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Game
Justine Elyot
The stakes are high, the game is on. In this sequel to Justine Elyot’s bestselling ‘On Demand’, Sophie discovers a whole new world of daring sexual exploits.A dark, sensual romance for anyone lusting after more than ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’.Sophie’s sexual tastes have always been a bit on the wild side – something her boyfriend Lloyd has always loved about her.But Sophie gives Lloyd every part of her body except her heart. To win all of her, Lloyd challenges Sophie to live out her secret fantasies.As the game intensifies, she experiments with all kinds of kinks and fetishes in a bid to understand what she really wants.But Lloyd feature in her final decision?Or will the ultimate risk he takes drive her away from him?From the author of the bestselling Mischief titles ‘Kinky’ and ‘His House of Submission’.
Game
Justine Elyot
(http://bit.ly/KqDOG3)
Table of Contents
Title Page (#uf5030df3-acd2-5829-80cc-7f65a0137e95)
Chapter One (#ub3d8026c-1d20-535f-a664-b534aaa5eee7)
Chapter Two (#u3e498ef6-4bd7-54c3-8eb2-1dbae969406e)
Chapter Three (#u329cbf23-3565-5c8d-a7fe-26c5b9e9694c)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
More from Mischief (#litres_trial_promo)
About Mischief (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
In the forest, it’s reached that point of perfect darkness. The tree branches no longer provide a visible tracery against the gathering gloom, just a sighing canopy above my head and I have to reach out to avoid stepping into a bramble bush or hitting a trunk. Much as I want to stop moving, to crawl into my bivouac and wrap myself in my blankets, I know I can’t. The steady dry crunch of distant leaves tells me I am being followed.
I hear it now and then, sometimes coming from my left, sometimes my right, or my rear or ahead, never in the same place twice. I know I can’t elude the stalker because my own feet, tiptoed as they are, inevitably disturb the brushwood forest floor. Tiny snaps and crackles accompany every hesitant step. North, south, east or west? It doesn’t matter. He, she or it will be on my tail.
I crouch against a tree and everything goes quiet. I concentrate on training my eyes and ears to pick up every single piece of information that they can, but all they process is that mournful branch chorus and a faraway neighing from one of the many wild ponies in the forest. That, and a load of looming dark shapes that don’t help me one little bit.
Once I can no longer hold my breath, I creep forwards, my sense of direction pulling me in a north-easterly direction, further into the depths. There is a sudden, sharp crack of twigs and a heat, a human male smell that cuts through the piny forest scent, and I am lost. Taken.
Of course, I put up a fight, but he is much taller and stronger than I am, spare-framed but steely. My stupid dress doesn’t help either. If only I’d had time to organise my escape from the palace I’d have sourced buckskins and stout boots, but circumstances were sprung on me and I had to flee in what I stood in. Stained, torn satin slippers don’t pack much of a kick.
Although there is nobody to hear us, his hand clamps straight away over my mouth.
‘Easy,’ he says, and his voice is incongruously soft and gentle. ‘You know you can’t fight me. Hold still and I won’t hurt you.’
He is right. I might as well preserve my energy.
I let him pin my wrists together behind my back and nudge me, hand still covering my lower face, forwards to some unspecified location.
When I hear the sound of a zip, I have to bite my cheeks to squash down the smile. Of course, it would have been too much to expect him to construct an authentic woodsman’s hut out of branches and tree roots and whatnot just for the sake of one night’s entertainment, but a tent will have to substitute. At least it’ll be much more comfortable. Less risk of creepy-crawlies in the nooks and crannies.
With his hands on my shoulders, he pushes me down to my knees on the pile of sleeping bags and attends to tying my wrists together above my head.
‘That’s a good girl, Princess, nice and quietly,’ he says, approving of my compliance. ‘Now lie down and I’ll get you something to drink. You must be thirsty and hungry – you didn’t stop to grab any provisions, by all accounts.’
I let him manoeuvre me into a supine position, arms arched over my head. He brings a hip flask to my lips and water trickles around my mouth and, occasionally, into it. Yes, I hadn’t realised it, but I am thirsty, my throat parched by panic and exertion. I probably couldn’t have screamed much even if I’d been allowed to.
The air mattress shifts as he lengthens out beside me, propped on one elbow. I can make out the shape of a face looking down at me in the dark. Suddenly there is light and I squint and turn away from it for a moment, but he steers the back of my head round to face him.
There he is, my captor, pale and intent, full lips curling in pleasurable triumph.
How dare he smile at me?
‘When my father hears about this,’ I tell him, ‘he’ll have your head on a pike.’
He puts a long finger on my lips and shakes his head, tutting, still smirking.
‘Princess, your father is paying me for this.’
I try to toss my head, but his finger remains at its station, sealing my mouth.
‘He won’t suffer the dishonour of having to tell the Dark Prince that the deal is off. Do you really think your father would just sit back and let you ruin his historic accord? He is going to have you delivered to the Dark Prince whether you like it or not – but first, I’m taking you back to the palace.’
‘You’re a bounty hunter?’ I manage to drive the words past his gate-keeping digit.
‘I prefer “personnel retrieval operative” myself,’ he says.
‘How about “mercenary scumbag”?’ I try to bite his finger but, quick as a whip, he silences me with an alternative method, one that involves the hard pressure of lips against lips.
This low-down piece of peasant flotsam thinks he can kiss a princess of the blood royal! It is not to be borne.
But my struggles lead only to capitulation and heaving of the bosom, because this low-down piece of peasant flotsam kisses like no man I have ever known. His lips are skilled, his tongue firm in its probing. Against my will, against every noble instinct I possess, I yield to the pleasure it brings.
Or rather, I forget my role and slide, so easily, so sweetly, into my lover’s kiss, pushing my tongue against his, tasting and scouring him, greedier than ever for him.
But this isn’t the game. The game is about resistance, about dubious consent that turns, eventually, to desire.
So I try to shake him off, working against the craving in the pit of my stomach, the blossoming in my crotch.
‘You’re passionate,’ he says. ‘Feisty, yes, but what a little firecracker you’d be in my bed. I’d like to take you, but the Dark Prince …’
‘Fuck the Dark Prince and fuck you, peasant. How dare you kiss me!’
His hand smacks down on my hip and he yanks me around on to my side. ‘It seemed the best way to shut you up,’ he hisses into my ear. ‘Besides –’ he pulls back, makes sure he has my full attention ‘– I have licence to do more than that.’
A warning flare shoots from solar plexus to groin.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Lie back down, Princess. I’m going to clean you up. And don’t argue – I’ll gag you if you swear at me again. Consider your rank and station, for heaven’s sake.’
I nearly laugh out loud at his tone of schoolmasterly disappointment. He’s got so good at this lately, not that he was ever bad.
‘That’s exactly what I am doing,’ I grumble, watching him retrieve a bottle of soapy water from a backpack and pour it into a mess tin. ‘That’s why I object to your … familiarity.’
‘The familiarity’s only going to get more … familiar,’ he warns me. He’s looking in the backpack again. This time he draws out an odd thing, a small round sponge attached to the end of a wooden handle. ‘I’m instructed to clean you up.’
‘What?’ I try to lift my spine, but the best I can manage is a tilt of the neck.
He dips the sponge in the soapy water. I hope to goodness it’s warm.
‘Don’t say you don’t need it,’ he says teasingly. ‘You’re tattered and torn to pieces and covered in bits of leaf and thorn. Here.’
My dress is low-cut and he begins by dabbing the sponge over my collarbone then along the square-necked edges of my décolletage. The water is not completely cold, but I shiver all the same as the suds slide along my skin, sinking in while the tiny bubbles burst.
‘Forgive me, Princess,’ he says gruffly, and then he unlaces my bodice so that the sponge can glide underneath the material, wetting my breasts, circling my nipples until they are hard, soaked little bullets dimpling the damp cloth.
‘Surely I’m not dirty there,’ I protest, but it’s a gasp, almost a yelp, and I can see my chest rise and fall in front of me, faster and faster with each breath.
His voice is almost a whisper. ‘Oh yes you are.’ He sucks air through gritted teeth. A steam cloud of lust takes its form in the space between us.
He removes the sponge from my bodice and runs a palm over the peaked mounds, his face down low, his breath warming the goose-pimpled flesh.
‘Mmm,’ he says. ‘Now spread your legs for me, Princess. I’m going to lift your skirts.’
‘Oh,’ I whimper, the resistance draining fast. ‘Why? Why must you …?’ But I spread them and raise my knees as well.
‘Because the Dark Prince wants you clean there, runaway Princess. Among other things.’
He pushes up the layers of skirts until they lie heavy on my stomach. Underneath, no knickers. Apparently they were a Victorian innovation. I’m not sure what time period we’re in, but it’s a draughty one.
I watch with thrilled dread as my captor loads his sponge with soapy water once more then carries it, dripping on to my breasts and stomach, down to my split thighs, drenching them so that rivers of liquid run down to my open sex.
Not that it needs to be any wetter.
‘Oh fuck,’ I say, having lost control of my voluntary reactions at the first brush of sponge on clit.
‘Nice and clean,’ he croons, sweeping it between my pussy lips and over my pulsing vagina, letting soapy suds impart their mild sting to the crack of my arse. He increases the pressure when the sponge returns to my clitoris, pushing it against the swollen bead, rotating it very slowly until I arch my back and voice an inarticulate plea.
Before I can come, he removes it. I feel its loss, my entire lower body seeming to collapse in on itself in an effort to suck it back.
The tips of his fingers flutter and waft around my cunt.
Use them.
‘The King suspects,’ he whispers, never quite letting them close enough to touch while I moan and strain towards them, ‘you may have conspired with a lover. He has asked me to gain proof of your virginity.’
‘Oh God.’ My hips tremble.
‘Lie very still, Princess. Don’t move a muscle.’
One finger sheaths itself and my cunt seems to sigh with relief.
‘Mmm,’ he says, adding another, then another, until I am stretched and feeling the invasion. His thumb lands on my clit, lightly, tenderly, but enough to bring every nerve ending to rapt attention.
‘Hmm, still intact,’ he lies. ‘I’ve done the King’s bidding. Shall we prepare for the journey back to the palace?’
‘Oh.’ I want to cry with the pitch of my need. He is holding me on that edge, skimming it so expertly, keeping me in piteous thrall. ‘No. Please.’
‘No? Wilful spoilt princess is lying on her back with her legs spread and a peasant’s fingers up inside her and she doesn’t want him to stop? Is that right?’
‘Yes. Yes.’
‘She wants him to make her come?’
‘God, yes.’
‘Then she’d better tell him so, because humble serfs need royal permission to finger the royal cunt, don’t they? Not to mention fiddling with the royal clit.’
‘Jesus, Lloyd …’
‘Nuh uh.’ His fingers slide halfway out and I clamp my thighs, trying to catch them. He smacks the accessible part of my bum and tuts at me. ‘None of that, missy. We’re finishing this in character. Come on. Do as you’re told.’
‘Please, peasant, make me come. Please, please, now, please.’
He presses down; the fingers reinsert themselves.
I come, thrashing and snarling, twisting into his hand.
‘How about that?’ He sounds so smug I’d slap him if I weren’t both bound and sapped by the force of my orgasm. ‘Princesses come just the same as wenches. You’re just a wench underneath it all, aren’t you?’
‘Insolent,’ I pant, but I can’t finish the thought. I don’t have it in me.
