Free Passion Untamed by Pamela Palmer Page A

her heart racing. But no longer did her delicate beauty pull at him. It was all a lie. She was a lie. His chest ached, the flicker of warmth she’d sparked inside him sputtering beneath the mounting evidence of her deceit.
    He struggled against his chains, determined to fight her every step of the way, though he knew with a despair born of bitter experience, his body would betray him. No matter how much his mind hated, his body would always struggle for release when buried inside a woman’s sheath. He’d never been able to keep from coming when Ancreta had him trapped inside her.
    And he stood even less of a chance with the witch standing over him now, whose scent drove him to distraction even when she wasn’t aroused.
    The witch began to chant, her melodious voice rising in volume until it echoed off the rock. Slowly, her lithe, graceful body began to move, gyrating to the rhythms of the chant, her smallbreasts softly swaying, raising the temperature of his blood.
    In the corner, the deer cried out, then went suddenly silent. He looked at the witch’s face, feeling a twist of empathy for the grief he expected her to feel, but her expression had turned as cold and lifeless as stone. Something shriveled inside him at this proof she was nothing more than a cold, calculating bitch, like all Mage witches.
    Birik strode to her, a bucket in his hand. She didn’t startle, didn’t even flinch when Birik tipped it over her head, letting the blood run into her hair and over her bare shoulders.
    She’d expected this. With a kick to his gut, he knew this was the reason she’d brought the animals into the cavern in the first place. To dance in their blood.
    Hatred seared his mind. She’d had him so completely fooled.
    With sick fascination, Paenther watched Skye slide her hands over her breasts and abdomen, slicking her palms. Then she squatted over him and took his swollen shaft in her hand, coating him with the sticky warmth.
    He went feral, his fangs elongating, his claws unsheathing as he snarled, fighting his body’s traitorous response to her as much as he fought the woman herself.
    But she barely looked at him as she guided him between her legs.
    As he had so many times with Ancreta, he tried to buck her off him, but the witch was too wellcoordinated, moving with him, refusing to be denied. She forced him inside her. Despite Birik’s ministrations, her body was still too tight, but nothing on her face reflected the discomfort.
    There was nothing he could do to help her. Nothing he would do even if he could. He wanted her to hurt. Damn her.
    Slowly, she began to ride him, resuming her chant as around the room, the sorcerers joined their voices to hers until the sound pounded a thunderous beat echoed in Skye’s movements.
    A beat echoed by his own heart.
    The chant pounded in his blood and in his shaft, the power rising until the hair on his head felt like it was trying to stand on end. Above him, Skye’s short hair was lifting, as if she’d stepped into an electrical storm. Above her, the orbs he hadn’t noticed before pulsed with dark light, growing.
    As the power rose higher, the blue-eyed witch began to gasp, her gasps quickly turning to small screams of pleasure.
    The pleasure had him in its grip, too, flowing through his chest and limbs, tightening every muscle, every blood vessel, as desire and pressure built in his cock to a fevered pitch. His body climbed to heights that appalled him until he was driving into her as desperate for the coming explosion as he’d ever been for anything.
    His mind rebelled, horrified at the sexual fireburning his body in the midst of such savagery. But the power in the room was driving him now, driving them both. And there was no fighting it.
    With a scream, the witch came. As her hard, rapid contractions drove him to a blinding release, his gaze caught Birik’s. The bastard stood over them, watching Paenther utterly lose control, his face a mask of deep arousal, his eyes alive