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He pounded at her womb, driving into her with brutal thrusts. His body was heavy on top of hers and his male organ split her, taking the breath from her body. Her female juices poured out of her, bathing his rod and wetting the cushion under her so that she felt it on her back as he ground down into her.
His face flushed red, his breathing loud and fast. Every few thrusts he’d release a loud lusty grunt of pleasure. He rutted on her, driving into the core of her. She had been holding tight to his shoulders, clinging to him, but now she lay back in total surrender as he rode her. She slipped her hand under a cushion and felt the cold iron blade against her fingers. Relief. She only touched it and let it go. It would be there when the time came.
He took her by the hips with a brutal grip. Her breasts bounced on her chest, and he laughed at the sight of her body so helpless under his.
It wouldn’t work. He was too strong and had the leverage on top of her. She had to get him on his back.
“Please,” she said, her breathing labored. “Let me take you. It’ll be a release like you’ve never known.”
“Then go on and take me,” he said, a sneer on his mouth.
He held her by the waist and rolled them, putting her on top of him. Light-headed from panting and shocked by her body’s reaction to this giant wicked man, she put her hands on his broad chest to steady herself. Then she began to move her hips. This pleased him, she could tell. He groaned again as the thick organ inside of her worked its way in deeper and deeper into the hot, tight cleft.
Judith’s husband, long dead, had been a skilled and tender lover who had taught her all the ways a man could please a woman and all the ways a woman could please a man. She remembered one such way. Closing her eyes, she concentrated, and clenched her inner passage hard around the general’s rod, squeezing it tight.
He gasped and looked at her wide-eyed with wonder. “Again,” he said, and she did it again, clenching hard around him as he writhed underneath her.
His thick fingers held her in an iron grasp. She would have bruises on her hips tomorrow and on her nipples and inside her womb. But even as she tried to unman him, she was undone herself. She moved faster on him, snapping her hips against his until she came with a powerful release.
“You whore,” he said. “No virtuous widow are you.” Then he laughed, his head falling back, and she laughed too, laughed as she bent to kiss him, laughed as she grasped the slim short sword under the cushion, laughed as she slid the sharp blade out…
Her old maidservant had been waiting outside for her to take the blade’s handle, and she lifted the edge of the tent and slipped under. As Judith raised the sword, her maidservant grabbed the general’s hair and pulled his head back, baring his throat.
Holofernes, lost in his own pleasure, began to release inside Judith, spurting scalding hot seed against her womb.
The sword gleamed red in the lamplight. She had to act fast, before the last shudders of his orgasm passed and he regained his senses—
Too late. He snapped free from the maidservant’s grasp, his head bolting upright…and she saw it wasn’t Holofernes.
It was Arthur. Her beautiful Brat, his eyes wide with terror.
“I’m not your enemy,” he said as she brought the blade down on his neck…
* * *
Regan woke up screaming,her lover’s last words ringing in her ears.
I’m not your enemy.
* * *
A nightand a day passed and by Sunday afternoon, Regan was calm again. Not calm, no, but empty, which was better in her books. Calm meant that peace and contentment were present. Emptiness meant that everything, including loneliness, regret, and pain were absent.
It had only been a dream, of course. A particularly vivid dream, true, but Regan was well-versed with the popular art subjectJudith Slaying Holofernes.She’d studied various incarnations of the story during her first and only year in art school. Her first oil painting she’d ever attempted had been a modern version of that theme, with her playing Judith and playing Holofernes was a man who vaguely resembled Lord Arthur Godwick—not her Arthur, of course, but his grandfather, the man who’d killed her mother.
Of course talking about her mother with her Brat would bring that memory back to her, conjuring up a dream of the original “sleeping with the enemy” myth. That’s all it had been.
Same with the dream where Lord Malcolm had stood at her side, tender toward her as if she were his own child, and shown her the empty frame and promised that someday a portrait of hers would hang in it.
Mad, stupid dreams. Not worth the sand the Sandman scattered on her pillow.
And yet, for the first time in a decade, she’d taken out her old sketchbook and begun to sketch Judith slaying Holofernes. Without lust this time and without mercy.
She sat on the garden terrace in the last of the golden rays of the late afternoon sun as she sketched, hating how horribly amateur her drawing looked and hating even more how happy it made her to be sketching again. As absorbed as she was in her work, she didn’t hear the doors to the terrace open.
“Boss?”
Startled, Regan looked up.
