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teeth. He held her by her hair
as he shifted round to kneel behind her on the mattress, and then tore the last
rags of her dress from about her hips to bare her. Still no words. She wanted
to scream. Then he pulled her back between his spread knees, until she was
almost sitting upon his lap—except there wasn’t a lap, there were only hard uncomfortable
thighs and a thick bar of insistent flesh that rubbed the seam of her sex. She
couldn’t tell if it was his oil or her moisture but everything down there was
as slippery and hot as melted butter. He cupped a hand over her pubic mound to
hold her while his other hand, clasping her against him, squeezed her breast
and rolled her trapped nipple.
    Bending his head, he licked her neck. Eloise squirmed, but
she had no purchase on anything. He was easily strong enough to hold her, to
lift her and move her just as he wanted, and that strength made her feel all
the weaker, as if her body was falling open and apart. His fingers broke the
puffy split of her labia and circled her clit, making her whimper under her
breath. The head of his cock slithered through the furrow of her sex, fore to
aft and back again. It took very little—a lift, a shift of his hips, a push of
his fingertips—for his cock to find the mouth of her maiden passage and press
inside.
    Her spine arched.
    He took her.
    What horrified her above all was how little it hurt. That
honor she had guarded so long, that precious and unique token she brought to
marriage, that thing which had ruled and defined her life—it was gone in a
moment, with a hot, tearing flash. The pain was nothing , nothing
compared to the agonies Severin had put her through for so long. Her tight
passage was no match for the hardness of his cock; soon he was inside her and
he was working her farther and farther down on to it with every thrust of his
hips and every rub of her clit. She could feel his panting breath in her ear
and feel the sweat slicking their skin where they touched. Her whole body was
trembling with strain, but the effort was all his. Her breasts quivered and her
hips writhed and the soft cheeks of her rump ground against his crotch.
    She burned to cry out—it was not approved of. She wanted to
speak—it was not permitted. Nothing about her was of any import but her open
cunny. She felt herself begin to dissolve on the impaling stake of his cock, on
his slithering fingers. All of a sudden she was falling apart. The armor she
had worn close about her soul for so long, which had kept her whole—the armor
of her blind and desperate determination—fragmented into a thousand molten
shards. Orgasm was jagged and ugly and completely unstoppable.
    She bit down on her cry.
    She was stronger than she realized. In her throes she
wrenched out of Severin’s grasp and pitched forward onto her elbows, face to
the coverlet. His thrusts did not let up, in fact he was ramming deeper into
her now, leaning over her. As she drew her first breath the words trapped in
her throat and breast for so long burst out—but not as words, for with long
captivity they were formless and broken too—and she began to sob.

Chapter Two
     
    Eloise had met Baron Severin de Meynard for the first time
almost nine months previously, when he came to escort her—the King’s
betrothed—to the mainland for her wedding. She was to be Queen of Ystria, and
all the little earldom of Venn rejoiced that its lady had been raised to such
favor.
    What she herself felt about the subject was something she
could hardly decide from moment to moment. Pride, certainly, at the honor done
to her father and her isle. Excitement. A great deal of trepidation—and some
puzzlement. She couldn’t help wondering if the King of Ystria had somehow made
a mistake and meant to pick someone else altogether.
    Eloise had met King Arnauld himself only once, a few months
previously during the Spring Ball arranged in honor of his twenty-seventh
birthday. She had seen him several times from a