inches from her face. “Yes, Lord Percival.”
“That’s better.” A tight smile of satisfaction lit his starkly handsome face. “Both arms over your head, wrists crossed.”
“Why do . . . ?”
His eyes narrowed. She hastily obeyed. “Thank you.” He caught her wrists in one big, warm hand, pinning them against the wall. She knew without trying that she’d be utterly unable to break his implacable grip.
Stepping back, he gave her body the kind of long, insulting up-and-down scan no Magus had ever given her. Then he met her eyes again, silently daring her to protest.
She kept her mouth shut. Nobody had ever said Morgana le Fay was stupid.
That smile flashed again as he wrapped his free hand in her lace robe. Fisted it. And ripped, shredding the peignoir as easily as if he were tearing down a cobweb. She couldn’t seem to bite back her gasp. Still holding her gaze, he hooked a finger in her corset and gave it a slow tug. The laces popped like cotton thread, leaving her clad in only a lace garter belt, stockings, and heels.
She stared up at him, her mouth dry. When she’d tested the collar in the past, just to control her powers, she’d felt relief at its success, but wearing it for Percival was something else again. It felt more profound somehow. In handing over control to Percival, knowing she was at his mercy, she felt an even deeper sense of . . . letting go.
Percival looked her over, scanning her naked body. “Nice.” His voice sounded hoarse. He cleared his throat. “Very nice.”
She licked her desperately dry lips. Why in the hell was she getting so wet? Nothing about this ruthless domination should be so intensely arousing.
And yet it was. Merlin help her, it was.
Morgana opened her mouth for some bit of acid sarcasm to make him let her go so she wouldn’t feel so bloody vulnerable. Perhaps “
I’m delighted you approve
,” or “
You always did have a bard’s way with a compliment,
” delivered in a suitably icy tone.
Before she could get either line out of her mouth, his eyes narrowed. She snapped her teeth closed so fast, she almost bit her tongue.
“I’ve always loved your tits, Morgana.” The words may have been flirtatious, but the cold warning in his tone was anything but. “I’m going to like being able to do any damned thing I want to them.”
For the sweet sake of the Lady, that was a
threat, Morgana told her idiot cunt. It kept growing slicker anyway, responding to . . . something. His eyes, his dark velvet voice, the white points of the fangs that flashed when he spoke. His sheer, fucking size . . . Gods, he was
dangling
her by her arms, yet her feet were still well clear of the floor.
His nostrils flared, and one corner of his lip lifted in a carnal cross between a sneer and a smile. Reaching between her legs, Percival stroked a finger between her labia and deep into her sex. “Ohhh, yesssss. You are creamy, aren’t you? And how can anybody who regularly fucks a forty-foot lizard be so bloody tight?”
“Obviously, I shape-shift,” she gritted.
“That would help.” He added a second finger, pumped deep again, and flicked his thumb over her clit. She jerked at the knife-sharp delight.
Percival grinned. “Liked that, did you? Too bad. I’m afraid you’re being punished for today’s tactical goat-fuck, so you won’t be coming. I will, though. I intend to enjoy you thoroughly.”
The fingers withdrew from her traitorous pussy and reached for her right breast. The knight’s big, warm hand gave it a squeezing stroke before tugging and twisting its aching nipple. Milking her, he watched her face in erotic calculation.
Morgana dropped her eyes, unable to hold his gaze, not with him beaming raw dominance at her with the intensity of a laser. That proved to be a mistake; when she looked down, her gaze fell on the bulge behind his fly.
Horned God, it was
huge
.
Percival laughed, a dark chuckle, and stepped against her again, pinning her against
“That’s better.” A tight smile of satisfaction lit his starkly handsome face. “Both arms over your head, wrists crossed.”
“Why do . . . ?”
His eyes narrowed. She hastily obeyed. “Thank you.” He caught her wrists in one big, warm hand, pinning them against the wall. She knew without trying that she’d be utterly unable to break his implacable grip.
Stepping back, he gave her body the kind of long, insulting up-and-down scan no Magus had ever given her. Then he met her eyes again, silently daring her to protest.
She kept her mouth shut. Nobody had ever said Morgana le Fay was stupid.
That smile flashed again as he wrapped his free hand in her lace robe. Fisted it. And ripped, shredding the peignoir as easily as if he were tearing down a cobweb. She couldn’t seem to bite back her gasp. Still holding her gaze, he hooked a finger in her corset and gave it a slow tug. The laces popped like cotton thread, leaving her clad in only a lace garter belt, stockings, and heels.
She stared up at him, her mouth dry. When she’d tested the collar in the past, just to control her powers, she’d felt relief at its success, but wearing it for Percival was something else again. It felt more profound somehow. In handing over control to Percival, knowing she was at his mercy, she felt an even deeper sense of . . . letting go.
Percival looked her over, scanning her naked body. “Nice.” His voice sounded hoarse. He cleared his throat. “Very nice.”
She licked her desperately dry lips. Why in the hell was she getting so wet? Nothing about this ruthless domination should be so intensely arousing.
And yet it was. Merlin help her, it was.
Morgana opened her mouth for some bit of acid sarcasm to make him let her go so she wouldn’t feel so bloody vulnerable. Perhaps “
I’m delighted you approve
,” or “
You always did have a bard’s way with a compliment,
” delivered in a suitably icy tone.
Before she could get either line out of her mouth, his eyes narrowed. She snapped her teeth closed so fast, she almost bit her tongue.
“I’ve always loved your tits, Morgana.” The words may have been flirtatious, but the cold warning in his tone was anything but. “I’m going to like being able to do any damned thing I want to them.”
For the sweet sake of the Lady, that was a
threat, Morgana told her idiot cunt. It kept growing slicker anyway, responding to . . . something. His eyes, his dark velvet voice, the white points of the fangs that flashed when he spoke. His sheer, fucking size . . . Gods, he was
dangling
her by her arms, yet her feet were still well clear of the floor.
His nostrils flared, and one corner of his lip lifted in a carnal cross between a sneer and a smile. Reaching between her legs, Percival stroked a finger between her labia and deep into her sex. “Ohhh, yesssss. You are creamy, aren’t you? And how can anybody who regularly fucks a forty-foot lizard be so bloody tight?”
“Obviously, I shape-shift,” she gritted.
“That would help.” He added a second finger, pumped deep again, and flicked his thumb over her clit. She jerked at the knife-sharp delight.
Percival grinned. “Liked that, did you? Too bad. I’m afraid you’re being punished for today’s tactical goat-fuck, so you won’t be coming. I will, though. I intend to enjoy you thoroughly.”
The fingers withdrew from her traitorous pussy and reached for her right breast. The knight’s big, warm hand gave it a squeezing stroke before tugging and twisting its aching nipple. Milking her, he watched her face in erotic calculation.
Morgana dropped her eyes, unable to hold his gaze, not with him beaming raw dominance at her with the intensity of a laser. That proved to be a mistake; when she looked down, her gaze fell on the bulge behind his fly.
Horned God, it was
huge
.
Percival laughed, a dark chuckle, and stepped against her again, pinning her against
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