by EM BROWN
“They were all of them an experience, to be sure,” she said. “Certainly the night with Lady Isabella and Lord Devon was beyond the pale.”
“In what manner?”
His fingers had an intoxicating effect, putting her at ease while strumming a luscious tension.
“It felt as if I were undergoing two simultaneous sources of titillations, mine own and theirs. I had never witnessed another pair before. It was most provocative. What Lord Devon did...”
She felt him stiffen. He rose. No doubt the mention of his rival did not sit well with him. She chastised her carelessness.
Rockwell returned with a small box and wide iron bar with two shackles on either end of it. She sat up at attention and watched as he locked her ankles into the outer shackles. The bar prevented her legs from closing. He pushed her onto her back and locked her wrists into the two inner shackles.
Oh my God. Her cunnie was exposed in the most wanton fashion.
“Tell me more,” he said as he wound the strange little box.
Fixated on the strange instrument he held, her mind drew a blank.
“Does Lord Devon compel your ardor?”
“Hm?”
“Does he excite you?”
“What is that you hold?”
“A Tremoussoir.”
“A what?”
He sat down beside her and placed it at her cunnie. She squealed as the box vibrated against her. He allowed her a breath before replacing it upon her. She wanted to snap her legs shut but couldn’t. The sensation was jarring, and yet...
“Oh....oh!” she cried.
The sensations improved. Yes, much improved. It was an amazing little device.
“Did you wonder what it might have felt like if you had been in Lady Isabella’s place?”
Why was he asking her such a question?
“Did you?”
He pressed the box harder upon her. She shook her head.
“The truth, Miss Herwood.”
She had thanked her stars she had been with Lord Rockwell that evening, but she had also wondered if she could have endured what Lady Isabella had.
“I suppose,” she murmured.
Desire had blossomed once more, and she realized she was being made to spend by an inanimate object.
“He had taken a fancy to you.”
Pleasure rippled through her from the Tremoussoir.
“Did you fancy him?” Rockwell asked.
“Who?”
“Lord Devon.”
She let his question sink in. What was the purpose of this question? She had no wish to talk. She wished to spend.
“That is quite the instrument,” she panted.
“Did you?”
“Did I?”
“Fancy Lord Devon,” he growled.
“No!”
The vibrations slowed. She prayed he would wind it again. Instead, he rose and placed the Tremoussoir on the chair. She groaned in frustration.
“Rest awhile, Miss Herwood. I will return shortly.”
She glared at him as he took a robe off the back of the door and slipped it on. He was leaving her? For how long?
“Pray, do not be long,” she said. “You did promise to see me home, my lord.”
He said nothing and closed the door behind him.
Chapter Twenty
DEANA TRIED THE SHACKLES but found them secure. She growled in frustration. She was lying upon her back with her arms and legs spread in the air. She glanced at the Tremoussoir on the chair. Could she reach it? No, she would have to crawl to it, but with her arms locked with her legs, there was no possibility she could maneuver herself there. She tried the shackles once more but without success. Her body had been poised to spend again. Instead he had left her in aggravation. Was this her punishment? She reached a hand toward her own cunnie to see if she could stroke herself, but her hands were locked too far away. Perhaps if she found a way to rub herself upon something? But she was surrounded only by soft pillows.
“Aaargh,” she muttered.
“Vexed?”
He had returned and stood in the doorway. He held a box, which he placed atop the chest of drawers.
“I’m bloody dandy,” she replied.
He clucked his tongue as he approached. Sitting down beside her, he ran a finger along the length of her womanhood. She shivered.
“You are in not in need of anything, Miss Herwood?” he teased, circling her clitoris.
She moaned. I am in need of you.
“Do you wish me to beg for it, my lord?” she asked more flippantly than she intended.
His eyes steeled. “Would you?”
“If you wish it, my lord,” she replied more sincerely. She glanced at the Tremoussoir. Yes, she would beg for that divine little instrument again. Her gaze traveled to his crotch. Or better yet...
He dipped a finger into her cunnie. She closed her eyes. Yes, she wanted him inside.
“Please, my lord,” she began.
“Please, what, Miss Herwood?”
She stared him in the eyes. “Please fuck me, my lord.”
His gaze aflame, he withdrew. Slowly—much too slowly—he kicked off his boots, tore off his stockings, unhinged his braces, and left fall his trousers. His cock stood at proud attention. Kneeling against her bottom, he rubbed his shaft along her. He jerked himself against her clitoris, her cunnie, her perineum until she was near to spending. Retreating, he spanked the expanse of flesh before him from the underside of her thighs to her buttocks and even across her hot, wet folds. She yelped at the slaps, but they fueled her ardor. Her body knew no shame before this man.
“Fuck me, my lord,” she implored.
“We were deprived our final night at Chateau Follet,” he said, halting.
She strained for his hand to fondle her or smack her again. “Yes.”
“A pity.”
“Yes.”
“Is there anything you wish we could have done, Miss Herwood?”
“I would that you could have fucked me senseless.”
He frowned and she wondered if she had responded too brashly. But in the next instant he was upon her, his cock plunging deep into her. She cried out at the depth of his penetration. Her knees crushed the pillows beside her as he slammed his cock into her. She welcomed every ounce of force. Her body, tormented with lust, in need of the strongest relief, wanted the pounding, wanted him, wanted to drive out all possibility that there would remain some small grain of unsatisfied desire for him to taunt later.
They reached the pinnacle simultaneously, her cries mixed with his anguished grunts as their bodies bucked and shuddered against each other. Her cunnie felt awash in warmth, throbbing, grasping. He trembled atop of her, pushed his hips at her a final time, and collapsed against her. They took in large, heaving breaths, their perspiration mingling, as they lay joined together.
Gradually the thundering of her heart receded and she became aware of his weight upon her, pushing on the iron bar. He lifted himself off. He unlocked the shackles, kissed her ankles, and fell back once more beside her. He pulled her wrists to him and kissed the soreness there.
“Forgive me if I was rough,” he said. “You cannot speak to me in such a fashion. It incites a demon in me. A demon that compels me to possess you to the hilt.”
She sighed inside. She wished he could and would possess her in all ways. A part of her wanted to cry. Though she had done her best to downplay her emotions for the past three months, she had missed Rockwell greatly. And now she would have to start anew with her efforts to forget him. She ought not have come here tonight. She ought to have resisted his offer to take her home. She ought to have told him that she wished never to set eyes upon him ever again.
“I am not so fragile as you may think,” she replied, pulling her wrists away from him.
Her movement seemed to displease him. With his hair damp from perspiration, clinging in parts to his face, he looked quite provocative all naked and mussed. She turned from him, worried that
the sentimental feelings stirring inside her might lead to tears.
“Who were you speaking to at the gaming hall?” he asked.
“Pardon?”
“The fellow with the poorly tied cravat. As you were taking your leave.”
“Mr. Billings?”
“You seem upon familiar terms.”
His questioning puzzled her. “He is a regular patron there.”
“Have you feelings for him?”
“That would be none of your affair.”
Irked, she sat up and intended to rise and retrieve her clothes, but he caught her arm.
“Why did you change gaming halls?”
She looked at him sharply. “My lord, you have asked that already.”
“Yes, but I would have the truth.”
She wanted to scream. The glow of their lovemaking—if it could be called that—had dissipated, replaced by a confluence of anger, sadness, and even self-pity. She had brought this upon herself, true, but Fate had been most cruel to set before her a man to love but not possess.
“You meant to avoid me,” he answered for her.
His rudeness deserved affirmation.
“Yes. And if you’ve any noblesse oblige, you will not seek me again.”
She could not look him in the eye. This time when she made a move to rise, he did not stop her. Quietly, she pulled the shift over her body. She would be quite sore tomorrow, in many parts of her body.
“Your family has managed to exhaust over half of your funds in a mere three months. What will you do when you have exhausted the remainder?”
How did he know the balance of their account?
Aloud, she said, “I shall find a way. Perhaps I will marry.”
He watched her dress from where he was, still lying upon the pillows. “Whom? That fellow Billings?”
“That is my affair.”
“I can provide for you far better.”
She halted in the middle of lacing her stays. What did he mean by that statement? Did he wish her for a mistress?
“Pray, do not concern yourself,” she replied before considering the temptation. “I am quite resourceful.”
“You are indeed, Miss Herwood.”
She finished with her stays and reached for her frock. The sooner she escaped his presence, the better for her.
“I have a proposition for you.”
Damnation, she groaned, not another one.
He rose and went to the chest of drawers. Upon it was a large velvet box. He brought it over to her.
“Humor me,” he said as he opened the familiar container.
She stared at the exquisite jewelry she had worn at Chateau Follet. She hesitated. Had she not just determined that she had to leave as quickly as possible? But the ornaments called to her. He lifted the necklace and placed it about her neck, then the headpiece, earrings, and bracelet. She fingered the intricate web of the necklace.
He stepped back for a better view. “They belong with you.”
“I said once before—gifts are unnecessary.”
“You’ve not heard my proposition, Miss Herwood.”
Did he mean to offer her the jewels if she spent another night with him? If she returned to Chateau Follet with him? She dared not consider the prospect further.
“I think Lady Isabella would enjoy these equally,” she said.
His expression twisted oddly, and she admitted that her statement sounded rather stupid.
“Miss Herwood, if you disrupt me again, I will whip your arse such that it will be a sennight before you can sit down.”
She blinked. By God, he meant it. Reluctantly, she remained silent. But she knew her answer already. Whatever he offered, she had to refuse.
“I would have you take the jewels, Miss Herwood, if you will not take my hand.”
“I have no intention of accepting your—pardon?”
Astonished, she watched him go down upon a knee.
“Miss Herwood, would you honor me by becoming the Baroness Rockwell?”
Was he mad? Drunk? Jesting? If the last, it was a cruel, cruel hoax. Or perhaps she had mistaken him? Heard incorrectly? The hour was late, her body had endured much. Her mind was not at peak performance. But then why was he before her on bended knee?
“Lady Isabella,” she said in her confusion.
Rockwell appeared annoyed. “What of Lady Isabella?”
“Did she reject your suit?”
“Reject my...? I never asked for her hand. But, God, woman, I am asking for yours. Do you know how many hours I have spent in the last month searching for you? I must have gone to every gaming hall in London—twice. I made inquiries everywhere. I had someone ask your mother and aunt and would have paid them a visit myself if my appearance would not have alarmed them. And if I had been certain you had feelings for me. That I had to determine for myself.”
He had been searching for her? Was he not pursuing Isabella then?
“I had thought,” he continued, “if I could show you, remind you, of the pleasures we knew, perhaps you would find it difficult to be parted from me. I have thought of nothing else but you since leaving Chateau Follet. I had to have you. It would hardly have been fair to you to constantly proposition you or hope that you lost often enough at vingt-et-un. I considered asking you to be my mistress, but then that would have been unfair to my future wife for doubtless I would have wanted to spend more nights with you than her. A common practice among husbands, I know. But my sister had reminded me of what my father and mother had between them. A mistress would be an unnecessary excess if I had what they did. But I see that I have been greatly deluded for my offer cannot best a set of damned baubles from India.”
She sank to her knees before him, still hardly able to believe what she heard. Searching his face, she saw the depth of emotion there.
“You wish for me to accept your hand...in matrimony?” she inquired. “Are you certain?”
“I burn without you, Deana. I need to have you for my own. I cannot bear the thought of you with another man. I cannot bear the thought of never seeing you again.”
“It has been a long three months,” she said almost to herself. “But...Lady Isabella?”
“Why do you insist on speaking of her?”
He truly seemed confused.
“I thought you...”
“Thought I felt affection for her?”
“You seemed quite taken with her at Chateau Follet, and she would have made you a most suitable wife.”
He sighed. “We would have suited one another horribly. I regret the attention I had to spend upon her. You know not what I would have given to have had that final night with you.”
He took both her hands and brought them to his lips, his eyes shining with anticipation. As the full realization of what he asked, of his feelings for her, sank in, she could barely contain her euphoria. She choked on the intensity of emotions.
“Lord Rockwell, yours is an unfair proposition,” she said, her voice unsteady and cracking. “The jewelry is magnificent, you see...”
He paled.
“But I accept you, of course.”
He grasped her face in both his hands and smothered her mouth with his. She submitted willingly, deliciously to the kiss and returned it with her own fervor. They wrapped their arms about each other as if letting go meant parting forever. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry. But most of all she wanted to show him the depths to which she would love him.
“Deana,” he murmured against her lips. “My Deana.”
She would be forever grateful that she had lost that fateful hand at vingt-et-un to Lord Rockwell. She wrapped her arms possessively about him, feeling the full smile of Lady Luck upon her.
THE END
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Master vs. Mistress: The Challenge Continues
An Excerpt
SHE HAD LOST. The devastation of it was tempered only by the agitation of desire swirling in her loins, the wetness between her thighs palpable. Greta looked to the bed where Miss Lily lay, her willowy body relaxed and satiated, her fair and youthful countenance bathed in serenity and bliss. With her long, flaxen hair spread over the pillows, Miss Lily looked a lovely nymph and had all the form and manners of the woman who had stolen away Master Damien. Greta was certain she would never again come across a woman who bore such a striking resemblance to her former nemesis. Envy stabbed at her. She resented that Miss Lily had achieved her release while the tension of lust still coiled within her and would require some time to dissipate. But most of all, she lamented that she had lost the perfect submissive prospect.
To Master Gallant.
A man she had never seen before—or noticed, rather. According to Madame Devereux, the proprietress of the Inn of the Red Chrysanthemum, where members engaged in forbidden wantonness and indulged the darkest desires of their flesh, Master Gallant had been a longtime member and simply taken a leave of absence in recent years. If he had not chosen to make an appearance this fateful night, she, Mistress Scarlet, with the greater seniority of the members present, would have been able to claim Miss Lily for her own without interference.
Instead, Madame Devereux had to acknowledge that she had no precedent for how she was to award Miss Lily when two members of arguably equal standing wished to claim the same. To resolve the quandary for her, Master Gallant had proposed a duel, of sorts, to determine who could claim the maiden of their choice. Madame Devereux’s agreement had rankled Greta, and she could not help but feel a little betrayed and suspected that the Madame, often partial to handsome men, had been swayed by Master Gallant’s golden locks, rugged form, and charming smile. Greta would have declined the proposal; but she had been without a submissive one for some time, and none of the other members interested her. Nor did she wish to concede to Master Gallant.
Squaring her shoulders, Greta turned to the man. By his fine attire, which he had not changed prior to arriving at the Red Chrysanthemum, she had determined him to be a gentleman of means. His trousers encased long, lean legs, and his coat fit over his square shoulders in tight embrace. Lest his appearance proved a façade, he had wealth and countenance in his favor, and, Greta admitted begrudgingly, skill. Though she had brought Miss Lily to spend first, the cries of the latter at his hands had been louder, more desperate, her spasm more violent. They had agreed that Miss Lily would select the winner at the end of the challenge, but Greta knew the victor before Miss Lily, still recovering from her orgasm, spoke.