intense. The cry became a tearing scream. It overwhelmed her, took over her motor control such that he shifted and held her legs and arms pinned with his hands and hips, his feet hooked over her shins. As he did, he rose and plunged, rose and plunged. She felt the heat of him spurt into her, renewing the assault on her tissues. She caught a glimpse of his face, seized by the powerful paralysis that a universe-changing orgasm could invoke, and loved it. Loved him. Loved the deep, masculine cries of release, somewhere between a shout and growl of a savage animal.

  A savage animal that slowly settled into repletion. His climax had been so intense, his hands had bruised in their grip on her arms, but she reveled in that loss of control. When he finished, he was lying full on her again, her body still twitching from aftershocks, tiny cries coming from her lips with each one.

  “All right?” he asked after a long while, his voice a rumble against her ear.

  “As long as you never move.”

  “You need to breathe, angel. And that’s all the pressure we’re going to put on this brand for now.”

  With a groan, he made it to his knees, reluctantly sliding from her. Shifting beside her, he propped himself on an elbow and regarded her pale, trembling body, from her painted toenails to the crown of her silky hair. “God, you’re beautiful. The way you lay the
re, still obedient to me, your arms and legs spread. Who’d have thought a Mistress could surrender so utterly? You’re a jewel. My wife.”

  It gave her an inner glow she was too proud to ever admit. Unless he seduced it out of her. But her voice had a betraying break as she spoke. “I want to touch you now.”

  He nodded, and she turned on her hip, her depleted body and the ache of the burn making it a careful movement. Glancing down, he traced around the burn area, not touching the skin, and slid upward to her breast. He ran his knuckles along the curve before bringing his hand to rest on the nip of her waist, his thumb close to the mark. She noticed, with satisfaction, the way his eyes kept straying to it.

  “Violet thought I should do the same to you one day. You know, kind of a double D ranch brand on your haunch.”

  His gaze flicked up to hers, lazy amusement in it. Laying his head down on his arm, he let his knuckle descend, do another circle around the brand area, then brush her mons and her damp labia. Her legs automatically adjusted for him, letting his fingers slip inside. Her muscles gave a final, exhausted contraction, an incoherent sound coming from her as he stroked the liquid silk inside with tender fingers.

  “And what does my beautiful Mistress think?”

  “I think this is enough for me. Though I haven’t been able to practice my hog tying in awhile.”

  “I should tell you something that happened to me the other day, when I was in town. It involved two young, beautiful women.”

  “Really?” Her brow arched.

  “Mm-hmm. You know that gallery near you, the co-op for aspiring artists? I saw a sculpture in the window I particularly liked. It was a bronze of a naked female angel. It looked as if she’d been playing above stormy ocean waves. She’s in a twisting motion, and a merman has surged up from the waters to take her mouth in a kiss, his hand closing on her wrist. One wing is angled down, as if she’s about to pull away, but there’s something about the arch of her throat, the tension in her body, that tells you she’s aroused by the merman’s boldness, his attempt to hold her.” He let his fingers slide out, painted their combined fluids on her upper thigh and then closed his hand over her fragile wrist, bringing the hand to him so he could nuzzle her fingers with his mouth.

  “I thought it was exceptional work. Figured I could buy it, take a picture of it and send it to Marcus, tell him I found it in Somalia at a street bazaar. He’d probably spend months scouring the area to get the artist under contract with him.”

  “You have a mean streak.” Her mouth curved. “And you underestimate Marcus. I bet he’ll figure out your game in no time and retaliate by putting your name and photo out on the Internet as “Gay male, single, who likes being spanked by Daddy.”

  “Oh, he already did that one.”

  “Yes, but it was a classic.”

  “He prides himself on being original.” At her shiver, he noticed the sun was starting to go down. “I think we probably need to get you home.”

  She glanced down at herself. “You said...”

  “I meant it. Nothing but panties until it heals.” A twinkle went through his amber eyes. “I’ll put this blanket around you, but better hope we don’t get stopped on the way home.”

  She shook her head and lay back, giving him an amused look as she draped her arms over her head in a provocative pose. “You’re driving, so you’ll have to explain it. But I’m not going anywhere with you until you tell me about the two beautiful women.”

  His eyes creased in that handsome way that never failed to make her heart lurch. “Didn’t forget that, did you?” Still, before he continued, he rose, pulling his jeans back on and fastening them. He disappeared briefly into the barn. Marguerite watched the rose and gold colors paint the sky until she heard his feet. Lifting her head, she saw him crossing the ground back to her, her blouse in his hands. He helped her slide it onto her shoulders, though he left it open. “I won’t let you be cold,” he said, in explanation of the sudden revision to his earlier mandate. “I don’t want you uncomfortable.”

  “Women?” she prompted, though her heart squeezed a little as it always did at his unfailing care for her.

  He grinned, recapturing her hand, but continued. “When I went into the gallery, two young women were there, the owner and one of the artists. As you know, I have exceptional hearing, and I heard the owner talking about me. You know, the usual. How incredibly sexy I was, the things she’d do if she could get her hands on my ass...”

  “I can think of a few things to do with your overinflated opinion of yourself,” she retorted. When she tried to pull her hand away, he held her fast.

  “Ssh, be still.” His voice softened, his eyes sobering as he touched her face, keeping her other hand firmly in his grasp. “I could sense the artist watching me, not saying anything, but then she told her friend not to bother. That I was taken, in every sense of the word.”

  Marguerite pressed her lips together at the expression in his face. “I wondered, because it sounded like she meant more than being married, even if she’d noticed my ring. So I stopped by the counter on my way out and asked her point blank why she’d said that.”

  Marguerite could imagine it. That direct look, the firm tone and yet sexy Southern drawl that could seduce and command a woman at once, even when he was being entirely appropriate, as she was sure he was. She imagined the owner’s discomfiture, knowing she’d been overheard, and the artist’s clear, steady gaze as Tyler repeated her words.

  “She smiled at me, and gave me a quote by the novelist George Moore: ‘Other men it is said have seen angels, but I have seen thee and thou art enough.’ She told me that was the look I had about me, so she knew I already had my angel.” He shifted. “It was uncanny, given what I call you, so I wanted to think about it awhile before I told you. I’m glad I waited, because I couldn’t think of a more perfect time to tell you.”

  He drew her forward, bringing his mouth to hers for a sweet, lingering kiss. Marguerite let herself get lost in it, in the scent of him, in the familiar yet arousing pressure of his lips. Every inch of him was hers.

  When he lifted his head at last, he spoke. “Thank you for my birthday gift. Though you’ll always be enough for me, every birthday.”

  In answer, Marguerite put her hand on the side of his throat, her forehead to his, holding him close. “I’ll give you a quote,” she said softly. “‘Love has no desire but to fulfill itself. To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night. To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving.’ Kahlil Gibran.”

  She met his gaze, their faces so close. “Thank you for giving my heart wings. Thank you for giving this birthday to me, and every one after it.”

  Visibly moved, he put his hand back over her wrist and gripped her there hard. “I love you, angel. I always will. What do you say you let me take you home, and we can watch the sun set over the water?”

  “I’d say that would be a perfect end to the day.”

  “That’s every day that ends with you, angel.”

  One Night Only

  A vignette featuring Lady Lyssa and Thomas,characters from the Vampire Queen Series.

  Originally posted 3/1/2010 in serial format

  These characters are introduced in the first book of the series, Vampire Queen’s Servant, and reappear throughout the series.

  Background: This vignette is a prequel to Lyssa and Jacob’s first book, Vampire Queen’s Servant. In this story, Lyssa’s servant is still Thomas, the celibate monk who later trains Jacob to take his place. Despite the carnal nature of vampires, Lyssa honored Thomas’s celibacy vow, with one notable exception. He started his service as a second mark, but when he agreed to forever bind himself to her as her third marked servant, she required a loyalty test. He had to give her his body for one night only. This story is about that night.

  Part One

  Thomas circled the chamber for what felt like the hundredth time. He’d prepared her bed as he did every night. He�
��d turned back the cotton sheets the way she liked, arranged her pillows, and cut one perfect white rose, the bud not quite open, to lay on the linens. Though it was something she required, tonight it seemed as if he did it by his own will, for his own purposes. His fingers lingered on the petals as he imagined trailing the bud between her breasts, down a silken abdomen...

  He swore, something he rarely did, but the moment seemed to call for it. He attended her in the evenings when she first rose, and she often laid out her schedule for the nighttime hours while choosing her clothing, calling for his assistance to lace a corset or tie a garter. He’d seen her naked plenty of times. He helped her bathe, after all, pouring water over that slim back, massaging oils into her skin. He washed her dark hair, a web of temptation all its own, the way it fell in twists and curls down to her flare of her hips, teasing the crease between her bare buttocks.

  She was a descendant of Lilith, of Jezebel, of every woman who knew exactly how to use such beauty to confound a man’s mind. Despite the fact it was a more enlightened time, almost 1852, there were still some of his monastic brethren in England who considered women Satan’s agents, either deliberately or through female weakness for sin. But he didn’t. Even after a year in the service of a vampire queen.

  That year had brought him far from the monastery, geographically at least. Her decision to leave Europe for the young United States of America had been surprising, but she’d felt the position was strategic. It spoke to her desire to see the European vampires take a new, more enlightened view of their relationship with the human world. She’d purchased this plantation house outside of Atlanta, and, though they hadn’t been able to stay here as often as she liked, she’d at least managed a prolific rose garden. She never lived anywhere she couldn’t have roses. A quirk that always reminded him of the vulnerability of the woman beneath the queen’s exterior.