Free Bloodlust Denied by Christina Phillips

aromatic whisper of pure feminine desire escaped the satin confines. She remained as still as marble, her skin a lustrous pearl against the crimson blood of his sheets, her loosened hair cascading over his pillows like a black river of damnation.
    Rutting. The word tormented him. A personal affront although it had been decades, centuries, since a human’s word had the power to offend.
    Except for three years ago when Morana had told him with scathing disdain that she found him wanting .
    She lied. She wanted him. Back in the alley, she had wanted him. Earlier this night in the assembly rooms, her frustrated arousal had bathed them and even in the carriage, as he took her solely for his own pleasure, she had wanted him.
    He stepped back from the bed. Focused on her face, and saw how she struggled to keep her lids lowered. He heard the rush of blood through veins, felt the rapid pound of her heart and soaked in the denied desire that emanated from between her luscious thighs.
    And he waited.
     
    Morana clutched the last remnants of her control with desperate ferocity. What the fuck was he doing? Why wasn’t he mounting her and using her like the cheap whore he thought she was?
    Her eyelids ached to open, to see what he was doing. Was he even still in the room? Or was he by the bed, watching her in a deathly silence?
    A shiver raced across her skin, although the room wasn’t cold. She concentrated on keeping her eyes shut, using every ounce of energy she possessed. And still they sprang open in blatant mutiny.
    The duke’s mesmeric green eyes captured her. He was standing by the bed, and offered her a mirthless smile before he tugged his cravat free and tossed it across the nearby chair.
    “You were saying?” His voice was mocking and he raised one eyebrow, waiting for her reply.
    Mouth dry, she watched him but he appeared in no hurry as he leisurely unbuttoned his coat and sent it the way of his cravat.
    “I’m waiting.”
    She struggled to make sense of his question. What had she said? She couldn’t recall. All she knew was she had to resist until he released her from her silken shackles.
    The candlelight bathed the duke in a golden glow as he pulled his white lawn shirt over his head. Involuntarily her pussy quivered and her heartbeat quickened as she feasted on the sight of his magnificent shoulders and tautly muscled chest.
    Gods, she wanted him. And she hated that she wanted him when he refused to grant her even one small concession.
    One knee on the bed, he leaned over her, bracing his weight on his hands as he imprisoned her between the sculpted perfection of his biceps. His dark hair tumbled across his brow and brushed the corded planes of his shoulders. Her fingers clenched as she fought the desire to recall how it had felt back in the alley when she’d plunged her hands into that silken mass.
    “Does this silence mean you submit to my will?”
    Yes. She would submit to anything. If only he would slake the ravening lust tearing her soul apart.
    “Never.” She breathed the word into his face, knowing he could see how she lied but knowing also that he needed to hear her admission from her lips.
    Shadows weaved across his face. She thought she saw a cynical smile curve his mouth but instantly vanish, as if it was simply another illusionary shadow.
    “Never, Morana?” He lowered his torso, melding chest and breast and the sensation was primal, elemental, more than she had dared to dream. “I fear you face grave disappointment.”
    She tugged uselessly on her bindings, fingers clawing. His head was so close, his hair a tantalizing mystery waiting to be explored. Yet she couldn’t reach, couldn’t touch; couldn’t exert her will.
    “I’ll survive.” She hissed the words into his mocking face. “I’m used to grave disappointment, Your Grace.” His title spilled from her lips, a foul curse.
    He leveled upright and a chill of rejection skimmed across her nakedness. She tried to remember she wasn’t