His resistance was a palpable thing, a shield of discipline she could almost see shimmering around him. Direct assault was futile. The fortress had to be convinced to lower its own drawbridge.
Isabella's eyes widened slightly, her hand flying to her temple. "Captain, I... I forgive me..." she stammered, letting her body go limp. Her knees buckled, and she pitched forward, a contrived, graceful collapse directly into his personal space.
Valerius reacted on pure instinct. The soldier in him wouldn't let his Duchess hit the floor. He dropped his hand from his sword and lunged, his arms wrapping around her torso to break her fall. He caught her, his body a solid wall of muscle against her soft form. One of his arms snaked firmly around her back, his hand splayed wide just below her shoulder blades. The other hooked under her knees, hoisting her off the ground into a bridal carry before he even seemed to realize what he was doing.
The shock of contact was electric. His body was a furnace, the heat seeping through her thin chemise and robe, a stark contrast to her own vampiric chill. Her head lolled back against the crook of his arm, her hair spilling over the black wool of his uniform. She smelled him—leather, steel, clean sweat, and a faint, masculine scent of spiced soap. It was the smell of a man, potent and alive, and it sent a jolt of pure, ravenous hunger straight to her core. The wetness between her legs, which had been a faint dew, began to gather anew, a hot, insistent throb.
She cracked her eyes open just enough to peer at him through her lashes. His face was a mask of alarm and concern, his professional composure completely shattered. He held her tightly, his grip unyielding. She could feel the hard ridges of his abdominal muscles pressed against her back, the solid mass of his bicep caging her in. This close, her enchantment wasn't a gentle tide; it was a noxious fume, seeping directly into his pores.
"Your Grace? Isabella!" His voice was sharp, laced with an unfamiliar note of panic. He took a step toward the chaise longue, intending to lay her down.
"No..." she managed, her voice a weak, breathy whisper. She lifted a hand, laying it flat against his chest, right over his heart. Through the thick uniform, she could feel it—a strong, steady beat. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. The rhythm of the life she craved. "Just... hold me. For a moment. The room is spinning."
He froze, his body going rigid. He was caught. His duty commanded him to assist her, but his instincts screamed that this was a trap. Her hand on his chest felt like a brand. His gaze dropped from her face to her chest, where the velvet robe had fallen completely open, revealing the swell of her breasts barely contained by the flimsy lawn chemise. Her nipples were hard pebbles, aroused by the cool air and the proximity to his heat.
He swallowed hard, his throat working. "Your Grace, this is not proper."
"Fuck propriety," she whispered, the words a sultry poison meant only for him. She shifted in his arms, a subtle, deliberate wiggle that pressed her hip against the front of his trousers. She felt it instantly—the thick, hard ridge of his arousal, straining against the fabric. The fortress had been breached. The wolf was awake.
The words, a low and smoky command, slithered directly into Valerius's ear. "My bed, Captain. Take me to my bed. I wish to 'rest'."
For a heartbeat, he remained completely still, his entire body locked in defiance. His jaw was a hard line of granite, his knuckles white where he gripped her. She could feel the war raging within him: the soldier's duty, the man's discipline, against the primal, undeniable lust her enchantment and her proximity had ignited. His hard cock, pressed against her hip, gave a defiant throb, a traitor in his own camp.
Then, with a low groan that sounded like tearing metal, his will broke. He didn't speak. He simply turned and strode from the center of the chamber toward the archway that led to her private bedchamber. His steps were long, forceful, almost angry, as if he were marching into battle rather than carrying his Duchess to her boudoir. The motion was intoxicating. Being held so firmly in his powerful arms while he moved with such purpose sent a fresh wave of heat pooling between her legs. Her chemise was growing damp.
With every step, her silk robe dragged on the floor behind them, a whisper of decadence. She wrapped her arms around his strong neck, tangling her fingers in the short, coarse hair at his nape. She tilted her head back, pressing her lips to the side of his neck, right over the thick cord of muscle there. She didn't bite, not yet, but she let her tongue dart out, tasting the salt of his skin.
He flinched as if he'd been burned, a shudder running through his powerful frame. "Don't," he growled, the word a ragged command that held no real authority.
"Don't what, Captain?" she purred against his skin, her breath hot. "Don't enjoy being in the arms of the strongest man in the city? Don't enjoy feeling your cock pressed against me, so hard I can feel it through your fucking uniform?"
He didn't answer, simply shouldering his way into the bedchamber. The room was dominated by her massive, four-poster bed, the sheets already turned down by a maid hours ago. An invitation. He stopped beside it, his breathing harsh in the silent room. Caged and helpless in his arms, she felt a heady rush of absolute power.
"Put me down, Valerius," she whispered, using his name for the first time. It was an intimacy more shocking than any curse.
He didn't lay her down gently. He practically dropped her onto the center of the mattress. She landed with a soft bounce on the featherbed, her legs sprawling, the thin chemise riding high up her thighs. He stood over her, a massive shadow against the candlelight, his chest heaving. His eyes were dark pits of fury and lust, his face a battleground of conflicting emotions. The front of his trousers was a tented obscenity, straining at the buttons. This proud, disciplined man was utterly, humiliatingly undone, and it was the most potent aphrodisiac she had ever known.
Valerius stood panting by the bed, a caged animal glaring at the one who held the key. The air crackled with his contained violence and her cold, predatory calm.
Isabella pushed herself up into a sitting position, the movement fluid and deliberate. The flimsy chemise, already in ruins, offered no modesty. She looked up at him from under her lashes, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. "Your uniform is in the way, Captain," she said, her voice a silken thread in the quiet room.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet pressing into the plush rug. She rose to her knees on the floor before him, placing her at the perfect height to attend to him. This small act of apparent submission was, in fact, an assertion of complete control. She was the one dictating the pace, orchestrating his downfall.
Her cold fingers went to the top button of his high-collared tunic. It was polished silver, bearing the city's crest. His skin was scorching hot beneath the fabric, and she felt a tremor pass through him at her touch. She worked the button slowly through the stiff hole, her knuckles deliberately brushing against the column of his throat. He hissed, a sharp intake of breath, but didn't move. He was paralyzed, caught between the urge to shove her away and the overwhelming need to let her continue.
"So disciplined," she murmured, moving to the next button. "Always so composed. Let's undo all that."
One by one, the silver buttons came free under her patient fingers. With each one, more of him was revealed. A strip of sun-bronzed skin. A dusting of coarse, dark hair. The tunic fell open, exposing the hard planes of his chest, a landscape of muscle crisscrossed with the pale, silvery lines of old scars. Trophies from the men he had killed, the monsters he had hunted. The sight sent a fresh spike of hunger through her, a desire to conquer this conqueror.
She pushed the heavy fabric of the tunic off his broad shoulders, letting it fall to the floor behind him. He stood before her now, bare from the waist up. The candlelight cast flickering shadows over the taut terrain of his abdomen, the deep cut of his obliques disappearing into the waistband of his trousers.
She didn't stop. Her hands went to the buckle of his belt, her fingers brushing the hard ridge beneath. The leather was thick, the buckle heavy. She unfastened it with a quiet *click*, the sound unnaturally loud in the charged silence. The belt came loose, and she pulled it free from its loops, letting it drop to the floor to coil like a dead snake.
Now only the buttons of his fly remained. They were the final barrier. He was breathing like he'd just run a mile, his chest rising and falling in harsh, ragged movements. His eyes were closed, his face a mask of torment and ecstasy. He had surrendered.
She looked up at his face, then down at the straining fabric of his trousers. "I want to see it, Valerius," she whispered, her voice husky with need. "I want to see the cock that's' so desperate to fuck me."
Her fingers moved from his face to the buttons of his fly. They were taut against the thick ridge of his erection, each one a small battle to undo. With a final pop, the last button came free. She hooked her fingers into the waistband of his trousers and wool breeches beneath, pulling them down his muscular thighs in one smooth, deliberate motion. They fell in a heap around his ankles, trapping him.
His cock sprang free, thick and brutally hard, slapping against the taught skin of his lower belly. It was a soldier's cock—long, heavy, and scarred with a thick vein that pulsed angrily along the shaft. The head was a dark, angry purple, glistening with a bead of clear, thick pre-cum. The sight was monstrous, beautiful. It was power incarnate.
Isabella stared at it for a moment, her own cunt clenching in anticipation. Then she looked up at him, a wicked, predatory gleam in her eyes. "This city's great protector," she purred. "Reduced to a mindless animal with a hard-on. Pathetic."
She didn't wait for a response. She leaned forward, her hair brushing against his inner thighs, and took him into her mouth. She didn't start slow. She took the entire length at once, her lips stretching, her throat opening to accommodate his thickness. A strangled, guttural sound was torn from Valerius's chest, and his hands flew to her head, his fingers tangling in her hair, not to pull her away, but to hold her there, to push himself deeper.
She gagged for a moment, the base of his cock hitting the back of her throat, but it was a feeling of triumph. She pulled back just enough to speak, her mouth full of him. "Mmmph, thaahh's riiihh," she slurred, her words distorted around his shaft. "Juhhs' a bihh...cohhhk for yer Duchehhhss..."
She began to move, her head bobbing up and down in a slow, torturous rhythm. Her cheeks hollowed as she suckled, creating a powerful vacuum around his length. She swirled her tongue around the thick crown, slicking it with her saliva before sliding all the way down again. She could taste his arousal, a salty, musky flavor that drove her own hunger to a fever pitch. This was a feast.
He started to thrust his hips, a helpless, frantic motion. He was fucking her face. She loved it. She matched his rhythm, taking his rough thrusts, her chin getting slick with spit and his own fluids. She wrapped one hand around the base of his shaft, stroking him in time with her mouth, while her other hand reached between her own legs, her fingers finding her soaking wet clit through the torn fabric of her chemise.
"Mmm, yethh...fuhhk my moufh, yuh bihhch," she moaned, her voice a wet, garbled mess. "Gehh ihh all...shloppy for me. Cum all over my fayshh an' tithhs... Mmmph, sluurp... I wannihh all." She could feel him building, the muscles in his thighs tensing, his whole body trembling on the brink. This magnificent soldier, this iron-willed Captain, was about to spill his seed into her mouth like a common stable boy.