"St-stop teasing, you animal," she breathed hotly into his ear.
"You'll not see more of me... or any of me," he growled to her; confused, she squirmed, looking damnably up to her hands - when he'd laid her down, he made sure to bind her wrists, and she'd laid prone with those chafing silver chains leashed around her hands.
"M'lord—"
"Master," he breathed against her skin. "Ellery... or master."
"M... master," she said it reluctantly... but god, it felt good. She didn't know how good it could feel, or why it felt good, but it gave a rush of pleasure, a surge through her blood, when she said it aloud. "Master..."
"You've lost yourself again, love..." he purred salaciously; with a sexy swagger to his strut Lord Brighton moved o the bedside table; deftly he found a key hidden in a vase next to the table, clicking the locked drawer open. Isobel struggled to look, seeing only layers of black; then, he slammed it shut, having retrieved just what he wanted from the drawer.
"M... master, what..."
"I told you... warned you, even, to savor the sight of me while you could," he said, his smoky tone salaciously chastising the innocent but wanting little maiden. "I hope you did..." Isobel wanted to speak, but before she could protest whatever his devilish mind had dredged up to do to her, she felt her sense of sight enveloped in darkness; he moved quick, securing the thick black cloth across her eyes and leaving her shut out in the dark. She gasped, unsure; unsteady, and completely taken aback by the sudden darkness and denial. She couldn't see him, or anything, and it scared her, a shiver along her spine.
It scared her... and it completely, utterly enticed her.
"Master..." she murmured, the word giving her a rush down her spine. She could see nothing, and in that darkness instead she listened; she held her breath so tight; she laid perfectly still, not wanting the rustle of the bedsheets to interfere with her ears. She shook, her skin sensitive to every single brush of air; every winding wind, every squirming sensation. Everything went dark; everything went silent. His tongue didn't tease her; his breath, his hot words didn't please her. She swallowed hard... hoping.
Time passed so painfully slow. Where had he gone? She didn't hear his breaths; his voice. He deprived and denied her completely, and her nerves began to fray; her muscles began to shudder. She could hear only her own deep, quavering and nervous breathing. She begged quietly to reach out, but her hands squirmed in her chained bonds; she couldn't touch herself, or part her legs to invite him. She laid helpless, denied; she fought every instinct to speak, to call out to him; she tried to feel out with her mind and her heart, but she could sense nothing.
Her lips fell apart, mouth gaping; and just as the pain grew so intense she couldn't stand it, she heard something from the corner of the room. Only a quiet rustling; footsteps across carpet. She held herself still and silent again. She breathed harder. She tried so hard to keep herself together but it felt so wrong - and so good. A hard swallow. A quiet rustle. It could have been anything... curtains, wind. Her own body shaking against the bed. Her breath reaches a fevered pitch as nerves and anxiety and desire and confusion at the unknown fill her completely, and when she finally feels his body heat press against her own again and his tongue tantalizing her breasts, sweeping skilled, wet waves over sensitive skin, she absolutely erupted in a pleasurable scream, her body arching against his. She felt his body atop her for the first time; she couldn't see him, but she could feel every inch; her breasts pressed against his strong pectorals, her thighs split by his powerful hips as he began to piston inside of her tight, dripping slit, his girth pleasing her femme bead and leaving her wide-mouthed and panting.
"M-master!" she shouted; it all felt so much more visceral, gripping at her core, to make filthy, lusty love in complete darkness; in utter denial of what her senses begged and shrieked for. She had wanted so badly to see him, but somehow not seeing him felt even better than she could imagine. She hadn't seen him thrust or pump against her body in their last encounter, but with the darkness shrouding her eyes her imagination gripped her completely, filling her lewd thoughts with sensations unmired by the reality around her.
It felt so good for her body, a prim virgin only days past, to be used; stretched. He gripped at her neck, giving a soft squeeze, and the pain of his brand, still bruised into her neck, made her shudder; the memory of their first enticing encounter brought her breaths coming so fast she felt like she couldn't even begin to keep up with his sinful, sexual vigor. Her muscles, her rear, her neck, it all felt so sore, so used; and so fucking perfect. He pounded against her thighs, the meeting of flesh and shaking skin slapping loud enough that she could hear it over the sound of her pounding heart, her breaths and their symphony of salacious moans. She could feel his shaft tightening inside of her clenching, moistened depths, filling her over and over as his voice grew deeper, a throbbing, possessive and wolfish growl. She squirmed in her bonds, wanting to feel him; wanting to touch him, but to be held as his sizzling, simpering captive somehow felt so much hotter.
"NNn~ Isobel," he exploded in a breath of relief as their bodies ground out to an explosive and enticing climax together, his limbs wrapped around her body, grasping her as she let loose a whimpering and angelic song of orgasmic delight, the sensation rushing through every limb. She felt him fill her hard and deep one final time as his hardened length erupted inside of her folds, filling her with a delectable, lush warmth that filled her stomach, shot like gouts of pressured steam through her legs, down to her curling toes.
She couldn't see him, still; she couldn't even touch him, but still, she could feel him. His heart beat in rhythm with her own, her breaths mingling with the hot honey dripping from his lips as he kissed her deep. After a long moment shared together in sugary-sweet silence, she felt him lay on the bed next to her, his arm still cupped across her back, and with great force he pulled her close, keeping her blindfolded as he kissed her along her neck - and across that bruised brand of his, reminding her who she belonged to.
"Now you're not allowed to lie to me," he said as he kissed her lips roughly; passionately. "You did enjoy that, didn't you? You dirty minx, you," he chuckled. She blushed, pulling away from him and squirming at her bonds.
"Must you insist on taunting me and trying to get me to indulge you?" she said, an anxious giggle in her throat. "I can't even see you. Do you think I enjoy that?"
"I don't think. I know," he groaned against her neck, tonguing her bruise; pleasurable pain flooded her nerves again, but she tried to keep it out of mind. She didn't want to tell him what he thought he knew.
"You're quite mistaken if you take me for... some manner of deviant, who enjoys these games you play," she announced with disdain. "It's... not true."
"You certainly sounded like you enjoyed submitting," he growled playfully.
"I had no choice! You chained me," she scoffed. A long silence followed; she could hear his sigh.
"You still won't face it, will you, love?" he asked flippantly.
"Face... what?" she swallowed hard.
"These chains..." she felt him rattle the silvered chain at her wrist, loosening the clamps; her hands freed, she laid them at her sides. "...these chains, they're not the ones holding you back." She took a deep breath; using her freed hands, she lifted the blindfold from her eyes, seeing his face; mired in conflict, vexed with that coy confidence while still full of doubt.
"You're..." she took a deep breath, her voice thin and willowy. "You're... right. But... I don't understand... I don't know why. And I don't... like, that I like it."
"Of course you don't, because you're not meant to admit the things you like. You're not meant to enjoy life. You're a 'proper lady'," he grunted, looking towards the window; the sun hung low in the sky, daylight beginning to wane, orange colors shifting across their dimly-lit bodies. For the first time, she genuinely considered his thoughts. She didn't want to deny it any longer - that she enjoyed the feelings.
But she had to.
"One of us mu
st maintain our dignity, after all," she spat out, meeting his eyes. She knew her own told the truth to him... as they always did.
"Are you going to live your whole life a prisoner to that? 'Dignity'?" Lord Brighton challenged her.
She didn't answer, only laying in the darkness. She knew the answer, and it scared her. So did he.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Her eyes shot open. Once again she had refused to sleep in her master's bed - and so she slept alone, stewing in her thoughts in a spare room, connected to the maidservant's chambers. After arriving in curious silence, Lilian had again pressed Isobel for details - and Isobel had begun to get the feeling the maidservant had grown bored in her duties here, and searched for scandal and gossip as a side hobby with all the questions the pretty young woman asked of her.
The sun crept along the empty armoire in the at one end of the cramped, nondescript room; translucent curtains hung across a window facing the sunrise, and she lay in only a simple nightgown among a sea of snow-white sheets. She yawned, feeling terribly embarrassed at having slept long past the rise of the sun; Isobel had hoped to take a daybreak stroll through the garden at the rear of the estate to ponder on all that had been troubling her for the last few days. The thoughts still clung like leeches to her mind; she had dreamed of him last night, and awoke disgusted with the thought of him and his ribald, philandering lifestyle. But no matter how much she denied the things he said or tried to hold her head above the water, she found herself breathing and drinking deep from what he said, more and more, each time their bodies met. She felt she couldn't even deny it now - and that the more she did, the more lost she felt.
"M'lady? Are you decent?" Isobel groggily heard the pound of knuckles on the small door to her cramped room; in sitting up from the bed she nearly banged her head on the sloped ceiling. The room felt more akin to a broom-closet than a guest room, and perhaps it had been in the past.
"What is it, Lilian?" Isobel said with a yawn. She couldn't quite tell what time of the day it was, but from the bright gleam blazing through the curtains, she felt it was likely at least ten in the morning. She pushed away the sheets, her head still foggy from the previous evening, her mind still awash in the sensation of submitting; how it had felt, and how she wished to feel it again, as much as she disdained the thought.
"I've fetched you tea! I thought perhaps you could use with some company, given the disposition of Lord Brighton," Lilian responded dutifully. Isobel blinked; a cold terror gripped her blood, and she rose from the bed, her tired limbs carrying her to narrow doorframe, which she pulled open quickly to reveal the maidservant bearing a small tray, smiling weakly.
"...Yes, thank you, I quite appreciate it, Lilian, but—" Isobel cleared her throat, straining to look past the maidservant. She saw only the bowels of the scullery and the hallway behind, nothing to indicate to her whatever may be happening in the remainder of the manor. "...What did you mean, the disposition of Lord Brighton? Has something happened to him?"
"H-happened? Oh, no, I—" Lilian chuckled politely, setting the tray of tea down on the quaint, short table next to the door. "...Have you not seen the master yet, this morning? I had thought you would have been out already, and had returned to your room after he... well, after he began his... m-meeting." Her shaky words drew Isobel's skeptical glare.
"Meeting? With whom is he 'meeting', exactly?" Isobel felt something twist in her stomach that tore deep into her sense of dignity. She had felt the pangs before, and so they came as quite familiar, which only worsened her mood. Jealousy - strange pangs of jealousy, jealousy over this man who seemed bent on twisting her away from maintaining her family's dignity. But she felt it in her bones, and could scarcely keep it contained, her face twisting in slowly simmering fury.
"Oh, he's... I apologize, m'lady, I'm not certain I should be saying, if you don't already know," Lilian responded sheepishly, her eyes downcast in mute shame. "I... I apologize for bringing the subject to bear, I hadn't a clue you were unaware of his business this morning, m'lady."
"Don't speak so evasive, Lilian, just answer my question," Isobel pressed, her voice shaky.
"O... okay, but, I'm not the one who woke you, if the master asks... please?" Lilian's smile turned sideways in contention.
"Yes, of course, just tell me, Lilian," Isobel hurriedly insisted, gathering herself quickly, throwing a small shawl over her nightgown to at least give the appearance of social decency.
"I'm not... certain of her name, though she's visited the estate on a few occasions, to meet privately with the duke," Lilian's voice trembled. "M'lady, I'm certain it's simply a business meeting—"
"Why would it matter to me? What business is it, of mine?" Isobel lied, maintaining this illusion that her presence at the state was merely a matter of convenience.
"M'lady, you, and the Lord Brighton," Lilian stammered, "are you... not... well, I mean, is he not... courting your hand, for...?"
"What have you got in your head, Lilian?" Isobel frowned. She hated denying it, lying to perhaps the only soul willing to listen to her problems. "It's... just a business matter, between your lord, and I." She stumbled over her lies as she hurriedly pushed past the maid. "...Which, is why, his business negotiations with other lords, and ladies, is a matter of some importance to me." She passed the cabinets of dishes and foods, passing into a short hallway with irritated curiosity in her expression; Lilian followed behind. "I don't need a shadow, Lilian," Isobel insisted, though her convictions sounded only scarcely convincing.
"Are you certain?" Lilian smiled. Isobel sighed, and continued, her friend behind her. He could hear her voice already - disconnected, but controlling; that put-upon sort of angelic ring to each syllable. She heard Lord Brighton's voice, too - wearing the same amused charm that he spoke with around her. Yet, it felt... forced. Uncomfortable. Not natural, the way it had with her. Isobel's heart squeezed hard inside her ribs, and she felt an ire rising through her fiery blood.
"Well, certainly, m'lady, we could come to some manner of agreement about the disposition of the lands east of Laurel, can't we," Lord Brighton commented, and Isobel could hear the edge in his words.
"All business with you," the feminine voice giggled. Isobel swallowed her rage. She stayed put. She rationalized in her head that that's what she ought to be doing. Waiting. Keeping her presence out of sight. But the urge to confront this woman boiled over, in no small part due to the whisper Lilian offered.
"That's not right, m'lady... if you'll be having my input," Lilian murmured. "He shouldn't be doing that to you." Isobel's fists tightened, her knuckles white; she closed her eyes, as the bruises and marks of passion all across her body stung with pain. Rounding the corner out of the side hallway, Isobel stormed in to the living area, happening upon a sight that turned her inside-out in furious fear. She saw Lord Brighton, on the overstuffed couch therein, inches away from Lady Maryweather - the woman in the flowing gown, her ethereal face, pale skin, perfectly-styled hair and puffy dress covered in bows and flowers something to behold. She shimmered in the sunlight, blinding; overwhelming. She leaned close to Lord Brighton, whispering now; his expression appeared charmed, if conflicted, and he leaned to one side of the couch to further the distance between the two. Nevertheless, her hand crept along his thigh, gloved fingers pressed tight to the fabric of his slacks, his eyes growing progressively wider the more she touched him.
"Haven't you considered a... fine woman, one you'd like to wed yet, Ellery?..." she asked, her voice full of her brand of icy, manufactured feminine charm. "A strong marriage could mean the world to your future, and the future of whichever lovely woman you chose to court..."
"I h—have, in fact," Ellery gasped, feeling her fingers pressing harder into his skin. Isobel watched from the corner of the room, keeping quiet, save the rapidly increasing pace of her steamy, enraged breaths.
"You have?" Lady Maryweather quipped, a songbird's note of curiosity in her question. "And... which lucky lady have you had your mind on, m
'lord?..." she spoke in a deepening tone, like the throaty call of a boisterous lark. "I just wish... perhaps, it could be me..."
"M-M'lady, do you take this as entirely proper?" Lord Brighton said, from behind a hectic and harried grin. Lady Isobel huffed - she huffed loud enough at the comment that it drew the eyes of both of the people on the couch. Lord Brighton's eyes opened wide, while Lady Maryweather's eyes narrowed; silently predatory, hunting at the rather scantily-dressed Lady Duskwood with her sharp, pretty features.
"Am I interrupting your meeting?" Lady Duskwood asked, holding back a storm of emotions; some threatened to force sobs out of her reddened, tired eyes, while others drove the want in her to ball up a fist and strike Ellery square in his cheek. Her gaze met the frozen eyes on Lady Maryweather's face; she could sense nothing in those eyes, no emotion; no life. Only a faint undercurrent of barely-tangible contempt.
Perhaps this is what Ellery had meant, all those times he said he could read Isobel - just by her eyes.
"L-Lady Duskwood, I'm—I'm certainly glad—I pray you enjoyed your time in the garden, with Lilian?" Lord Brighton asked. Isobel glanced over one shoulder to see the scrappy maid had followed her out into the sunbathed foyer. Ellery stared through the two women, hoping they'd play along with the charade - ironically, they had become a lie all their own, one even Lord Brighton felt bound by. Isobel realized she, herself, had been a lie - perhaps Lord Brighton was not so free as he wished to portray himself as.
"...Yes," Isobel responded, broken, eyes watching the sun dance along the silvered dishware displayed proudly in a cabinet far off. It lay dusty, some pieces glinting with disrepair, just as she felt inside her. "It was a... a pleasant. Time."
"Certainly," Lilian responded; Isobel could hear the disappointment in the maid's voice clearly, the situation only stinging harder with the revelation.
"I wasn't aware you were visiting, Lady Duskwood," Lady Maryweather's soft and doting tone disguised the contempt Isobel knew laid just beneath the veneer of respectability. Just like the Duke of Thrushmore, Lady Duskwood knew that Lady Maryweather planned to take the Lord Brighton, no matter what - and all other words, nice or otherwise, shared in the interim were simply parts of her ploy.
Satisfying The Duke & Her Debts (Regency Romance: Strong Women Find True Love Book 1) Page 10