Powerplay Historical Erotica.
Submitted By: Cholie

Declan slammed her against the brocaded wall, Powerplay Historical Erotica.  the shadows heavy around them. Behind the wall the sounds of the orchestra's strings could be vaguely heard, the din of laughter and gaiety floating up the staircase, into the forgotten room.

Adrianne was still unsure to what purpose the room served, only knowing that it was small, dim, hidden. Already she could feel the fire burning inside her, feel the sparks lighting from the trail of kisses he was lining across her collarbone. He reached the tendon in her neck, nipped, and she hissed in anticipation, rather than pain. The pins stuck in her golden brown hair clattered to the floor, little sounds that could only be heard if you were in the room. Little signals that everything else was about to come undone.

She laced her fingers through his dark hair, pulled his face up to hers, and pressed her slender body against him as their lips met. She bit his lower lip, intruded upon the whiskey flavored haven of his mouth. For a moment, she had control.

Declan pushed her back against the wall, his hands already lifting the voluminous spreads of her chiffon skirts, his fingers itching to trace the silk covered lengths of her long, slender legs, to reach the heat at the center of her. At the intrusion of her tongue into his mouth, at the primal play she invited, he let loose a low growl in the back of his throat. So she was ready then, so she was asking...

He kissed her back, moved one hand to the base of her skull and cupped her head, threaded his long fingers through the mass of her honey tinted hair, undoing several more pins, hearing the metallic click as they hit floor, but not registering their noise.He'd lifted the edge of her skirt to her waist; possessively his hands traced the lines of her thighs, circled the tied tops of her garters.

He felt her breath hitch as he toyed with the line of the garter, feeling the difference between the satin of her skin and the smooth silk of her sheer stocking. Slowly he inched away from the garter, his fingers tracing a feather light trail. He felt her muscles start to clench, felt her pause in their kiss and she waited, waited oh so patiently, craving oh so desperately for him to just touch her...there...in that secret spot he'd discovered, that spot that made her come alive and fall away from the world, shatter into a million pieces into his arms.

His hand continued his play up her leg, past the hem of her chemise, already a scandalously thin and short piece. Adrienne could her body reacting to his slow, deliberate touch, feeling the budding of her nipples, suddenly painfully oppressed, and abraded by the smooth fabric of her corset. She ached, literally throbbed.

"Declan..." She whispered his name on a broken sigh, a slow plea, asking him without any further words. Her hands had fallen lax onto his shoulders; beneath the smooth cut of his military jacket she could feel the supple strength of his shoulders, the massive weight of his muscles. He lifted away from her lips, a wicked grin baring his teeth into something more feral, more primal than a smile. In the dark she could just barely see his eyes, but she could imagine the color, passion darkened gray, ominous as a new storm, and full of the same amount of danger, of unbridled power.

"What Adrienne? What, exactly, do you want me to do?" He drawled the words out in a slow tone, his voice as smooth, as deliciously dark as the finest scotch. She met his gaze, her hazel eyes unseen in the barely lit room and exhaled on a shaky breath. His fingers were still tracing, but momentarily stopped in their travels, merely teasing, only inches away from where she needed him most...

He'd told her she'd beg the next time. Informed her blatantly that he wouldn't give her the satisfaction, the primal unparalleled reaction he'd given her before until she'd agreed to his terms. And damn her, the addicted fool, she'd agreed.

"Touch me. Please." She could only barely say the words, astounded still by the raw, deep line of desire streaked through the words, the husky pitch of her voice.

"Touch you?" He responded as if it was a debate, as if he wasn't sure that he was so inclined to oblige.

"And where, exactly, do you want me to touch you?" He drew away his hand from her thigh, let her skirts fall back to the floor. Her breath hissed out in outrage, in expectations fallen short.

"Here?" He placed his hand on the tight curve of her waist, idly stroked her chiffon covered side. "Mm, no. I think not." He asked, so in control, so deliberate, so completely and utterly unmoved by the same passion, the same desire that was running rampart through her veins, a dark tempo, a seductive, intoxicating blend of something far more powerful than any champagne offered at the ball, any opium found in any den. Then his hand moved again, to the daringly cut line of her dress, to the heart shaped neckline that framed her breasts, pushed up by the too tight corset, on display for no one but him. All night, she'd danced, whirled, with countless partners. Even so, she'd never been able to miss him. Declan Griffons, the admiral, young, dashing, delightfully mysterious.

Her lover. Her love. The man she swore not to marry. The man she couldn't afford to marry. The man who could bring her to her knees with just a look, make her melt with just a kiss, make her....

His hand pushed aside the fragile cloth over her breasts, ripping the fine stitching that held the fragile fabric in place. Unrestrained, they fell into his hands. The pert globes were a perfect fit in the large, tanned expanse of his hands. Idly he stroked a thumb over the ruched ball of one nipple, stained a dusky red, and the he flicked his finger again, made her breath hitch once more.

His head moved down to her neck, nuzzled the side of her, his lips traced one lobe, bit the tender flesh before continuing. She'd stilled again, stopped breathing, unable to respond. How he managed to make her, Lady Adrienne Wolfstone, the most outrageous, outspoken, most certainly not powerless woman of the Elite class of the London ton become so weak that she couldn't even breathe was beyond her.

The hot searing heat of his lips pressed against the tight bud of her nipple, and she arched beneath him, exhaled a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding. He suckled her, a hot brand against her all too sensitive flesh, then drew the pebbled piece between his teeth, lightly brushed the sharp edges across the too sensitive peak and her moan escaped her. Low, primal, heavy with need, with pent up desire, with an aching, unrestrained urge to have him. All of him, deep within her, fulfilling her, loving her, making her completely, irrevocably, his.

Declan's battle roughened fingers caressed the satiny smooth expanse of her breasts, his thumb flicking idly over the pebbled point of one nipple, while his mouth wreaked havoc on her other. Even so, it wasn't enough; the urgent heat in her veins, the inner being she'd been mentally referring to as a succubus-- she was hungry, anxious; she needed more.

"Stop. Touch me-- there. Now." Her voice was a husky demand, a growl of pent up desire and barely constrained animal lust. He lifted his head, tilted his lips into that almost feral, almost primal, delightfully cannibalistic and completely demonic smile.

Declan pulled back, ignoring the dull roar in his own ears, the surge beneath his pulse. Her demand wasn't quite the pleading he'd had in mind...he studied her face, the heart shape barely outlined in the shadows. He could vaguely see the plush, cupids bow shape of her lips, lightly swollen from his bruising kiss. From those moments in which he'd slammed her into the room, in which he'd lost all control....

Seeing her, flirting, smiling at every other man, then looking to him; her hazel eyes flashing across the room, her brows arched not in challenge, but a demand. Her lips curved in a smile that only he knew the meaning of, her fingers, so animated as she talked to the other man, beckoning him, summoning him, commanding him.

Who was he to refuse? What kind of man wouldn't take Lady Adrienne Wolfstone, wouldn't take the woman, so near to her last season, and yet so very, very, lithe, slender, supple, youthful, radiant? What man could resist such a smile, such a flick of her lashes, such an imperious twist of her wrists, and not feel his own dominant nature, his own inner beast roar within him at the challenge?

He was no longer a mere soldier, damnit, he was an Admiral, a hard earned title, and he sure as hell didn't take orders. Especially not from some tiny chit barely the height of his shoulders, even if when he looked at her he could only imagine the sight of her golden brown hair spread out on the white sheets, her skin flushed from his touches, his kisses, his skin still burning from the shallow gouges she'd dug into his shoulders as he drove into her, over and over again, eliciting every decadent, delicious, all too seductive moan as he pushed all the way, then withdrew, only to take her again, again...

Boldly, blatantly, defiantly Adrienne decided she'd finished with his game-- and reached for the bulge in his breeches, grasped the hot length of him, deftly undid the flaps-- a skill he'd taught her, but hadn't honestly expected her to utilize so quickly, effectively....

Her fingers brushed over the smooth skin covering his iron cored shaft, pulled his manhood between her all too eager hands, felt his head twitch in response as she flicked a finger over the sensitive tip.

"Don't touch me. Fuck me. Now." She'd never said the word before-- only overheard it from the street riffraff, inquired after the meaning to her maid...and been thoroughly shocked at the rough term, so very unsuitable for her very prim ladylike ears.

However, the word fit quite perfectly with what she wanted-- she didn't want the slow seduction of the night before-- she wanted him to take her, roughly, without abandon, without his games-- she wanted him to fuck her. Here. Now.

He hissed between his perfectly white teeth, fought against his iron self-control, and then she said that word-- the word that should never have passed the refined lips of Lady Wolfstone-- and aroused him with the blunt command more than any woman previously had. There was something so wrong with her saying that filthy word, and yet that something made his inner demon roar, his iron self-control vanish, his cock twitch in anticipation, his hand slam her back against the wall....

He claimed her lips in a hard, angry kiss, bit her lower lip till she opened, nipped perhaps too sharply on the tender flesh. His hand were busy, lifting the folds of her skirts, pulling them higher, ever higher, until her reached her waist. He didn't wait-- he didn't try to continue her seduction, to make her beg. She'd finished that game with one single word.

She wanted him to fuck her.

And fuck her he would. Thoroughly. Until she couldn't move.

And then, because she'd so easily dismissed his self-control, he'd put her back together again and make her walk out into that ballroom, into the glittering world of the ton, and make sure that she completely understood-- she'd wanted to be fucked; no one in that room, none of the fop's and dandies could, or would ever touch her, make her scream, make her moan, like he was about to.

She wasn't wearing anything under her chemise. His fingers found her core, hot, ready, already wet, waiting for him. He slammed her back up against the wall-- she'd developed an annoying habit of trying to move away, and he wasn't having any of her antics.

He placed the blunt head of his erection against her entrance, unsheltered, uncovered, and paused, waiting, trying to cool his blood, to regain his control before he ravished her, hurt her...

"Now!" She dug her nails into his scalp, flexed her hips up to his, and then, with one smooth movement, he hefted his arm about her waist, pulled her up, slid into the slick heat of her sheath with one sure stroke. And stopped, shuddered, as her walls contracted about him-- she was so damned, unbearably, deliciously tight...

She hooked one leg about his waist, pulling him closer, ignoring the sound of the delicate chiffon as it ripped in the process. She wanted him, deeper, all the way...Then he bucked, thrust, and she was lost...

He growled; a primal noise only he could make and gripped her harder, pulled back only to thrust again, deeper, filling her, taking her onto the ride she'd asked for. He wasn't gentle, soft, easy...it was brutal mating, a proper fucking. In response she arched against the wall, pushed towards him-- dug her nails into the smooth fabric of his jacket. She ached, she needed, something, further....