Fire in the Cave by P.W. Chance Page A

In one hand,
a torch. In the other, a collar and leash.
    He rose, head nearly brushing the ceiling, dark hair falling forward
as he leaned toward her. She could feel his eyes on her, on her
thighs, her breasts… her throat.
    “Witch-girl,” he rumbled. “You are in my den.”
    She thought she would be afraid. Instead, she was only eager. He
might hurt her, he might beat or choke or bite her, but she could
endure. She would let the sensations wash through her, swimming in
pain and pleasure like a fish in a raging river, let him do with her
whatever he desired, and in the end she would bind him and be
victorious. She held out the leash.
    “I have need of your strength, Black-dog. Your strong hands,
to tie a knot.” She smiled up at him as he stepped closer, her
eyes wide and innocent.
    He tilted his head to the side, eyes narrow. “And if I do this
thing for you, witch-girl?”
    There was a tremble of warmth in her belly. She gave him a sweet,
happy smile. “Then you can use me as hard as you want.”
    His hand moved like a striking snake. He grabbed her throat, under
her chin, tilted her head back. As she gasped, his mouth found hers,
hard and hungry, stealing breath from her lungs. His arm was around
her waist, pulling her against him.
    She melted into him, arching her back to press her pale, cool skin
against the heat of his body. He growled, his whole body moving and
flexing against her as he pulled her closer. He released her throat
and grabbed her hair instead, yanking her head back. His lips and
tongue moved down her bared throat, kissing and stroking, his touch
ticklish-hot on her neck.
    The ground dropped away as he lifted her. He turned, spinning her
through the air, then threw her down onto the furs. Before she could
rise, he was on top of her. The torch fell to the stone floor,
guttering, throwing strange shadows on the ceiling as his weight
pressed her down into softness, as his hair fell around her face, a
black veil. His skin was warm on her thighs as she raised her legs
and wrapped them around him, holding him close. His lips were on her
neck again, she whimpered with the pleasure of the touch, his hips
were grinding against hers. His shaft was pressed between them,
rocking against her mound, waves of pressure between her legs as he
held her down.
    She squeezed her eyes shut. She had to focus. He was touching her,
devouring her, he was overwhelming. She had to remember not to let
him win, but only let him think he was winning. She could feel her
decision eroding, feel the edges of it washing away like sand on the
lakeshore. She could feel how good it would be to surrender, let go,
let him do whatever he wished. She had to give him pleasure enough
that he lost his mind before she did.
    She slid her hand downward, along his chest, his stomach. His skin
was hot, riding over hard, rippling muscle. She reached down
further, down to touch herself, finding shocking heat and wetness
there. She moved her fingers slowly, gathering the wetness. It felt
so good to touch, to feel how ready her body was for him. Whatever
her mind was trying to plan, her body wanted him, wanted him to fill
her and use her. She bit back a needy whine, then reached up and
closed her hand around his shaft.
    He groaned happily, rocking against her, his hot, thick shaft sliding
in her slippery fingers. She smiled, panting between parted lips.
She could do this. She could make him feel more pleasure, make him
lose control first. She could bind him with the leash and pull him
toward her, make him mount her and use her and cry out in helpless
joy. She just had to get the collar on him. She’d lost track
of it in the confusion. Her eyes darted around the room.
    He had the leash.
    He had it in his hands, he had taken it from her while she was
distracted. His mouth set in a hard smile of satisfaction, he
slipped his hands beneath her and wrapped the collar around her
waist. The leash, smooth braided leather, went down beneath her
cheeks and came