The Reddington Scandal

by Renee Rose

  “I didn’t think it then, but I see that I was wrong.”

  “I should’ve killed him that first night. Why didn’t you let me?”

  “Because I don’t want to see you hanged!” When he said nothing, she repeated, “I’m sorry.”

  He sighed. “I’m not angry with you, love. I’m just… frustrated.”

  Remembering the last time he’d said those words, she offered, “Would it help to spank me?”

  He let out a short chuckle of surprise. “Well,” he said, considering, “a good spanking always helps me feel better.” He turned a smile on her. “I’m not sure it would improve your disposition, though.”

  As usual, he wrung a smile from her. She shivered a bit, considering the prospect of being over his knee, but she wanted him to spank her, especially if it helped him feel better. She wanted to be on the right side of the one man who deserved her trust, the one man who seemed to care about her.

  He led her upstairs, his solid arm at her waist, her heart pounding in fluttery anticipation. She wasn’t afraid; more nervous and perhaps even a touch excited. He took her to his room and pushed her to sit on the bed, surprising her by bending to remove one of her slippers. He flexed it in his hands, giving her his lopsided grin and a little lift of the eyebrows to let her know what he intended to do with the slipper. She gasped as he grasped both her ankles and hiked them completely in the air, exposing her backside when her skirts and petticoats fell away. She reached to cover her bottom with both hands, then moved them to cover her face instead, peeking through her fingers at her husband’s handsome face.

  He snapped her little leather slipper across one cheek. She gasped at the sting, though in truth, it sounded worse than it felt. He snapped it across the other cheek. He began to punish her bottom and the backs of her thighs with her slipper, the sharp crack of the leather sole causing her to squeal and lift her bottom into the air.

  “You should have told me,” he said again, gritting his teeth in mock ferocity as he pummeled her backside with a rapid flurry of spanks. “Then I would have understood why you were distressed by making love.”

  “Ooh!” she cried, flinching from his spank. “I know! Forgive me!”

  “You let me think—” He stopped and blew out his breath, then picked up his tempo of spanking again. “I thought you loved him.”

  “No!” she exclaimed. She reached back and covered her smarting buttocks. “I’m sorry I let you believe that. Teddy, I’m so sorry.”

  He tapped her hands with the slipper. “Kindly remove your hands. Place them under your back if you cannot keep them out of the way—I’m not through spanking you.” Something about the authority with which he directed her made her limbs go weak and heat flood her entire body.

  She obeyed him, slipping her hands beneath her low back, cringing at how exposed she felt. To make it worse, Teddy reached down and found the tape to her drawers, sliding them off her legs.

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “Spanking on the bare is so much more satisfying.”

  Her sex pulsed in response. Teddy enjoyed spanking her and though she ought to be indignant at the perversity of it, she was not. Rather, she lifted her legs back in the air, making an offering of her bottom. He caught hold of her ankles, kissing her calf before he began to spank again, this time on her bare flesh, the little slipper striking a small surface area but packing a sting worse than his hand. At times it struck her exposed sex and she gasped at the sensation, heat flooding her inner thighs.

  “Ow… ow,” she whimpered, though in truth, the sting was only skin deep.

  “Did it happen more than once?” he asked, looking serious as he tossed the slipper to the floor and began using his hand instead. His palm imparted less sting but more impact and, in the humiliating position he held her, was more painful than when he’d spanked over his knee. He caught her eye and held it as he spanked, awaiting her answer.

  “No. I could see he was always watching for a moment to get me alone, though. It seemed just a matter of time before…”

  He looked troubled. “I should have killed him,” he muttered. He looked up sharply. “Did your sister know?”

  She flinched, lifting her bottom in the air, bucking against his hold.

  “Did she?” he pressed, spanking even harder. “Did she, Phoebe?” He dropped her legs abruptly and walked away, as if realizing his blooming anger was misdirected.

  “I don’t know!” she cried, sitting up.

  He walked back and crouched beside her, tears in his eyes. “Phoebe… darling. I’m sorry you had to endure such a thing. Dear God, I’m sorry! I wish I could change it for you,” he said, his voice anguished.

  She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his neck, the water in her own eyes due only to gratitude and wonder at the level of his caring. She pressed a kiss to his neck and in an instant, his mouth was upon hers, pressing at her lips with a bruising kiss. Gripping her firmly by her hair, he tipped her head backward to expose her throat and dragged his open mouth down her neck, stopping to suck just above her collarbone.

  Something spasmed between her legs, a simmering need ignited with his passion. He lifted her head up and met her lips again, pressing his tongue between her lips, plundering her mouth with a demanding kiss.

  She made a soft moaning sound, leaning her body against his. His hands were rough, yanking her dress open and freeing her breasts from her stays. A little cry escaped her lips as he pushed her back on the bed, falling upon her, his hips positioned over hers, his mouth claiming her earlobe, sucking it into his mouth with a violence that caused her to lift her hips against his in an instinctual response.

  Somehow her dress was wrenched from her body and his jacket and waistcoat came off as well, but before she could remove her corset, he was upon her again, forcing her thighs open with the nudge of his knee, squeezing her burning bottom as he nipped at her neck.

  The last time she’d been in his bed he’d been seducing—his lovemaking an art form designed to elicit something from her. This time, all art was absent. He demanded, he plundered, he claimed her like an animal in heat. There was no finesse, only burning passion and it lit in her a desire so hot she writhed in agony, desperate for release. He lifted her legs in the air, the way he’d held her a moment before, this time applying his tongue to her exposed sex, swirling it over her ready flesh, penetrating her until her thighs shook and her hips bucked against the torture.

  “Please,” she pleaded. “Please. Now.”

  When at last he freed his length and plowed into her, the explosion of sensation nearly blinded her. There was pain as her flesh parted to allow him entry, but the pleasure overtook the burn after several slow strokes, and she wrapped her legs around his back, urging him in deeper, harder, wanting the release her body seemed to know would come.

  “Oh, God—Phoebe,” he groaned.

  At the sound of her name, she exploded, yanking him deep within her as the muscles of her sex spasmed all around him in a burst of pure satisfaction. She held him tight against her with her legs until the earthquake ended, then released her legs and threw her arms above her head on the bed, sprawling open for his pleasure. She understood, at last, what it was her sister found appealing about making love.

  He slowed his rhythm, gliding in and out of her and watching her face, smiling a little when she began to writhe on the bed again as the discomfort built again. When he pulled all the way out of her, she sat up in protest.

  * * *

  He chuckled. “Roll over. Onto your stomach, little dove.”

  She obeyed him, looking unsure of his intent. He gave her bottom a slap and she squeezed her cheeks together, but when he pressed into her from behind, she lifted her hips to meet his, her sex sore, but still more than eager for his re-entry. The friction of her thighs created a new pleasure, the unique angle providing a different feedback. Phoebe held still, her bottom lifted, her entire body seeming to listen to the fresh lesson in lovemaking. Soon she was rocking against him, making k
eening sounds for more. He wrapped his arms under her and gripped her shoulders for leverage, giving it to her deeper, harder, and faster until he reached his own climax and she convulsed again with a satisfied yelp.

  She collapsed beneath him, as limp as a rag doll. He held his weight on his forearms so he didn’t crush her with his body. “Roll on your back, Phoebe.” She obeyed immediately, looking up at him with wonder shining in her eyes.

  He smiled at her expression and she laughed and then started to cry. “How did you do that? I didn’t think about him once.”

  “Shh,” he said, pressing his lips to hers. “Don’t speak about him in this bed. This is our bed, only for us. Don’t ever let him in here.”

  Her arms twined around his neck and she clung to him as if for her very life, emitting little sobs and then laughs. “I’m sorry! I don’t know what’s come over me.”

  “Let it out, sweetheart. Cry as much as you need, you’re safe with me.”

  She cried and hiccupped, giggling at times, burying her face at times. He held her until the emotion had been spent and her breath turned into the soft sighs of sleep.

  He stroked her hair, relishing the feel of her body nestled against his, his anguish over her mistreatment eased by the release of his pent-up desire.

  He woke in the morning to find her studying him.

  “Teddy?”

  “Yes, angel?”

  “Can you forgive me?”

  “We’re already whole, little dove.”

  “You were angry with me.”

  “No, sweetheart, I was frustrated because I care so much. If I had only known—if you could have told me—I would have protected you, and I would have been more sensitive to your feelings about sex. But I wasn’t angry. And I’m sorry if I frightened you.”

  She shook her head. “I wasn’t afraid. Well, I was a bit afraid of the spanking, but not of you.”

  “The spanking didn’t hurt so much, did it?” he prodded, already knowing it had not. It had been an act of taking control from her, nothing more.

  Her face flushed, but she didn’t lower her eyes. She stroked his cheek with her thumb, answering without words. It had been what she needed. What they both needed. A way to clear the air and start afresh.

  “Phoebe?”

  “Yes?”

  “Will you be my wife?”

  She giggled and he kissed her nose.

  “My true wife?”

  She nodded, her eyes shining. “Yes, my lord. I will be your wife.”

  “I hope so, because the marriage has been consummated, so there’s no annulling it now.”

  “I never wanted to annul it,” she murmured, and he leaned in, claiming her mouth in a victory kiss, which she answered with enthusiasm.

  When he pulled away, she looked at the light coming in the window. “You should get up, else you’ll be late to Parliament today.”

  “I’m not going in. I’m staying with you, little dove.”

  She smiled, stroking his hair from his eyes, making him shiver with the realization she really was his wife now, in every sense of the word.

  They spent the day enjoying each other’s company, walking in Hyde Park, holding hands. When they sat upon a bench, he said, “Phoebe, when I said you should not talk about Reddington, I only meant in our bed.” Feeling how she’d stiffened beside him, he clasped her hand in both of his, pulling off her glove to stroke her bare skin. “I do wish you to tell me everything—I know it pains you. But the more you can talk about it, the less hold it will have over you.”

  Her lower lip trembled and she dropped her chin. He put a finger under it to lift it. “Not today—we’ll not ruin today with it, but soon. All right?”

  She searched his face, for what, he could not tell.

  “I promise I will help you heal this.”

  “I—” her voice cracked. “I’m not sure I can tell it.”

  “You can. Because if you don’t, you’re keeping him between us. And he does not deserve that honor.”

  “No,” she laughed, tears spilling down her cheeks. “He certainly does not.”

  That evening, as bedtime grew near, he felt tension radiating from her. He had already ordered the servants to move her things into his bedroom, not wanting to give her the opportunity to hide from him.

  “You don’t have to be afraid,” he murmured as he led her to the bedroom. “Remember? It’s just you and I in here.”

  “Yes!” she exclaimed too quickly. “Well, what if I don’t like it tonight?”

  He smiled slightly, though he understood her anxiety was real. “Well, why did last night work better than our first attempt?”

  She turned away from him, examining the books on his night table. “You took away my choice.”

  He recoiled momentarily, but then thought he understood. He walked behind her and held her shoulders lightly. “Do you think you were responsible for what happened between you and Reddington?”

  Her body stiffened and a little cry came from her mouth. “I didn’t know what to do—I didn’t want to let him touch me, but…”

  “You were not responsible. The guilt is all his—only his. None of it belongs to you. He was your guardian and he should have protected you. Instead he tried to force himself on you. It was not your fault.”

  She turned, shaking with sobs, throwing her weight against him so hard he stumbled backward. He wrapped his arms around her, rocking slightly on his feet. “It’s not your fault,” he whispered in her hair.

  “I did not know what to do—I let him touch me. I just—I did not know what I should do.”

  “Yes,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “I understand.”

  He lifted her chin to see her violet-rimmed eyes. Her lashes were wet and she blinked them, but she looked hopeful. “But if it helps you to have all choice taken from you, I am happy to oblige,” he said, sweeping her legs up in the crook of his arm and carrying her to the bed.

  He tossed her onto it, eliciting a squeal of protest. Throwing up her skirts without preamble, he unhooked one of her silk stockings from the garter and slid it off her leg. She leaned up on her elbows, watching with a smile. He pulled it between two hands, testing its strength. “Hold out your hands, wrists together.”

  Her eyes widened, understanding his intent, but she held out her hands with a smile. Tying her wrists together, he fastened them to the bedpost. “There. Now you are nothing more than my plaything. And I shall do as I like with you all night long.”

  He watched closely to see if his words aroused or dampened her mood, but they seemed to arouse. Her breath had quickened and a spot of color appeared on each cheek. Her eyes were bright as they watched him. Twisting her onto her side, he unhooked the tiny hooks on the back of her dress, then realized he had no way to remove it with her arms strung up.

  “Hmm,” he said and she giggled, realizing his dilemma. “Never mind, I have a better plan.”

  He untied her wrists and pulled the dress over her head, then used the stocking to cover her eyes, winding it around twice to block out all light and tying it snugly behind her head. “How is that, little dove?”

  She smiled in response.

  He hesitated, realizing without her vision, his touch might remind her more of Reddington. He would have to be sure to speak often and keep her in the moment. “Now listen carefully. Now that you’re my wife, you’ll never have a choice anymore. Your duty is to give yourself to me whenever, wherever, and however I demand it of you.”

  She wriggled on the bed, her hands coming up to the area of her breasts, then shying away. “Hold your breasts,” he ordered, enjoying the tiny gasp that came from her lips. She tentatively placed her hands over her breasts, still captured by her corset. “Take them out.” His voice had deepened with desire.

  She reached inside her stays and lifted her twin orbs out of her undergarment.

  “That’s it,” he murmured appreciatively.

  He pulled her drawers off. “Show me how you touch yourself between yo
ur legs, Phoebe.”

  Her lips parted and her head fell back. Her hand crept slowly toward her sex, which he could see was already glistening with nectar. She touched the outer lips of her sex tentatively.

  “Is that how you do it?” he murmured as he crawled up next to her on the bed, settling on his side with his head resting in his hand.

  “No,” she whispered.

  “How do you do it, Phoebe? Do you put your fingers inside?”

  “No.” Her brow furrowed and he sensed he had tread on dangerous ground.

  “Just show me how you do it.”

  “Well,” she hesitated. “I lie on my stomach.”

  He smothered a laugh. “Roll over, then, and show me what you do.”

  She rolled over, her hand between her legs. She did not penetrate her sex with her fingers, but kept them all cupped together, undulating in a wavelike motion over her mons. Her hips began to grind, pressing her mound into her hand.

  He unfastened her corset, taking care not to distract her. “Now that I shall be prohibited from frequenting the brothels, I’ll have to teach you to please me like a light-skirt. Do you think you could do so, Phoebe?”

  She made a little whimper of protest, but her hips hurried their speed, belying her excitement. “Have you ever heard the term cada orificio?”

  She made a negative sound. Her corset completely opened, he trailed his fingertip down her spine. “It comes from the Italian whores. It means every orifice. It means they take a man into all three of their largest orifices.”

  She made another moan. His fingertip had reached the cleft of her buttocks and he slid it down to her thighs, then back up, this time deep within her cheeks.

  “Did you know you can take a man here, Phoebe?” he asked, applying a small amount of pressure on her back hole.

  She gasped and squeezed her cheeks together. He leaned close and made a tsking sound in her ear. “No, no, little dove. Remember, you cannot refuse me now. I’m your husband, and I’ll take you any way I please.” He licked his finger, applying ample saliva, and returned it to her rear entrance, pushing in with an insistence that brooked no opposition.