Love Bites (13 page)

Her eyes stung as she stared into those hot, contemptuous eyes. “Yes, my lord.”

“‘Yes, my lord,’ what?”

“Yes, using my power against them was beneath me, my lord,” Morgana admitted, feeling the bite of shame more acutely even than the pain of his possession.

And he was right. She’d had no business hitting them with those ugly magical zaps—spells designed to humiliate as much as hurt as a way of forcing them to submit to her. She’d known that by rights, she should have been following Percival rather than the other way around.

The thing was, Morgana had feared yielding to him, feared surrender. But it had never really been Percival she’d feared. It had been herself.

She didn’t trust her own reaction if he rejected her. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to manage the pain and rage she knew she’d feel. It was just too damned dangerous.

But Percival, of course, knew none of that.

“And when I decide to trust you with your powers again—or when your year at my hands is up—you’ll remember what it’s like to be the target of casual cruelty, and you’ll resist the fucking impulse.” He pulled out a fraction and shoved back in hard enough to wrench a gasp from her lips. “Won’t you?”

“Yes, my lord.” Blinking, she stared into his savage eyes and managed not to quail.

“‘Yes, my lord,’ what? Spell it out, witch.”

“Yes, my lord, I vow never again to misuse my powers against you or your brothers.”

He lifted his upper lip in a snarl, flashing his fangs at her in the mirror. “
Especially
not my brothers.”

“Especially not Cador and Marrok,” she managed.

His gaze in the mirror softened not one jot at her submission. Instead he began drawing his cock out of her arse.

And Morgana caught her breath in surprise at the sudden astonishing pleasure of the sensation. It was a complex, alien sensation compared to the feeling of being fucked more conventionally, but it was no less intense. Perhaps even more so. “Oh!”

“Yeah,” he grunted. “‘Oh.’ There are a great many pleasure receptors in a woman’s rectum—almost as many as in her clit. So if a man knows what he’s doing, he can play all kinds of interesting games.” Percival paused and gave her a very dark smile. “I
definitely
know what I’m doing.”

The only response she could manage was a helpless moan—which spiraled into a startled yelp when he slid two fingers into her empty cunt and curled them, stroking along the knot of nerves that was her G-spot. “And there. How do you like that?”

He’d pulled out until only the head of his cock remained inside her, then began pushing deep, rocking his hips to inflict that eye-watering torment again. Except this time, he teased her G-spot to blend pleasure and pain with erotic artistry.

Soon she was writhing at the combination of ruthless delight. He picked up the pace, fucking in and out faster and faster. Horned God, it was overwhelming—the pulsing blasts of raw sensation, so intense that she shook with it.

And the whole time he fucked her, she was conscious of his gray, possessive gaze watching her reactions in the mirror. Relishing every gasp and whimper with predatory delight.

Right up until he leaned over her carotid and sank his fangs deep.

She came with a helpless shriek, twisting in his ruthless hold as his cock probed her anus and his soft lips sealed over the wounds his fangs inflicted. Stiffening, he climaxed with a low, animal growl of pleasure. Morgana could only gasp, shuddering as he pumped her arse full of his come in deep, hard pulses.

*   *   *

P
ercival freed her from the wrist cuffs and spreader bar, gave her a bottle of water and ordered her to drink it, then started getting dressed.

Lying in a naked heap, Morgana watched him clothe that magnificent body of his, feeling dazed, her arse and punctured throat stinging from his use.

Without looking around at her, he told her, “This Sunday is the Super Bowl . . .”

Morgana frowned. She thought that was some kind of sporting event involving the American version of football. “Why would you care?”

He turned to give her a steady look. “Because Arthur is of the opinion that we need to be familiar with contemporary culture if we’re to understand the people we serve.”

She shrugged, shifting uncomfortably and longing for the hot shower she meant to take as soon as he left. “Of course.” Arthur’s position had always been that they needed to have a solid understanding of as many human cultures as possible. That, however, didn’t answer the question of why the sudden fascination with this particular sporting event, out of all the thousands that obsessed mortals.

“I intend to invite my brothers over to watch the game. You may not be aware of the finer details of this tradition, but one is expected to serve food to one’s guests.” He gave her a slow, toothy grin. “Which is where you come in.”

Morgana stiffened. “What?”

He lifted a blond brow. “I’ll be serving you to my brothers, Morgana. As I said, after all the years you’ve spent tormenting us, they deserve the chance to make you pay.”

She licked her lips. “When you say serving . . .”

“I mean sexually.” His gaze was distinctly predatory. “Among other things.”

*   *   *

T
he Lord’s Club was located in an elegant brick Georgian that had the decor of a Victorian men’s club, between its dark, carved wainscoting, stained glass windows, and impressive bar stocked with glittering crystal bottles of expensive liquor. Massive chairs upholstered in oxblood leather sat around circular tables of dark walnut.

Those tables were crowded tonight, between Knights of the Round Table, assorted national champions, and other vampires drinking, laughing, and telling lies, either about the women they’d fucked or the fights they’d had.

Percival found himself a solitary corner table where he sat down to start working his way steadily through a bottle of Jack Daniels. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t seem to pry his mind away from memories of his possession of Morgana earlier in the night.

God, it had been sweet. The grip of the witch’s delicious anus as he’d fucked her deep—just as deep as he’d fantasized about in all those frustrated wet dreams. And the taste of her blood had been exquisite.

But after you fed from a Maja, you had to lick the punctures to encourage them to seal quickly, or she could lose too much blood. So he’d held her and tongued that soft, smooth throat, enjoying the intoxicating taste of magic fizzing on his tongue.

And she’d felt delicious in his arms. So soft, so warm and curving and female. Nothing like he’d have expected from such a cool-eyed, aloof woman.

The thought of letting any other man touch her made him grind his teeth. Even his brothers. Yeah, he’d happily give his life for Cador and Marrok, but a primitive part of him growled like a wolf at the thought of them fucking her. Never mind that they had a right to punish her for what she’d spent years doing to them. He’d meant what he said: there was no excuse for the way she’d treated them with such casual cruelty.

None of that meant a damn thing to the possessive wolf inside him.

“Mind if I join you?”

Percival glanced up to see Galahad standing beside the table, holding a glass and a bottle of Johnnie Walker. The big man wore jeans and a sports coat over an Oxford cloth shirt in pale blue. He gave his fellow Knight of the Round Table a nod. “Have a seat.”

“Thank you.” The big knight sank into the chair opposite him and poured himself a glass, then lifted the bottle at him in question.

“Thanks, but I think I’ll stick with Gentleman Jack.”

Galahad took a sip of the liquor, studying him over the rim of his glass, his gaze probing and entirely too perceptive. “I gather congratulations are in order.”

Percival frowned. “For what?”

“Word is Arthur ordered Morgana to offer you her Oath of Service, and you accepted.” He lifted a dark brow. “Even provided you with a collar to nullify her powers. Which means you’ve pretty much got her at your mercy. When the word gets around, half the men in Avalon will be jealous as hell.”

Percival swore. “I am going to kick Cador’s arse.” Marrok would never have blabbed something like that; his sense of honor was too acute.

“Actually, Gwen told Caroline when she got worried about not seeing Morg after the fight.” Reaching into a breast pocket of his jacket, he withdrew a gold case and flipped it open, offering Percival one of the thick, hand-rolled Cuban cigars inside. “She was afraid Morgana had taken some kind of magical injury during the fight she didn’t detect.”

Choosing a cigar, Percival lit it from the thin gold lighter Galahad offered next. “Thank you.”

The knight selected a cigar of his own from the case, then lit it and took a few contemplative puffs. “So anyway, Gwen spilled the beans.”

And of course, with a Truebonded couple, what one knew, they both knew. All of which was why it was so damned difficult to keep a secret in Avalon, especially if you were a Knight of the Round Table. Fucking
everybody
knew your business.

Percival shrugged. “Yeah, I accepted Morgana’s Oath. Not entirely sure what the congratulations are for.” There were knights who disliked Morgana enough to congratulate Percival on the chance to punish her, but Galahad wasn’t on that list.

Actually, a punch in the teeth would have been more in character from the dark knight, especially if he’d known the way Percival had just buggered the hell out of Morgana. Galahad might be Truebonded to Caroline now, but Percival suspected he’d truly loved Morgana once. He’d certainly seemed wounded when it ended all those years ago.

Galahad hesitated a long moment before he said, “I was referring to the chance to finally get it right. Which had started looking pretty fucking remote.”

Percival eyed him narrowly. “Get what right?”

The knight blew a gust of blue smoke in his direction. “You. Her. You’re such a stubborn bastard, I was starting to think it would never happen. Luckily, Arthur must have gotten as frustrated as the rest of us who actually give a shit, and decided to play matchmaker.”

“Matchmaker? Arthur Pendragon?” Percival started to laugh.

Galahad’s flat stare sucked the humor right out of the idea. “I think you should know—if she were a different kind of woman, you’re the last son of a bitch I’d want anywhere near her.”

Percival eyed the knight as his temper began to steam. “Are you sure you’re Truebonded?”

Galahad exhaled the smoke directly into his face this time. “Morg and my wife are friends.”

And God knew Morgana didn’t have many.

For the first time, Galahad looked away. “Everybody knows you like to play rough. So does Morgana. I . . .” He paused a long moment. “I never did. Tried it when we were together, but I couldn’t give her what she needed.”

Given that he was Lancelot du Lac’s son—the man who’d basically invented chivalry—this was not a surprise. The surprise was that Galahad had once loved Morgana enough to even make the attempt.

The dark-haired knight turned to meet his gaze with a cool, level expression. “But the real reason Morg and I didn’t make it was I’m not you.”

He stubbed out his cigar in the crystal ashtray that sat on their table. “So you’ve got a chance. Don’t fuck it up.”

Dumbfounded, Percival watched Sir Galahad get up and walk away.

H
e’s serving you to his partners as a
party platter
?” Gwen shook her head, laughing. “Jesu, that’s kinky.”

After Percival had left her lying dazed and sore—if sated—after her punishment, Morgana had showered, dressed in one of the outfits Gwen had conjured for her—jeans, running shoes, and a blue denim shirt—and gone in search of her friend.

She’d found her at the Ladies’ Club, the sprawling Mediterranean-style restaurant where the Majae took turns providing the meals.

It had taken a certain amount of guts just to walk in the door, because Morgana had known perfectly well everyone would sense her utter lack of powers. Between that and her collar, the stares and questions had driven the two women into a secluded corner half-hidden by huge plants and a statue of Aphrodite.

Morgana looked up from her excellent veal parmesan to find Gwen studying her. “So what do you think about the idea of Percival sharing you with Cador and Marrok?”

She managed a casual shrug, despite the ball of heat that ignited low in her belly at the thought. “Well, considering I initially offered my Oath to all three of them, it’s obviously not a distasteful idea.”

Gwen snorted. “You don’t fool me, Morgana le Fay. You find the very thought hotter than hell.”

“Maybe.” Morgana grinned and asked in a teasing tone, “And how is
your
arse today?”

“I’d be sitting on a pillow if I hadn’t already healed myself.” The blonde’s smile turned downright feline. “Arthur can be such a bastard . . . especially when I go out of my way to make him jealous.”

“Why would he get jealous? You two are Truebonded, for Merlin’s sake. He knows you’re not going to cheat on him.”

The minute the words were out of her mouth, Morgana controlled a wince. Gwen
had
cheated on Arthur once. Never mind that it had been fifteen hundred years ago, or that both she and Lancelot had been under the influence of Merlin’s Grail. The wizard’s cup had transformed them into Magekind, but a side-effect of the potion was a savagely heightened sexual desire. To make matters worse, Lancelot, having just transformed, had been in a state of animal lust, with no idea who Gwen was at all. Gwen was in little better shape.

Things had gotten thoroughly out of hand. And Arthur had damned near killed them both.

“Yes, well, luckily, the wounds from that particular adventure have long since healed, so I can get away with teasing him,” Gwen said dryly. “All I have to do is dwell artistically on the way some knight swings a sword . . . And voila! I get exactly what I’m after.”

“A sore arse?”

Her friend grinned. “Among other things.”

“Slut.”

Gwen raised her wine glass in a toast. “Absolutely.”

Chuckling, Morgana returned the gesture and took a sip of the light, sweet Riesling. Putting the glass down again, she began, “Speaking of drinking . . .”

“You need some way to heal yourself during Percival’s Super Bowl party. Be a damned shame to pass out from blood loss just when things got interesting.”

“To put it mildly.”

“I’ve actually been thinking about this,” Gwen said. “I think I could attach a healing spell to that collar of yours. Besides, considering how much magic it’s diverting, it would probably be a good idea to burn some of that energy off.”

Morgana considered the idea and nodded slowly. “Yes, that should work. I was going to suggest my mission ring as an anchor for the spell, but you’re right, the collar would work even better.”

So, trying to ignore the flare of heat at the thought of her team’s revenge, Morgana went to work helping Gwen compose the spell.

*   *   *

I
t was past midnight when Morgana lay curled in bed, fighting the impulse to masturbate.

Percival wouldn’t like that.

Unfortunately, the memory of her Oath Master’s cock savaging her arse was ferociously arousing.

Then there was the thought of that damned Super Bowl party, and being at the mercy of Percival and his brothers. Feeling their fangs and cocks penetrating her, getting revenge for everything she’d ever done to them.

Slow, ruthless, deliciously erotic revenge.

Oh, Horned God. She bit her lip and snatched her hand out from between her bare thighs. Dammit, she shouldn’t be turned on by the idea of being used as a fucking
party platter
.

Percival obviously intended the experience to be humiliating and demeaning, and she knew he’d make sure it was exactly that.

Thing was, she’d always secretly found Cador and Marrok almost as deliciously sexy as Percival himself, especially once she’d learned all three men were sexual dominants. She’d had more than one nasty fantasy of being at the mercy of the three men—of feeling their cocks sliding into her mouth, pussy, and arse simultaneously.

She . . .

“Morgana? I’m at the front door. Let me in.”

She jumped at the familiar mental voice, her eyes widening.
“Soren?”
She frowned.
“It’s late. What are you doing here?”
Though the collar blocked Morgana’s magic, it didn’t block Soren’s, so the dragon was able to communicate with her mind to mind.

“I wanted to discuss the hunt for your human-killing dragon. It isn’t going well, and I thought you might be able to suggest where we might look. You know Mortal Earth better than I, after all.”
He paused. When he spoke again, his tone was cooler, harder.
“I have also been reliably informed you let that vampire knight of yours enslave you.”

She winced, remembering the gauntlet of stares she’d walked past earlier tonight. The gossip mill was already grinding.
“He didn’t enslave me, Soren. I took an Oath of Service to obey him for the next year. And since he wouldn’t like you being here, I can’t let you in. I think it will be all right to discuss the dragon mentally, though.”

“So you fear him that much?”
There was a note of acid sarcasm in the ambassador’s mental voice.

“I don’t fear him at all. He would never harm me.”
Hurt, yes. Harm, no. Unfortunately, the difference between enjoyable erotic punishment and physical abuse was not a distinction the dragon would understand.
“But I also will not violate my Oath.”

“Then I will seek him out and discuss this with him instead.”

And that was definitely a threat.
“Dammit, Soren . . .”

“Let me in, Morgana. Talk to me, and I will leave afterward.”

“Let me get dressed.”

“Now. I am not feeling particularly patient.”

Swearing, Morgana rolled out of bed, grabbed the first robe that came to hand and shrugged into it, and ran down the marble staircase and jerked open the door.

The man who sauntered in was tall and deliciously athletic in black slacks and a black dress shirt open at the throat, elegant and casual. His handsome face was narrow, with an angular bone structure and a long, jutting nose set off by an intensely erotic mouth. His head was perfectly smooth and bald, calling attention to the pale blue tint of his skin. His iridescent gaze flicked over her body in the thin robe, one blue brow lifting with obvious male appreciation. Dragon or not, Soren loved Mageverse women. “Hello, darling.”

Morgana gave him a tense smile. “Hello, Soren.”

Percival wasn’t going to like this visit by her shape-shifting dragon lover one bit, but there wasn’t a damned thing she could do about it now.

Soren eyed her silently, deliberately allowing an uncomfortable silence to develop. Percival, it seemed, wasn’t the only one whose temper she had to contend with. She sighed. “You said you wanted to discuss the search for the killer?”

“Oh. Yes, right.” The anger in his eyes faded into worry. “We’ve found out who he is, at least, and the news isn’t good. His name is Huar, a dragon of great age and, accordingly, great power.” He began to pace the foyer, striding back and forth past her restlessly. “I had feared it was him based on your description of the killer’s coloring and size. It seems I was correct, for Huar has vanished from the Dragonlands.” He ran a hand over his gleaming head with its faint blue scales. “In truth, I wasn’t surprised he’s the one who has begun killing your people. Huar is one of those who detests humans with a bitter passion, remembering the days when we warred with the Sidhe. I believe his mother was killed in a raid, or some such.” The ambassador shrugged. “Too, dragons as old as he have a tendency to become mentally unstable.”

“Oh, just lovely,” Morgana growled. “A mad elder dragon with great power and a grudge against humans. Just what we need. What are you doing to find him?”

“I’ve been searching Mortal Earth for draconic magical signatures, but he seems to be blocking me somehow. I will, of course, continue to scan for . . .”

The house’s front door opened, and Percival stepped inside. His eyes narrowed as he saw Soren. “Ambassador,” he growled, “What are you doing here?”

*   *   *

P
ercival was not exactly thrilled to walk in and find Morgana’s lizard Lothario paying her a visit. His temper didn’t cool when he saw how close together the pair stood. His fangs lengthened with possessive male jealousy.
She’s crazy if she thinks I’m going to turn a blind eye to that scaly fucker sniffing around her skirts.

Skirts that presently consisted of a diaphanous silk robe that displayed most of her luscious anatomy. She looked so tempting, his fury blazed higher, stoked by lust.

“Ambassador,” Percival said, fighting to control his rage enough for civilized conversation,”you’re not familiar with our customs, so I will explain. Morgana has given me her Oath of Service—which means it’s her duty to obey my orders without question for the next year.”
In other words, get the hell out, you draconic fucker.

“So she has explained—repeatedly. At length.” Soren curled his lip in contempt.

Morgana squeezed her eyes shut as if grappling desperately for patience. “Gentlemen . . .”

Percival shot his witch a frigid glance intended to communicate just how little he appreciated finding Soren here. He fully intended to punish her for letting the bastard in the door. “Morgana’s Oath, being a matter of her honor, takes precedence over whatever . . . relationship you had. In other words, she can no longer continue to see you.”

The dragon shifter rocked back on his heels as he eyed Percival. “That would, of course, be your right—if you had forced her to submit in proper mating combat.” Soren took a step toward him as those iridescent eyes began to glow with a hellish orange light. “But that’s not what you did, is it?”

Well, hell. Soren’s at least as pissed off as I am,
Percival realized.
Good.
He was in the mood to kick some scaly arse, and it wouldn’t be as much fun if Soren didn’t fight back.

Soren narrowed those glowing orange eyes.. “You don’t have the power to fight Morgana with magic. So instead, you blackmailed her into donning that abomination of a collar in order to turn her into your powerless slave.” He jabbed a furious finger at it.

She didn’t wring her hands—quite. “No, Soren, it’s not that way at all!”

“Shut up, Morgana,” Percival snapped. There was just enough truth to the dragon’s accusations to sting. “I don’t need you to defend me from your
ex-
lover.”

“Don’t you?” Soren gestured, and what looked like a glowing bullwhip coiled from his hand to writhe and hiss on the floor. “Perhaps you shouldn’t be so quick to reject her protection, vampire.”

Percival drew his sword from the scabbard that hung down his back. He never went anywhere without the great blade, because all too often in his long life, he’d needed it. This appeared to be one of those times. “If you want to dance, ambassador, I will be more than happy to oblige you.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Morgana snapped in raw frustration. “Would you two calm down? This is absurd!”

“What I find absurd is you wearing that thing,” Soren said, indicating her collar with loathing. “I thought the idea of all this was for me to teach you how to control your powers . . .”

“Soren . . .” Morgana snapped, her gaze flicking toward Percival, as if the dragon had just revealed something she didn’t want her Master to know.

“But how can I teach you anything when you’ve rendered your magic inaccessible, simply so you can accommodate
his
appetites!” He cracked his whip and circled to Percival’s left.

The knight pivoted with him. Tall, blue, and scaly was
done
.

*   *   *

S
o frustrated she wanted to scream, Morgana watched the two males stalk each other. You could cut the testosterone with a knife.

And that was just Percival’s contribution. Soren, for his part, was just as busy pumping out whatever the draconic version was. Which was probably why he’d almost blurted out the very secret Morgana didn’t want Percival to learn. She’d had it with both of them. “That’s enough!” Morgana thundered, in a roar she usually reserved for the battlefield.

It worked. The two men stopped and stared at her, startled. In her best icy tone, she snapped, “Ambassador Soren, please leave.”