Between Two Evils
Chapter 6
It worked.
Lotor pulled back from her. His level gaze fixed on her mouth for a long moment, and she saw his narrow, aristocratic nostrils twitch just a little.
Allura was shocked to find herself stifling a giggle. It caught in her throat, making her sputter when she was suddenly yanked down onto her back next to him. He rolled up onto his side and began to open her coat.
Her eyes widened. “Lotor! It's cold!”
He smirked. “Yes, I noticed.” He didn't look away from his work; there was no hint of mercy in his pale, beautiful face, only anticipation. The pure, white light nearly set him aglow, made his eyes as orange and vivid as the setting sun. Allura stared up at him in dismay as he finished opening her coat with brisk motions; he slid her shirt up her torso, hooked her bra neatly up over her breasts. Cold air washed over her skin. Allura gasped and curled instinctively, but his arm held her against his side.
“We should be somewhere warm, luxurious,” he said, “I could shower you with jewels fit for a queen!” Pique darkened his expression. “Instead, you want this worthless stuff.” He grabbed a glittering handful and watched it fall onto her bare breasts.
She shrieked, feeling the bite of each tiny flake. “You—you—”
He turned his head and looked down at her, quite pleased with himself. His pupils were crisp black lines.
“Proud Sponsor of all this snow? Mmm, no need to thank me, Allura.” His gaze was warm, intimate, remembering, “Virtue is its own reward, after all—yours certainly was.”
“Ohhh!!” Allura squeezed her eyes shut. She was certain she would do something very bad if she looked at him for an instant longer. She lay there, panting with cold and fury, felt the tickle of melting snow under her breasts and along her collarbone.
“But then again, jewels wouldn't do that...” he murmured.
Jewels wouldn't do—? She opened her eyes just as he bent his head. His mouth was searing, sliding and tugging against her skin. She nearly screamed. He lapped and suckled between her breasts, under them, then her left breast was enveloped in heat. The rub of his tongue and then the pinch of his teeth against the painfully sensitive tip was eager and merciless.
Allura couldn't think, couldn't breathe, the fierceness of her emotions, the sensations, were blinding. He opened his mouth wider and pulled her breast against the points of his teeth as he bit down. The jolt of pleasure between her legs was fierce and unexpected. She jack-knifed against him, pressing herself against his mouth. Her hands clasped at his head through her coat sleeves; she wanted the heavy silk of his hair between her fingers—for once it would be just as cold as it looked. She had just enough sense left to feel shocked at the desire.
He groaned and moved over her, pressing her down. Allura barely felt the splash of snow on the chilled skin of her waist as he licked and suckled and bit. She felt the cold again like a slap when he released her breast to tear at the fastenings of his own coat. The white fabric parted revealing darkness beneath, and then he was gathering her inside its warmth.
Allura made a low sound of relief and pleasure and burrowed shamelessly against him. The thin, soft shirt he wore under the coat was little barrier against the heat of his big body; it felt like heaven against her skin. He made a sound of his own when she wriggled and pressed; there was something very satisfying about the hardness of him. Closer, she needed to be closer, but the sleeves of her coat slipped when she tried to grapple him.
As if he'd heard her thought, his arm tightened around her shoulders. His hand hooked under her knee, pulling her leg up over his hip; she felt him work at her boot. That sobered her a little, she was suddenly aware that some parts of him were particularly hard.
He pulled her boot from her foot with a rather savage tug.
“Unfasten your pants, Allura.” There was an edge to his voice as if he expected her to protest.
Allura rested her forehead against his breastbone, trying to recover herself a little. Her spinning senses did not cooperate. She worked one of her arms out of her overlarge coat and then the other; then she began to slide her hands down between their bodies. Her hands seemed to work best when she let them work independently of her mind. When she had finished her task, she rested her hands at his waist.
He was silent for one breath, then two. “Now mine.”
The low, rough words sent a shock of adrenaline through her. She had wondered when he'd begin to ask her to do things. She moved unsteady hands to his belt, touching it as though it might be hot.
Lotor had to remind himself to breathe when he felt her little hands settle at his waist.
He had second thoughts, then third ones—which was not to say there had been first thoughts. But he couldn't seem to move. She fumbled with his belt for a lifetime. There was a long pause before she began to tug at his pants. She worked the fastenings open one after another. She kept brushing against his erection, pulling the fabric tight over it as she worked; it was already painfully hard from all of her wriggling and grabbing at him. He could still hear her throaty little sounds of pleasure—so much like his most foolish, half-waking fantasies of her.
When she finally finished, he was half blind from the random, teasing touches. She rested her hands at his waist again, but this time her fingers caught against the open fabric; her left hand splayed against his skin, her little palm pressed like a brand next to his hip bone. He expected her to pull it away, wanted her to pull it away—he could feel her trembling against him—but she didn't. He would tell her to.
“Now...” Stop.
“...reach in and pull me out. Do it, Allura.”
Her fingers tensed against his skin. The tiny bite of her nails made his eyes roll back and his hips push into her touch. This was ridiculous; he was going to put a stop to it. He was going to—
Her fingers reached into his pants--so slow; he made a low sound when he felt them curl around the base of his sex. They both held their breath. She gave him a gentle tug. It accomplished little more than to rub the head over the slick spot it had made on his thigh.
He licked his lips. “Harder,” he said, barely recognizing his own voice. She pulled again, her fingers tightening subtly. He'd wanted her for so long... she was here, his, touching him. This time when it rubbed, his balls tightened ominously.
He stiffened. His hands closed on her shoulders—uselessly since she was inside his clothes—just as she tugged a third time, causing an abrupt, slick glide.
He hissed and jerked against her, coming in his pants like the greenest of academy first-years.
***
Allura was very aware of Lotor at her back as she walked into his quarters. She jumped when his gauntlets hit the table with a sharp smack. Stuffed in a small cockpit with a fuming Lotor was not a low-stress way to travel.
Clearly, things hadn't gone as he liked. She didn't understand how or why, although she was certain that he held her to blame. She rubbed at her arms feeling a combination of anger and dismay; if he'd wanted a wife with bed skills, he should have blackmailed someone else into marrying him.
She was several paces into the main room when she realized that he wasn't following her. She hesitated then turned around, not very enthusiastic about facing him.
He was standing in the entry way, a tall, broad-shouldered figure under the yellow light. He lifted his hand to the wall—and then everything flashed out of existence.
Allura gasped. She spun around, but there was no light in any direction. She had never experienced darkness like this before. Her heart began to race as after-images filled the infinite space with shifting luminescent phantoms. She tensed and swayed, suddenly unsure of the orientation of the floor beneath her feet.
She closed her eyes. To her relief, the phantoms were immediately confined to the back of her eyelids, and her disorientation faded. She took a deep breath.
Behind her she heard the rustle of clothing, a hollow thunk and then another. Then silence.
She turned her head, listening.
He spoke just above her ear, making her jump. “May I help you with your coat, Allura?”
She felt a surge of anger at his polite words—his tone and actions were neither. She stood in darkness and silence as her coat was slipped off of her arms. He'd always been maddening that way, polite words spoken in a sinful purr, more interested in taunting her over her comm than in the campaign he was supposed to be leading. Still, she couldn't deny a certain relief at the sound of his voice.
She didn't resist when he closed his hands on the upper curves of her hips and pulled her back against his body. His hands slid under her clothes, gliding over her waist and then her ribs, possessive and knowing. In spite of his challenging mood there was nothing angry or impatient in his touch. She relaxed more. She would not have fought him even if there had been, but she had no desire to be abused.
Not for the first time, she found herself speculating: if not now than when? If he became drunk? If he suffered a defeat? When he tired of her?
She pushed the thoughts away as he began to move forward, urging her ahead of him. What did the details matter?
Allura tensed when her hips met something resilient but immovable—the back edge of one of the divans. He crowded forward, pinning her in place. Her eyes flew open, but there was only darkness ahead of her. “I used to think about you, Princess,” he said. His voice was smooth, but there was a dark undercurrent that caught at her senses.
“Sometimes, I would come so close that afterward it made me furious when I looked at anything, touched anything, that was not you. So, I would sit here—in the darkness—and I would think about what I would do with you when you were finally mine.”
He lowered his head and placed stinging kisses, one by one up the side of her throat; his fingers curved around her breasts. “I know it will come as a surprise to you, Allura, but some of the things I imagined were not very nice.” She gasped when he punctuated the word with his hips, shoving her pubic bone hard against the padded edge in front of her. She didn't need her vision to see the curl of his lip, the flash of his teeth; he set those teeth against her shoulder, gave her nipples a sharp tweak that she felt between her legs. She made a sound in her throat that was part protest.
“You are mine. Say it.”
His erection was hard against her backside; soon he would slide it deep inside of her. She bit her lip, rocked by a fierce echo of the sensation. Even if she escaped him, she would carry that sense memory away with her, relive it again and again. She bowed her head. “I am yours,” she said, “for as long as it pleases you.”
Her quiet words stilled him for a long moment, then he laughed softly—triumphantly.
He swept up the hem of her shirt then, stripped her damp clothes over her head, baring her to the waist. For a moment, she shivered there in the dark, then he pulled her back against his very warm, very bare chest. She heard his happy murmurs as he petted and stroked; his hands smoothed up her back, across her shoulders, down her arms.
“You do please me, Allura, very much.”
He laced his fingers in hers, and slid their entwined hands up over her belly, over her breasts making her skin quiver and dance. He repeated the caress on the sensitive, velvety tips, catching them between their fingers until they ached; she whimpered and her bottom rocked back against him. Still laced through her own, his fingers found the tips of her breasts in earnest, rubbing in a way that made her feel flushed and dizzy.
It wasn't until he pushed her pants down over her hips that she realized that he was nude. He pressed against her, skin to skin, hot and shocking. Her breath began to come in short little pants. He worked a hand in between her body and the divan. She made a strangled sound when his fingers slid between her legs. It felt unbelievably good.
“What have we here, Allura?” he murmured.
Allura said nothing. The slick ease with which his fingers moved was a silent indictment. His touch was a torment, yet she felt she would die if he stopped.
He did stop, leaving her pinned there by the clamoring of her own body just as much as the pressure of his. He took up her hands again, sliding them down over the seat back in front of her, bending her over until their hands were flat on the seat.
He began to push inside. Her pants still held her legs tight together; the knob at the end of his sex felt much too big: fat and round as a plum. She shook her head, no, it would never work. He ignored her, grunting as he pushed forward, forging a tight, aching place inside of her. He closed his mouth on her nape and bit down, his hair spilling over her shoulder. When the tightness became a burn, she whined and bucked her hips—and he slid forward with a muffled shout.
For a heart-stopping moment it was too much. He pulled back immediately, but as he began to move she could still feel a hint of that sensation at the apex of every thrust.
For the first time she got a sense of how badly this could hurt. She stiffened, fearing that that next thrust, or the next, would go too far. Perhaps he felt her tension, her subtle shrinking away; his hand lifted from over hers, and he rubbed it on her belly in soothing sweeps. “Easy, Treasure. I've got you,” he said, sounding utterly smug and complacent.
She made a choked sound that wasn't quite a laugh.
“Shhh,” He began to nibble on her sensitive nape, and his hand swept up to play with her breasts. He'd stopped moving; now he began again, shallow little thrusts that were just enough to set them swaying against his fingers.
He teased and tickled and stroked until she surprised herself by pushing back against him, wanting more. He gave it to her. That 'too-full' sensation was intriguing in small portions, little nudges deep inside, over and over. And then that wasn't enough—she pushed back harder.
He shifted over her, and everything changed: the weight and drag of his next thrust made her cry out. Her arms almost collapsed beneath her from the intensity of it. It should have frightened her, it did. She quivered on the edge of resisting. Then he pulled back and thrust into her again, a low, private sound telling her of his own pleasure, and it was too late. She arched back into the voluptuous movements of his body, abandoning herself to the lover who had shown her only delight.
How long they moved together that way, she couldn't say. Just as she began to want something more yet—faster, sharper, please—he stopped. She whimpered in bewildered frustration.
He pulled out; she could feel wet dripping onto her thighs. “I think it's time for a change of pace,” he said, breathlessly. She frowned as his arms came around her, gathering her up.
He carried her a little way and lowered her down on a hard, smooth surface. When her feet easily reached the floor, she realized she was on the low table they took their meals on. She mustered a weak protest. “Lotor, this is where we eat...”
“And how very appropriate that is,” he murmured as he stripped the remaining clothes from her aching body. Then he was on her again, feasting on her—driving her mad. He tasted her belly, her breasts, her mouth, even nuzzling, then lapping, under one of her arms, making her wriggle.
Then his palms pressed her legs open. She felt his hair against her thigh and then a long deliberate lick between her legs that made her gasp; she was tender there and there was an ache too, low and sullen from neglect. It came to sharp, hopeful life at the first stroke of his tongue.
“You taste like both of us,” he murmured, sounding pleased.
The intimacy of it made her flushed and restless, but the muscular, velvet-soft stroke of his tongue was like nothing else; it seemed designed for touching her there. He lapped and suckled and purred. The quality of his caresses changed, becoming harder, more focused; his hand tightened on her thigh. The sharp, building tension made her gasp. When she cried out, he stopped, panting.
It wasn't until he took his mouth away with final teasing swipe, that she realized he'd had his fingers in her. He slid them out, hesitated—then sank them into her again, twisting in a way that made her whimper, made her thighs jerk and her insides clench tight.
He muttered something profane under his breath, and did it again. His fingers felt too hard; she could feel the joints clearly, yet she perversely wanted them harder, deeper.
So, of course, he took them away. “I hate you,” she said, in a small voice, her face crumpling into a childish pout.
Low laughter was his only response; he scooped her up again, walking as confidently as if he could see.
She curled against his bare chest, heavy-limbed and befuddled—drugged—yet she knew he hadn't. He somehow did this to her with his voice, the touch of his hands and his body. He laid her on something wide and soft—the bed—cool against her flushed skin. He tucked one of her legs up against his side, took a handful of her bottom—and slid into her in a long, sure glide, lighting her up from the inside.
Their bodies locked together with a jolt, arching her upward as her fingers curled into claws against the bedding. It was terrible—it was perfection. His mouth brushed hers; the tender caress was like a bright spark, gone before she could be quite sure she had felt it—and then he rode into her again. There were no more words from him after that, no more demands, only her name.
Back to Evil Fan Fiction