The middle brother, Raine, is both sensual and stoic. Scarred by once taking a wife who could not accept his carnal needs, he wants no part in another marriage. But duty commands that he fulfil his promise to wed King Feydon's second daughter, Jordan .... The loyal satyr begins a search that leads him from Tuscany to romantic Venice, where his beautiful bride awaits, unaware of what passionate delights fate has planned for her. Raine is careful not to reveal his powerful satyr sexuality, for fear of driving yet another woman away. But unbeknownst to him, Jordan is no ordinary woman and was born with an insatiable appetite for love. And as Raine's heart begins to melt for her, how long will he be able to hide his true nature when Jordan seems to want him so fiercely?
R aine stared at her. At those dark eyes that were too large for her face and that pointed chin and slender throat. At those round, wine-tipped breasts that would scarcely fill his palms yet were perfectly shaped. The rest of her body was lost to him, obscured by the cloak bunched at her waist. But he remembered exactly what was hidden beneath its velvet folds.
Under her hand, his taut cock thickened, lengthened. Bacchus, yes, he wanted her to pleasure him.
“I want to taste you,” she whispered.
His eyes went to her mouth. It was plump. Moist. The same color as the tips of her breasts. The same color as finest rosé he’d ever concocted from the sacred juice of Satyr grapes.
Without conscious volition, he felt himself nod.
What the hell was he doing? She hadn’t even touched his flesh yet and he was on the verge of losing control.
Was she Faerie or whore? he wondered again. More than likely the latter. He shouldn’t let her work her wiles on him, regardless. Wouldn’t let her. He should tell her he only wanted her company, nothing more. He should tell her so. Now.
But he desperately wanted the warmth of a Human woman against him as he found his release tonight. So he hesitated.
He studied the top of her head as her hands searched and found the opening of his trousers. She struggled over the fastenings for long moments and then let out a huff of air.
“It appears to be stuck on your c—Um, I mean your phallus,” she told him.
His lips quirked at her use of such a formal term. His hands preempted hers, finding and making quick work of the fastenings. He opened the front of his trousers wide and pulled his cock free of their stranglehold.
Her blue-black witch’s hair hung in loose waves ending just short of her shoulders. It wasn’t as long as most women wore theirs. Nevertheless, it was shiny, lush, and beautiful, as was she. He smoothed it back, his fingers catching on the string of the bauta.
“Take off the mask,” he said.
Without hesitation, she slipped it off and flung it away on the seat behind her, then dipped her head before he had a chance to make out her features. The tips of her raven hair dusted his inner thighs as she leaned over him.
He closed his eyes, waiting. Wanting. Imagining the feel of her wet mouth sucking at him.
He felt her warm breath first. Then those luscious, pillowy lips descended on him like the kiss of heaven. The O of them slicked over his crown, firm yet soft. She enveloped him to the ridge of his head and then tugged ever so slightly. The firm point of her tongue found and pressed at his cumslit as her thumb massaged the plinth where it was notched.
Bacchus! Where the fuck had she learned to do that?
He braced his palms flat against the felze walls on either side of him to keep from touching her. To keep from holding her head and ramming himself in and out of her the embarrassingly few times it would take for him to spill.
Slowly, her mouth slid lower over him, taking more of his length. And more. And still more.
His head fell back. Bacchus, she was good at this! She knew exactly how to hold him on the flat of her tongue, curling the sides of it around him, using every inch of its moist sandpapery warmth to stroke him.
She took him deeper. He felt his tip squeeze into her throat. And tunnel deeper still. She was small—how in the hell was she taking so much of him? There was no reflexive gagging. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear she truly wanted this, relished it in fact.
Ridiculous. No woman wanted this. It was an act only whores offered, in exchange for payment. She had no doubt done it in just this way for many other patrons before him and had thereby polished her performance. That was all.
“San Lazzaro Degli Armeni,” the boatman’s mournful voice announced. They were nearing the Armenian monastery on an island just this side of the Lido. They were getting close.
He was getting close.
Cum gathered, hardening his balls to boulders. Raine gritted his teeth. His hands fisted, straining against the side walls of the felze. He wanted this rare pleasure to last. Dammit. He would control it. Make it las—”
Milky semen surged its way up his cock, fighting its way free of him. “Gods!”
It shot from him, hurtling into her throat. She jerked back from him and a second blast hit her mouth and cheek. She put her fingers to her lips, smearing the glossy substance as though surprised to find it there. Yet another spurt of cum spattered her chin. She swirled her tongue over it and then took him back in her mouth. Her hands clenched in the fabric of the trousers bunched tight across his hips. Her throat worked as she accepted and swallowed the rest of what he pumped. His slick desire flooded her, drowning her in his solitary pleasure.
Slowly, slowly the tension in his body subsided. Her mouth began to release him. Her hands massaged him gently in the wake of her retreating lips. Attuned to his mood, her touch grew ever softer, lazier. When her tongue grazed his crown, he flinched and cupped her chin with his hand, drawing her away.
“Sensitive?” she asked, lifting her gaze to his.
His eyes sharpened but couldn’t permeate the darkness well enough to make out her features. He nodded, brushing a thumb over her cheek. He wanted to tell her how good it had been. How unusually good. He wanted to tell her.
But he couldn’t find the words and the moment passed. Reason returned and he straightened, glad he’d kept his feelings bottled in his throat. He didn’t like to remember how much he’d wanted her just moments ago. How much he’d needed her. The loss of control seemed like a failure.
He found himself hoping she would prove to be the one he sought. That would mean he could have those lips on him again and again for all of his days. His cock reinvigorated at the thought.
Still, he reminded himself—if she proved not to be Faerie, his only duty to her would be the payment of coin at the end of the night. If she wasn’t the second daughter of King Feydon, he would let her go. And forget her.
“Arbruzzi Palazzo,” the gondolier announced distantly. They’d arrived at their destination, the Lido, a strip of land that protected the lagoon from the ravages of the Adriatic Sea.
She picked up her bauta from the seat behind her where she’d placed it, preparing to put it on.
Raine gathered himself and refastened his trousers.
“You’ll come to my hotel?” he asked. If she refused, he’d have to take her there by force, then bespell her to wipe her memory of it later. He couldn’t let her out of his sight until he’d regained his olfactory abilities and could test whether she truly was Faerie.
Her fingers stilled on the mask, then she put it on and raised her face to his. “For how long?”
“The night, possibly longer.” Depending on how long this cold fouled his nose.
“You want to lie with me.”
Bacchus! He’d never wanted anything more in his life. He nodded curtly.
“And you plan to pay me?”
“Name your price. It doesn’t matter.”
“You’re wealthy then?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Very wealthy?”
“Yes.”
“But not Venetian. I’ve not seen you before.”
“No. From Tuscany.”
