Ann Bruce | A Hallowe'en Tale

A Hallowe'en Tale

Tessa discreetly covered a yawn behind the wineglass in her hand. It had taken her the better part of the night, but she had finally managed to elude the amorous Henry VIII. She had stupidly made a smart ass comment about him having to have a lot of stamina to go through eight wives, and Henry had taken that as a go-ahead from her. Tessa grimaced into her glass. Hell.

She had one good thing to say about Henry VIII, though: he managed to keep all those other wannabe Romeos at bay. Damn Jason for canceling on her at the last minute. Tessa lifted her gaze and met with the reflection she still couldn't reconcile with herself. A slender gypsy with a tangled fall of black hair down to her waist; a sheer, blowsy shirt not concealing the very modern scrap of lace underneath; layers of colored silk teasingly flowed about bare legs. Tessa wriggled her toes and saw a small movement across the room of blurry red dots. She had wanted to attract attention tonight with her costume. Well, her grandmother was always mumbling about being careful what you wished for.

Tessa deftly snatched another glass of champagne from a passing waiter to keep her company while she got some air not laden with expensive perfume and the musky scent of sweat. She slipped out through the French doors, but still wasn't able to breathe a sigh of relief. Couples more emboldened by the identity-concealing qualities of their costumes were blatantly indulging themselves and each other in the garden below, in the trees and on the stone benches. Tessa quickened her pace, travelling along the balcony until she came to the far side of the west wing. A quick survey revealed no one about or lurking anywhere. Tessa leaned over the stone railing, letting her hair fall carelessly about her face. She blew out a breath, and once again cursed her fiancé for ditching her at a party that he had suggested attending.

Warm fingers skimmed over her nape.

Tessa straightened up in a heartbeat and whirled around. "What th-" Prince Vlad Tepes' black cape fell dramatically about him. "Jesus H. Christ! Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

"No, milady" His voice was smooth, aged brandy.

Strangely enough, a small voice inside her head insisted that she relax. This man in front of her was no danger to her. Tessa listened. A small, flirtatious smile touched her lips. "'Milady?' I'm a gypsy. You're the nobleman, even if you are Count Dracula."

His eyes gleamed obsidian in the moonlight. "Ahh, but your skin is much too fair for you to be a gypsy."

Tessa arched a sardonic brow. "And I take it that you're an expert on gypsies. Right?"

"Not on gypsies," he drawled in that balmy voice of his, his eyes capturing hers. "On you, Tessa."

Tessa dragged her gaze from his. "On me?" Her laugh was forced. "I don't think my fiancé would like to hear that."

"Jason's not here to know about it, is he?" he countered easily.

Tessa fought that insistent voice instructing her to relax and play along with his game till he tired. She shook her head, as if to clear it.

"It's okay, Tessa," he soothed. "Listen to your instincts. It's telling you to trust me."

He took a step towards her. She took a mirrored step back. And came up against the wide stone railing. He was within arm distance. Tessa carefully inhaled and exhaled, trying to get oxygen into her brain so she could think. Logic. That's what she needed.

Her breathing exercises failed. She swallowed audibly.

"Who are you?"

He replied cryptically, "Who I appear to be."

Composed once again, she arched a sardonic brow and crossed her arms over her chest. "Count Dracula?"

"Well, okay, maybe not quite who I appear to be," he conceded, a ghost of a smile softening his features. He sketched a courtly bow. "Jean-Philippe François Desjardins à votre service, mademoiselle."

"Hmm. I'll just bet," she muttered wryly.

He straightened to his full height, which wasn't that great. However, he still had a good eight inches over her. Quite seriously, he insisted, "I am completely at your service, Tessa."

If it was her instincts telling her that Jean-Philippe François Desjardins was harmless, then why was another part of her demanding that she run like the wind to get the hell out of here?

A wealth of sensual promise in his eyes, he offered his hand. "Venez avec moi, Tessa."

Take it. Take it. No! Get away, Tes-No, take his hand, Tessa. Just take Jean-Philippe's hand.

"Oh, Jesus," Tessa muttered, squeezing her eyes shut. Then they shot open again at the feel of someone's finger tracing her cheekbone down to her jaw. Jean-Philippe's finger. He stopped beneath her chin and tilted her face up. Pewter orbs clashed with obsidian ones.

Tessa mindlessly slid her palm over his. Jean-Philippe closed his hand over hers. He led a bit further along the balcony. She had missed the double doors hidden in the shadows in her urgent quest for privacy. It was a beautiful bedchamber, and like the rest of the house, it had been restored with historical perfection and accuracy. However, this room was done in the gold Louis XIV fashion instead of Victorian like the other rooms she had seen thus far.

He gestured to the high, canopied bed on the raised dais. "Lie down over there."

Tessa climbed on and stretched out on her back. She couldn't listen to herself and relax. She simply couldn't.

Jean-Philippe approached the bed after a few moments. He allowed his gaze to travel the length of her, enjoying the path. He crushed one of the silk scraps of her skirt...and yanked viscously, ripping it.

"Wha-" Tessa, startled, tried to sit up, but Jean-Philippe held her down with one large hand pressing down on her sternum. "Non, chère."

"But-"

Jean-Philippe halted her weak protests with his mouth. He moved it warmly, skillfully over hers. A small sigh rushed between her lips. He lifted his head, his hand cupping her cheek. He whispered against her parted lips, "This was what you wanted. It's what you want now. You can't lie to me, Tessa chère." His smile revealed the white of his teeth, including his fangs. "You want to be ravished, to use an archaic term, tonight. And, as I said earlier, je suis à votre service. Vos désirs sont pour moi des ordres."

Tessa gave into that voice in the back of her mind. Her lids fell, and she suddenly found herself struggling to drag oxygen into her lungs. Dear God. Tessa pressed her thighs tightly together, as if she could stop the wetness.

Jean-Philippe trailed his fingertips up her legs, sending shivers rippling over her skin. The scraps of silk of her skirt obligingly fell out of his way. Jean-Philippe reached her thighs and stopped. His eyes fairly gleamed when they rested on the flimsy material of her panties. A sharp tug and it would come apart in his hand...or between his teeth. Jean-Philippe deliberately dug his fingers into her flesh hard enough for her lids to open and her gaze fly to his, questioning. Holding her eyes intently, he lowered his head and brushed his jaw against her sensitive inner thigh.

Tessa swallowed hard, unable to make a sound. More importantly, she was unable to look away, despite the wash of red on her cheeks and breasts. Jean-Philippe kept her gaze while he followed the crease in her thigh with his tongue. Boneless, fluid, her legs fell open. Jean-Philippe moved down her legs, taking her panties with him. Then he settled once more between her legs, his broad shoulders keeping her thighs open, not that she had the willpower or desire to close them. He fingered her clitoris, teasing it. Tessa moaned her approval. Her hands traveled down to tangled in his hair.

He stopped.

Frustration clawed at her. Breathing raggedly, Tessa twisted around to look at him. "W-why?"

Not saying anything, he moved up her body, cuffing both her wrists in his left hand. With his right, Jean-Philippe crushed another scrap of silk from her skirt, jerking roughly. It came away. Heedlessly crushing her beneath his much larger weight, he wrapped the material once, twice, three times around her wrists and fastened it to the headboard. Tessa didn't protest. She couldn't. Didn't want to.

Jean-Philippe lifted himself up and supported his weight on his arms, each planted on either side of her. He studied her silently for the longest time. Had she not felt him harden and grow against her, Tessa would've thought he was totally impassive to her.

Suddenly, Tessa raised her head and opened her mouth on his square jaw, kissing, licking, sucking the rough skin. A deep groan reverberated off the walls before hard fingers thrust into her hair, dragging her head back.

"Not yet," he muttered hoarsely, just before ravaging her soft, wet mouth with his. His tongue pressed deeply between her lips, exploring her mouth, rubbing against her tongue, licking the ridged roof. Tessa strained against the silken bonds, wanting desperately to tear the clothes off of him, to touch him, to feel him move beneath her palms.

"Regarde-moi, Tessa."

His clothes were gone. She didn't know how he accomplished that feat, neither did she care. All she cared about was the magnificent, bronzed chest displayed before her. She wanted to run her fingers through his mat of chest hair and follow it with her open mouth. Tessa could feel her palms tingle as she cut off the circulation to her hands with her straining. She dug her head back into the pillow, anything to relieve the hot, wild feelings ripping through her.

Jean-Philippe pulled her lower lip between his teeth, sinking into the lush softness before abandoning her mouth for the lush softness of the breasts he had uncovered. He teased her, biting each nipple before moving even further south, wanting to taste her desire on his tongue, wanting to feel her vaginal muscles clench around his fingers, his tongue, his cock.

Tessa moaned when he sank three fingers into her. Jean-Philippe moved them inside her and Tessa, her feet flat on the bed, raised her knees, pressing him between her thighs. He pulled his fingers from her pussy and sucked her juices off of them. Her eyes nearly crossed. Her panting was absurdly loud in the room, but she was beyond caring about that.

"Jean-Philippe, please...s'il vous plaît."

Eyes dark and gleaming, Jean-Philippe traced her delicate pink folds with the tip of his tongue. Her hips arched up, demanding more. He dragged his tongue through her pussy once, just enough to drive her to the brink of insanity. Then he loomed up and over her, hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave bruises, his cock poised at the entrance of her body. The first thrust seated him to the hilt, and Tessa cried out sharply. He was stretching her unbearably, almost to the point of pain. But he paid her no heed. He withdrew and thrust back in again, impossibly deeper this time. Tessa cried out again, but the sensation skirted on the thin edge between pleasure and pain. Another thrust and it was the most intense self-indulgence she had ever experienced. Jean-Philippe developed a hard and fast rhythm that had her pleading and crying and cursing. His mouth bit at her lips and breasts, making her want to bite him back. But the frustration only mounted when she couldn't. His hands alternated between her ass, her breasts, and her hair, molding her flesh, digging in, making demands. Salty tears splashed onto the pillow and into her hair. Jean-Philippe could taste it on her skin. Not stopping, he raised her legs to his shoulders, allowing him to penetrate even further into her body, leaving not one part of her body without his touch.

Tessa suddenly arched her back. The wild muscle spasms clenching around Jean-Philippe's cock pushed him over. Tessa could feel the hot, erratic streams deep inside her belly as Jean-Philippe shuddered over her, insensible French words and phrases filling the room. Their hot, damp flesh clung to each other.

For the longest time, only the sounds of laboring lungs could be heard.

Finally, Jean-Philippe allowed her to lower her legs. He moved half off her. He nuzzled her left shoulder, one hand idly brushing back her dampened hair, the other caressing the slim column of her throat.

She felt him stirring against her thigh. "You can't." He grazed his fangs over her shoulder. All the air rushed from her chest. "I can't."

He sighed. "Not yet," he agreed.

He shifted until he could look down at her. He tilted her chin up, exposing her throat. His tongue washed a small area. He licked at the pulse still beating erratically. Tessa gasped her delight. The sound was then abruptly cut off. Tessa felt a warm wetness splash against her skin before the fuzzy darkness cleared and there was only black.