Her Master's Servant (Lord and Master Book 2) (8 page)

‘No, you don’t understand,’ Luna gritted out, before abandoning the cause in the face of Emma’s cluelessness and Alex’s supreme indifference. Never mind, she thought. She’d just go get the bag herself. Besides, she recognised her room on the map, though she had never been inside it – and despite her reluctance to enter the house, there was a kernel of curiosity inside her at the prospect of seeing that room.

She was surprised to find no security posted outside the portico to prevent non-guests from venturing into the house. Renovation work on the front hall, which had begun before Luna left Arborage, was still ongoing, as evidenced by the copious scaffolding around it. She shuddered to think of some drunken partygoer spilling a drink, or worse, on the half-restored inlaid marble floor.

Under the watchful gaze of cherubs and angels on the vaulted ceiling above her, Luna climbed the marble steps toward the private west wing of the house, the familiar smell of beeswax, Arborage roses and age filling her nostrils. It must have been tiredness, she told herself, but her eyes were stinging slightly. The smell made her feel like poor, woebegone Mole in
The Wind in the Willows
, when he caught scent of his home after many months away.

At the top of the main staircase and along the hall leading to the family’s private quarters, there were small, handwritten signposts guiding guests toward the bedrooms. On passing a small staircase leading to the attic, Luna resisted the temptation to carry on up to her old suite, the old governess’s room and schoolroom.

Walking down the carpeted hallway, floorboards underneath creaking familiarly, Luna passed perilously close to the Marchioness’s suite, heart skipping a beat. She relaxed a little when she remembered Caitlin telling her that Lady Wellstone was currently staying in a hotel near the Royal Marsden Hospital in London. The Marquess, who was being treated for lung cancer, had had a setback a month ago, apparently.

She arrived at a heavy oak door where a small card with her name had been fixed, pushing it open to reveal a large room with mullioned windows overlooking the lawn below. Tucked into an alcove on the right-hand side of the room was a four-poster bed complete with curtains. There was no carpet on the hardwood floor, so out of habit she lifted one leg, then the other to remove her heels before entering.

The room was wreathed in shadows, with only a small lamp on the wooden desk opposite the bed casting a feeble light. Luna approached the desk and idly examined its contents: a small globe, a stack of university study guides, various sporting paraphernalia. She picked up a cricket ball, ran her fingers along the stitching in its seam, then replaced it on the desk. Turning to the large portrait beside the desk, she stood face to face with a teenaged boy holding a King Charles Spaniel, laughter in his eyes.

‘Hello, James,’ she said softly. For this had been the room of the Marchioness’s only son, James Wellstone, who had died in a boating accident fourteen years ago. From what she could see, the room had remained largely untouched since his death, though clearly the cleaning staff had kept it tidy. She was frankly amazed it had been assigned to her, or indeed to anyone attending the party. Knowing how keenly the Marchioness still felt his loss, Luna couldn’t imagine her countenancing this.

Luna walked to her backpack, sitting on the floor in the middle of the room. As she bent to retrieve it, she caught a motion in the darkness beside her and jumped. Ah, it was a standing mirror – she was jumping at her own reflection. Shaking her head at her nerves, she lowered her backpack and moved closer to the mirror, studying herself.

Her eyes, as ever, were enormous and translucent, and her skin was deathly pale; she certainly looked the part of a ghost. Gaze scanning downward, however, Luna experienced a burgeoning sense of unease. For the first time, she noticed that the gauzy material in the bodice clung to her in a way that left no doubt she wasn’t wearing a bra. It was, well… if she’d been a little less dismayed, Luna might have felt justifiably proud, because they looked phenomenal, the curved tops of her breasts pressing against the gauze as they descended gracefully into the scattering of sequins and beading that covered her nipples.

Craning her neck, she observed that the scooped back of the dress was more revealing than she’d appreciated, exposing not just most of her spine but the curve of her waist as well. And the skirt. Bloody hell, Kayla was right, her booty was… hard to miss. Biting her lip, Luna frowned at her reflection. This really, really wasn’t the look she’d been going for tonight.

‘Quite an eyeful, isn’t it,’ came a voice from behind her. Luna spun around to see Stefan sat cross-legged on the bed, half obscured by its drapes and the stygian gloom of his cousin’s room.

‘Jesus!’ she gasped, placing a hand on her chest, where her heart was fluttering against the gauze like a hummingbird against a net. Then, ‘This is
your
room.’

‘No, as you can see, it’s James’s.’ His teeth flashed coldly in the darkness. As Luna’s eyes adjusted to the dark she saw that he’d removed his jacket and cufflinks and rolled up his shirt sleeves. His feet were bare and he looked so… like himself. So like the Stefan she knew.

Realisation dawning, she said, ‘Augusta put you in here, I assume?’

‘For my sins.’ His smile was self-deprecating and in spite of herself Luna smiled in return. She couldn’t think of a worse fate than being installed in his dead cousin’s room, expected to replace the irreplaceable.

They stayed where they were for a moment, a silent truce in force. But then Luna lifted her backpack onto her shoulders and said, ‘I have to go.’

Suddenly, he was off the bed like a big game cat, springing toward her, grabbing her shoulders and lifting her up onto her toes.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, because that’s what you do, isn’t it.’ And then he was dragging her toward the door, throwing it open, his fingers digging into her shoulders. ‘You should go, Luna,’ he told her. ‘Nothing good will come of you staying here, I can promise you that.’

She heard the sound of muffled laughter and the tinkling of glass bottles from down the hall.

‘And that, if I’m not mistaken, is your American friend, helping herself to my family’s house uninvited,’ he said. ‘She’ll be around the corner any second now and she’ll see you here with me. So you’d better run, just like you always do.’ His face hardened and he shook her brutally. Luna made a noise, of pain or protest, she wasn’t sure which, and the undercurrent between them shifted.

Lowering his head till it was within millimetres of her own, Stefan angled his face against hers and, like a snake being charmed, Luna mirrored him, her eyelids lowering, growing heavy along with his. ‘Run, Luna,’ he said softly. And reached to her shoulders, lifting the straps there, lowering her backpack to the floor. ‘You aren’t safe here,’ he said, removing her shoes from her hand, dropping them next to the backpack. ‘Run,’ he repeated, the fingers of one hand digging into her chignon while the other pushed the door shut, turning the key in the lock.

He shoved her against it then, reaching his hands up to the yoke of her dress. She heard it tearing, felt the muscles in his arms flexing against her collarbone, heard the sound of beads and sequins showering to the floor as he ripped it to her waist and tore it off her.

‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ he said, lifting her into his arms and carrying her to the bed.

Luna woke at just after 7am. ‘Woke’ being a relative term, given that she had slept no more than an hour in fitful dozes through the night. She was lying on her back, staring up at the embroidered fabric in the canopy. Pallid, reluctant light filtered in from the leaded windows to her right; it was going to be a wet day at Arborage.

Rolling to her left, she grimaced as every last joint in her body screamed in protest. Lying next to her on his stomach, head turned in her direction, Stefan remained fast asleep. Studying his face, Luna thought he looked even worse than she felt. There were purple shadows under his eyes, like last night wasn’t the first bad sleep he’d had recently, and even in repose the set of his mouth was grim.

He didn’t wake when she rose from the bed, nor as she showered in the adjacent bathroom, nor even when she sat back down next to him, still wrapped in a towel, and pulled up the details for her flight back to Shetland on her tablet. She had an hour to get to Heathrow, more than enough time.

He stirred then, rolling onto his back and throwing an arm over his head. She thought for a moment he would wake, but no, his eyelids were flickering. He was dreaming…

*

Carrying her across the room like so much chattel, Stefan deposited her roughly on the bed, immediately grasping the hair at her nape and forcing her face down onto the mattress. When she struggled, he pressed his forearm into her shoulder, pinning her in place.

‘Let’s see what the stable boy found so irresistible,’ he gritted into her ear, sliding his hand down her spine. ‘Ahhhh… yes.’ His fingertips grazed the waistband of her silk knickers and his palm came to rest on her buttock, slowly stroking it before moving to the lace edge of her stockings. ‘Lovely,’ he said, removing his arm from her shoulder and climbing atop her, nudging her legs apart with his knee.

She tensed beneath him, preparing to resist, but he anticipated her, lowering himself onto her, grasping her hipbone and grinding his pelvis into her ass. His fingers glided to her sex, fingering her through the silk of her knickers, which, to her combined shame and arousal, was damp with longing.

Stefan’s chest rumbled against her back. ‘Ah, Miss Gregory. At least one part of you is glad to see me.’

Luna’s hackles rose at his goading tone; if he wanted a fight, a fight was what he’d get. Tightening her fingers into a fist, she sharply jabbed her elbow upward into his ribs, rewarded by a swift grunt of pain from him. She half-rose on her knees and Stefan returned his hand to her nape, twisting his fingers in her hair and pulling it so tight she yelped.

‘That’s right, fight me,’ he panted, placing his other hand under her knee and viciously jerking it till she collapsed spread-eagled on the bedspread. ‘I think we both know who’ll win.’ Then both his hands were on the hem of her knickers, swiftly yanking them down her legs.

He gave her no more opportunities to resist after that, kneeling between her knees and planting a hand on the small of her back, reaching the other underneath and claiming her. Luna felt him covering her entire sex with his palm and she stilled beneath him like an antelope felled by a lion, held in place by its massive paws, exposed for the kill.

And how good. God, how good, to feel his hand upon her again. The hand that knew her, that caressed her with such absolute surety, its palm eventually ceding to fingers, one rubbing lightly against her clitoris while the others pressed harder into the engorged flesh around it. There was no more goading now, no more struggling.

‘Lift your—’ he instructed, removing his hand from her back and urging her haunches upward, to give him better access to her undercarriage. She felt both his hands on her then, one spreading her wide and the other manipulating her silky interior. She wanted it to last, wanted to draw out the feeling of his fingertips gliding along her, finding and feeding her elusive sensitive spots. But his hands were growing rougher on her, one drawing her mons up and down while the other moved ever more swiftly across her.

Luna buried her forehead in the bedspread, a guttural noise rising in her throat. She heard him inhale, knew the effect her utter prostration must be having on him.

She heard a fast, wet, smacking noise; felt his hand almost slapping against her. If it went on for much longer her pain would outweigh her pleasure, but no, no, the pleasure was taking her now – if he just kept… ah, yes… Trapped as she was against the bed, the muscles in her thighs straining to support her, her orgasm came in quick, silent jerks, its energy absorbed into the mattress. Juddering beneath him, tailbone in the air, Luna heard herself grunting like an animal as he drew pulses of pure feeling out of her, his hands smacking, and stroking, and squeezing.

And then he stopped, just as suddenly as he had started, pulling away from her and off the bed. Expecting him at any moment to return to her, to slip the hard cock she’d felt pressed against her thigh just a moment ago into her slick, swollen core, Luna remained where she was, waiting.

But he did not return to her, and after a moment she heard a pinging sound. She turned her head to see him standing next to the bedside table, removing a stud from his dress shirt front, placing it in a dish on the table. Undressing methodically. She crawled to the opposite side of the bed and sat at its edge, removing her stockings. And still he did not come to her. She heard another ping and she stood, fully naked now – surely, surely he would come to her. He glanced in her direction, looked her up and down… and turned away, removing his watch and placing it too, in the dish.

Luna knew shame then. Gut-wrenching shame. That he had mastered her so easily and stood there now, showing her how little it meant to him. Teaching her a lesson. She walked to the door and retrieved her backpack, then entered the bathroom, switching on the light and sitting on the toilet.

As often seemed to happen when Stefan had given her an earth-shattering orgasm, Luna found her bladder suddenly shy. She focused on weeing, thinking watery thoughts and squeezing her eyes shut, resting her hands on her knees.

He had
shamed
her.

Nothing good will come of you staying here, I can promise you that.

Thank God, at last the wee began to flow and Luna reached down to her backpack, unzipping it and hurriedly removing her jeans and long-sleeved shirt. She pulled her Doc Martens out and dropped them with a clatter on the tiled floor. Where was her bra? Fuck it, where was her
bra
? Her hands were shaking now. She was going to put on her bra, her shirt and jeans and her Doc Martens and she was going to walk the hell out of there.

Finishing on the toilet, she flushed and stood, washing her hands quickly in the sink. Suddenly she was powerfully thirsty. There was no glass on the vanity cabinet, so she bent down, angling her head under the tap, gulping noisily.

She felt him then, placing both hands on her hips, thighs positioning themselves against hers. She turned off the tap and lifted her head, feeling his cock, hard and heavy, rubbing against the cleft of her butt. Placing a hand on either side of the marble sink top, she looked in the mirror to see him standing behind her, completely naked, stomach muscles rippling. Meeting his eyes in the reflection, she silently transmitted her arctic fury to him.

‘Hel
lo
, Hallviken,’ Stefan crowed, grasping his cock and guiding it into her. For the briefest second, as the head of his penis entered her, his mask slipped. He drew a breath. Pushed himself further into her, eyelids slipping shut in silent reverence. But then he remembered himself, opened his eyes and commenced to fuck her – fuck her hard – watching her in the mirror as she stood on tiptoe, the better to accommodate his angle of entry. Her eyes never leaving his, burning into him like dry ice.

‘Minus twenty-two degrees,’ he panted. ‘So cold and yet…’ His hand snaked across her chest, clamping onto her shoulder and Luna placed both hands on the mirror, bracing herself. The fingers of his other hand grasped her hip, holding her in place as he repeatedly thrust his hips against her over the basin.

Luna waited, waited for his brow to crease, for his stomach muscles to tighten and his hips to lose their rhythm, jutting into her once, twice, and ahhh, there it was, his cry of completion, his come, pouring into her, dripping down her legs.

What did she think would happen then? That he would collapse against her and tell her he loved her? Or spin her around and take her into his arms, begging her to take him back?

He did neither of these things. Instead, he pulled out of her and reached for a hand towel, wiping off her legs. He surveyed her clothes, scattered across the floor, and gave her a hard look in the mirror. Placing his hand on her upper arm, he dug his fingers into her flesh.

‘Stay.
There
,’ he commanded, giving her a quick, ruthless shake. In answer, Luna turned her back on him, rifling through his shaving kit and brushing her teeth as he waited for his erection to subside and had a wee. When he was finished, she handed him his toothbrush and squatted to her backpack, finally locating her bra. She was rooting around for her knickers as he spat out in the sink and turned to look down at her.

‘So you insist,’ he said, hooking his arms under her armpits and forcing her to her feet. ‘You insist on provoking me. Do you honestly think I’m letting you walk out of here at 3.30 in the morning to try your hand at flagging a taxi to Deersley?’ He jabbed his knee into the back of hers, taking her completely by surprise. Her legs buckled underneath her and he scooped her up and carried her back to the bed.

They did not sleep. As soon as they were under the covers Luna reached for the body she’d been parted from for two long months, drawing her fingertips over his shoulders and chest, tracing the muscles there. She lifted her hands to his hair, exploring its new length, and ran her fingernails up and down his nape. She placed her hand on his hip, felt his cock move as she buried her nose against his neck and pressed her lips to the pulse in his throat.

All of this he tolerated, not reciprocating, but when she lifted her mouth from his neck, kissing his jaw, his cheek, moving toward his mouth, he drew back. And when she crouched above him, fingertips skimming his cheeks, and lowered her face to his, he placed his hand on her chest. And pushed her away.

Luna sat down next to him, breath catching in her throat, fingers clenching. He… would not give her his mouth. Like she was some kind of whore, not fit to kiss him. She felt her rage, her all-consuming rage return, flooding through her veins.

Throwing the covers off, she rose on all fours and crawled atop him. She straddled his chest, presented him with her ass and dropped onto her torso, sliding downward to where he was waiting for her, hard and ready. Like the whore he thought she was, Luna ran her tongue lasciviously along his length, unsheathing her teeth and nibbling it. Stroking the nails of one hand over his balls, she grasped the base of his shaft with her other and took its head into her mouth.

In response, Stefan growled and lifted her, rolling her onto her side. Nestling his head between her thighs, he nudged his face into her apex and latched onto her, his tongue flickering against her clitoris.

It became a contest, after that, the two of them curled into each other, sucking each other off. Sounds of wetness; noises of pleasure, Stefan as far down her throat as Luna could take him, his nose and mouth working inexorably against her. Their movements on each other began to synch, her mouth sucking him while his drew her in, teeth grazing against her, and for a moment Luna almost lost track of who was who, where her gratification stopped and his began.

Stefan moaned against her, the vibration of his voice against her fully erect clitoris causing her to undulate in need. No, she thought, her entire vulva aching and striving, she couldn’t let him win. Not again. Reaching her hand across his bottom, she ran her fingernail along his perineum – rewarded with a shiver of surprise from him. Then she closed her mouth on his penis, and slowly pushed her finger inside him.

Stefan’s own hands began to move to her backside, one slapping her hard, the other moving toward the cleft of her butt. But it was all too late. She heard his helpless groans against her, felt his balls tighten, and tasted his come, filling her mouth. Seconds later, she loosened her mouth on his cock, gasping breathlessly as his teeth closed around her clitoris and her own orgasm consumed her.

They remained locked together for some time after, bodies pulsing and twitching against each other. Every nerve in Luna’s body seemed to be alive with pleasure as Stefan continued to gently lick her and she nuzzled his diminishing hardness.

Eventually she rolled onto her back, her head next to his thigh, calves resting on the pillow next to his head. She felt his hand on her hair. And closed her eyes, drifting.

Her head was still pressed against Stefan’s leg when she woke sometime later. How long had she slept? Not long, she thought, but the night was stretching thin and still her mouth hungered for his. She sat up and resettled herself on the pillow next to him. She watched his beautiful profile; listened to his breathing, slow and even. And for many minutes Luna wavered, fearful of yet more rejection.

Slowly, carefully, she inched over to him till she was sharing his pillow. Inclining her face into his neck, again she pressed her lips to the pulse at his throat, felt it beating under her mouth. Again she kissed his jaw, his cheek. Her lips hovered next to his and she inhaled his breath. And softly, softly, so as not to wake him, she kissed him. And again. And again.

His lips parted and, growing reckless, she slid her tongue into his mouth. At long last his mouth woke beneath hers, his tongue joining hers, his lips returning her pressure. Kissing her back. Reaching for her head and angling his against it, widening his mouth till that was all there was, his mouth and her mouth, melded together.

Luna tasted saline at the back of her throat. And he tasted it too, the sweetness of her tears flooding his mouth. He made a noise, a desperate, angry noise, and pushed her away from him, throwing her onto her back and climbing on top of her.