by Lavinia Kent
He nodded, suddenly unsure of his words as emotion undid him.
He would deal with the practical. Turning, he looked at the bed, grabbed a couple of the pillows, and placed them for her hips. They would provide extra cushioning and allow him to position her however he wished. “I want you on your back. I want to see your face, your eyes. Is that a problem? Do you think you would be more comfortable if your ass were not pressed to the pillows?”
“And would you not be pressing into my ass?” she asked.
Cocky minx. He had been looking for a yes or no, but he would let it pass. “On your back then. I will enjoy playing with your breasts, teasing them until they can take no more.”
She shifted from foot to foot, her breath growing rapid and shallow. He could see her nipples peak against the thin fabric. Yes, there were very subtle forms of playful retaliation—and forced anticipation was one of them.
He looked over the bed, turned away from her. “Take off your dress. Lay it over the chair. Then get on the bed—in the middle. Be sure your hips are on the pillows, that you are comfortable.”
“Aren’t you going to …?”
“I think it is time for you to be silent.” He did not look back at her. If she wished this to be, and to go on, she would need to learn not to question, to learn that he had reasons for what he asked. He walked to the dining table and lifted his wine, taking a deep swallow, and then another.
Calm. He needed calm. Calm and control.
He closed his eyes and gathered himself.
The floorboards creaked as she shifted to remove her gown. He heard the sound of her steps as she laid it upon the back of the chair. Someday he would fuck her in that chair, her legs spread wide over the arms, first with his tongue and then with his cock. Maybe he’d even pull out a mirror and some toys.
Blast. The things this woman did to him. He’d come in tonight wondering if they’d ever have sex again, if only to procure an heir, come in unsure if he’d ever find the courage to touch her after what she’d been exposed to, and now his mind was filled with ties and dildos. Gods, he just wanted to fuck her, to pound himself into her hard and fast. How had this turnabout happened so quickly? And yet, he wanted so much more. More than sex. He wanted to cherish her, forever. Was there any more frightening thought a man could have?
The bed groaned as she climbed into it. He heard the pillows shift and a slight sigh from her as she settled herself. Had it hurt much lying down? He hoped not, trusted not.
And, Gods, if she didn’t hurry he was going to explode, here and now. He reached down and pressed a hand tight against his swollen shaft, willing it to obedience.
He waited.
A sudden meow broke the silence.
He turned just as Charlie jumped onto the bed, eager for his mistress’s caress.
Doing his best to ignore his naked wife, Swanston marched to the bed, patted the cat once, then lifted him, strode to the connecting door to her chamber, and placed him on the other side of it.
The cat might have led him here, but some things needed no audience.
He turned to his wife. Was that a smile playing about her lips? He adopted a firm expression. Yes, that definitely was a smile.
And what did it say that he was staring at his naked wife, spread across his bed, and the first thing he noticed was her smile?
He strode over to the bed, fighting the grin that played about his own lips.
She was so beautiful. He could probably just sit and watch her and think that thought over and over for the next few hours. He’d certainly thought it enough tonight. He glanced at the fire, which heated the already warm room—and she wouldn’t even get cold.
He shook his head slightly.
The woman clearly had him bewitched. When did a man think about just looking instead of doing? Part of being a man was that the looking was all about thinking about the doing. He shook his head again.
God, she was beautiful; he didn’t even attempt to stop the thought. Her mane of hair spread about his pillows like a mermaid’s. Her full lips beckoned him, their succulent fullness drawing him closer, leading to thoughts that definitely needed to wait a few days. Her dark eyes whispered of longing and desire.
And her breasts—if he’d been a poet he could have written sonnets about the full globes, about their sharp rose-colored tips, crying to be touched, pulled, teased, suckled, nipped.
His arousal pressed hard against his trousers, but he ignored it. That was for later.
Picking up the scarves, he walked to the foot of the great bed. He’d never had another woman here, never tied a woman here, but he’d certainly thought about it.
Her legs were close together, ankles touching, in the center of the bed. He lifted one of her dainty feet and, after placing a quick kiss upon the arch, wrapped a strip of the emerald silk about it, careful not to pull it too tight, but making sure that the knot would hold. He pushed her leg to the side until the silk reached to the great post at the corner of the bed. A quick knot and she was secure. Repeating the process with the other leg, he kept his gaze on her face as he pulled her legs apart, watched her awareness of just how far she would be spread, of how open she would be.
Pearly teeth came out and nibbled at her lower lip; her breath grew shallow, but she said nothing, her eyes focused on his hands.
He would have to remember to be sure they had longer scarves. These were great for the moment, when he wished her to have very little movement, but there were many activities that might require a little more … flexibility.
When both legs were secure, he took a step back and surveyed her. It was better than any of his fantasies. Her legs looked endless in their vibrant bonds, and the pillows angled her up so that all—and it truly was all—was revealed to him. Now he was the one to bite down on his lips, as he forced his eyes away, his mouth watering with the desire to taste her.
Moving to the side of the bed, he took up the red silk scarf and gestured for her hands. He bound her wrists tight together, testing to be sure the bonds were not too tight and that there was no chafing as a result of her time with the Countess, and then drew them high over her head. He grabbed another scarf and tied it to the end of the first until it was long enough to reach the single finial that decorated the center of the headboard. He pulled it tight, and then tighter still. Her breasts arched from the bed as the bonds pulled at her.
He waited a moment to see if she would complain, to be sure she was comfortable, and then knotted the silk.
He stepped from the bed and again looked over her.
Perfection. White flesh and colorful silk, her whole body open for his gaze, for his pleasure. Helpless. Vulnerable. His.
As he was hers.
Damnation, but he wanted her. Wanted her now.
He strode back to the dining table and turned the chair until it faced her. He sat, lifted up his wine, took a slow sip, then wet his lips with his tongue.
She gave the slightest groan. He took another sip, repeated the gesture.
Her whole focus was upon his mouth, her thoughts clearly on what exactly he might do.
He smiled and lifted the fork, taking a large bite of the ham. A man did need his strength.
He leaned back in the chair and watched her.
She clearly wanted to protest, but held back her words, her eyes questioning.
Under other circumstances he could have stayed like this for a good hour, watching her and waiting, but he did not wish to overwork her sore muscles.
He stood again and walked to his dresser, opening a lower drawer. First he pulled out a short wide candle in a quite large shallow holder. It was designed not to tip—no matter what. He lit it quickly with one of the other candles and then placed it on the bed so that it illuminated her sweet cunny, her honey glistening in the flickering light.
Her eyes grew wide. Surely, he thought, she did not know all the uses for candles and hot wax? Tonight he wanted only extra illumination.
He walked back to the dresse
r and looked in the drawer again. His own bottle of cinnamon oil sat there. He would have to dispose of it. He did not ever wish to smell that scent again. He pulled out a small satin bag and then another larger one. He placed them upon the dinner table. He opened a box of clamps and then shut it again with a click. No. Definitely not. Perhaps never again.
He lifted another bottle of musky oil. This one didn’t cause sensations, but was perfect for a massage.
He placed it on the table beside the two bags. The drawer shut with a click and he retook his chair.
Opening the first bag, he pulled out a string of large pearls with no clasp. Playing with them, he slid them from hand to hand. He glanced up at his wife and saw her curious gaze. Aah, there were some things she still did not know. Things he would enjoy teaching her.
He let the beads roll through his fingers one more time, then placed them on the table.
Opening the second bag, he watched her eyes grow large, her anticipation palpable.
He ran the strands of the suede flogger across his palm before laying it on the table.
Chapter Thirty-five
He’d taken out a whip.
Her eyes focused on it, taking in every strand of the leather.
She stopped breathing.
Was she frightened? She knew she should be; after everything that had happened, how could she not be? She was tied to a bed unable to move and Geoffrey had taken out a whip.
Yes, she should be frightened.
But she wasn’t, not the least iota.
She drew a deep breath in, watched as Geoffrey’s eyes followed the rise of her breasts, felt the power of that look.
Geoffrey was holding a whip and she was anything but frightened.
Her legs longed to clench tight, her skin tingled, but with anticipation, not fear.
Geoffrey would not hurt her, would never hurt her.
Closing her eyes, she let that realization settle about her.
She’d known that Geoffrey would never hurt her, but now, in this moment, she truly understood. Geoffrey would never hurt her, and he had brought out the whip to prove that to her.
Opening her eyes again, she stared at the thing.
It was very different from the crop. That had been hard leather. This looked almost soft, soft and velvety. Would it even hurt? She wasn’t sure.
Deep breath. Deep breath.
But he’d promised not to whip her, said he didn’t feel the need.
But what if she wanted him to? Even a few moments ago that would have seemed impossible, but now, as she looked at the soft fronds, she wondered, wondered what they’d feel like running along her body, wondered if they’d sting, or if they’d heighten her senses.
God, how could she be thinking these things after …
Trust.
This was all about trust.
That was the only important thing here and now.
She’d said that she needed to move past yesterday, to put it all behind her.
Perhaps he did too.
Perhaps he needed to see her trust in him.
Taking another deep breath, watching his eyes follow her movement, she let her body soften into the bed, gave him her most inviting glance.
Was he ever going to come to her? She’d thought this would all proceed much faster once she was on the bed.
As if sensing her thoughts, he relaxed his face and eased forward in the chair, letting his legs spread wide.
His eyes met hers and held. Yes, he liked what he saw, liked the sight of her awaiting his pleasure.
Her eyes were drawn to the heavy bulge between his legs. He saw her glance, and grinned.
When had Geoffrey begun to grin with such candor? She wanted to be there with him, to touch him, to feel him. Pulling slightly against her bonds, she longed to ask him to free her.
His large hand reached down to cup himself through the fabric, outlining the thickness of his shaft.
Her mouth grew dry and then filled with moisture. An ache grew between her legs.
Why had he forbidden her to taste him? Yes, her cheeks were sore, but …
He stroked himself through the fabric, and then loosed the buttons. His cock sprang free in an instant, reaching for her—although perhaps only in her mind.
He grasped it firmly, wrapping his fingers around the heavy shaft. With his other hand he reached out and lifted the small bottle from the table, popping the cork with his thumb. It looked like the bottle of oil the Countess had used yesterday, and Louisa waited for the smell of cinnamon to assault her nostrils. Instead the scent of something masculine and musky came to her.
She watched as he shook some of the oil onto one hand and then began to spread it over his cock, the skin shining as he drew it tight. Her mouth watered, her whole being focused on his moving hands. He cupped his balls with one hand and kept the fingers of the other wrapped about his shaft.
She watched, enraptured, as he began to move his grip up and down, his hips rising slightly to thrust against his palm.
It was one of the most erotic sights she had ever seen.
Was this what he’d done that first night at Madame’s when she’d been blindfolded?
Moisture was pooling between her thighs, and she could only hope she was not dripping on the coverlet. Longing to press her thighs tight, to ease the growing ache, all she could do was stare at him as he stared at her.
His hands might be upon his prick, but his whole focus was upon her.
She opened her mouth, wet her lips, licked them again and again.
He began to move faster, each movement of his hand met by one of his hips.
His muscles strained. She could see the cords standing out in his thighs and neck, see him fighting toward the goal.
“God, Louisa,” he murmured, his gaze burning into her, his focus complete.
She wanted to answer, but remembered his desire for her silence.
She licked her lips again, opening them a little wider.
Aah, he liked her mouth. He liked it a lot. He thought he could wait days to let her use it. She’d just see about that.
Keeping her eyes focused on his moving hand, his jerking cock, she allowed herself to imagine tasting him, licking him, taking his thickness between her lips, feeling him thrust against the back of her throat, softening herself for him.
Could he see her thoughts? She rather thought he could.
He was groaning now, short, fast sounds that came with each thrust.
Hips lifted from the chair, thighs tightened. His fingers clenched and released, his mouth stretched with strain.
With a sudden jerk, he grabbed a napkin from the table, covering himself as a long cry left his lips.
Her gaze focused on the white linen cloth, watched it move and dampen. She could see his seed stain it as he thrust again and again into it.
Then he was still, his whole body collapsing into the chair, his eyes drifting closed.
She wanted to protest. It could not be over. It had not even begun.
And then his eyes sprang open—staring into her, seeking her soul.
That had taken the edge off—but only the edge. He hadn’t meant to give her a show, but when he’d seen her look as he took out the flogger it had overwhelmed him. He’d thought to see fear—and instead trust had radiated from her. Trust and anticipation—and perhaps the slightest edge of anxiety at the unknown.
Could there be a more intoxicating combination? Not for him.
It had been either pound into her with no preliminaries—and she was still hurting—or pleasure himself. There had been no other choice.
Even his vaunted control went only so far.
And the expression she’d had as she watched him … He’d found as much pleasure watching her as he had touching himself.
Well, he knew that might be an exaggeration, but not by much.
He remembered that first night at Ruby’s when he’d done much the same thing. If he’d known then what it would be like to have her watch, to have
her eyes devour him, her blindfold would have lasted only seconds.
Everything about her fascinated him, delighted him.
Wiping himself clean, he tossed the napkin on the stones of the hearth and refastened himself. Even that simple gesture had him half-hard already. There was something about being clothed while Louisa lay before him naked that caused the fire in his belly to fan and grow.
He gathered the oil, the pearls, and the flogger and walked over to the bed.
Louisa turned her head as far as she could, watching him, watching the flogger.
He placed the oil and the pearls upon the bedside table and then, taking the flogger with him, moved to stand beside her.
“You want to know about this, don’t you?” He held it up and then lowered it so its long tails danced just above her belly. Her skin trembled.
She nodded.
“You are correct that it is a whip, but it is so much more than that,” he said.
She nodded again, but he could see excitement course through her body, tensing every muscle. He just might need that massage oil.
He lowered the flogger until it barely touched her skin, then drew it back and forth in a slow stroke. “I’ve always liked to think of it like a feather, the softest of touches that teases and plays.” He ran it up to her breasts and then from one pebbled nipple to the other. They grew even tighter as the flogger floated over them, the pink skin darkening. “I debated whether to bring it out, but tonight is about trust and growth. I needed to feel your trust. And I do.”
Trailing the flogger from peaked nipple to peaked nipple, he watched her respond, watched her eyes dilate, watched them follow every movement of the whip. Her whole body trembled with pleasure.
He’d just come, yet his cock was already straining at his trousers again.
He let the soft suede play across her belly, watching each shiver, and then drew it up and down the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. A soft mew escaped her lips.
“You like that, do you?” He repeated the process until she moaned and strained against her ties—and not in an effort to escape. He was going to have her begging before the night was through.