Bad Kitty

by Debra Glass

  Katrina’s breath caught when the big door swung open and a maid skittered out, rubbing her backside with both hands. Katrina felt her eyes widen as the maid gave her a red-faced look and then disappeared down the hall.

  Heavens. What had she gotten herself into?

  She had dressed like a boy to spy on various men of the ton to get fodder for her articles. She had eavesdropped on ladies while recording their conversations in her notebook. But she had never gone this far before.

  Never.

  The fiend himself appeared in the doorway. His sun-burnished cheeks were flushed and one corner of his full lips twisted up in a smug smile.

  Oh God, what did he just do to that woman?

  Katrina’s heart pounded.

  “Miss…Hartley, is it?” he asked, his eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly as he took in her appearance. His smile faded.

  Katrina cleared her throat. Her gaze clashed with his before she reminded herself she was supposed to behave like a maid. Standing, she kept her chin and eyes down as she dropped into a curtsey.

  Bram flattened himself against the door to admit her but not so much that Katrina could not pass by him without her arm brushing his broad chest. Common sense screamed at her to turn and run from this place as quickly as her feet would carry her but she tamped her terror down.

  Once this initial meeting was over, she could go about her business of collecting information for her story. She could save other women from the humiliations this man foisted on ladies like the unfortunate duchess and that poor maid who had left this room like a whipped pup.

  A shiver tore through Katrina when she heard the door close behind her. Heart fluttering, she felt like a fox pursued by bloodthirsty hounds as the fiend stalked up behind her.

  His hands cupped her shoulders and Katrina jolted at the unexpected touch. Heat from his palms radiated through her black cotton sleeves, mingling with the furious burning of the blood in her veins as it raced from the back of her neck to her cheeks.

  She tensed.

  “What is your given name?” he asked, his mouth only inches from her ear.

  “K-Kitty,” she stammered, using the nickname her father had called her before his death.

  “Well, Kitty,” he purred. “You are aware why women sign on in my service, are you not?”

  She swallowed. Hard. “Yes.” Really, she had only a naïve inkling.

  “Good. Then there will be no mistaking my commands,” he said and gave her shoulders a little squeeze before he released her and moved behind his desk.

  With grace that seemed impossible for a man his size, he sat in his chair and appraised her.

  Kitty kept her eyes lowered. She didn’t dare look at him.

  After what seemed like an eternity, he spoke. “You don’t seem like the women who usually come to me. Are you certain you are in the right place?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Then what am I to call you?” She made the mistake of lifting her shocked gaze to his.

  A half-smile played on his lips. “You may call me…Master.”

  That heat in Kitty’s face began to trickle downward. She resisted the urge to bite her lip and instead, she pushed her spectacles up on her nose.

  “Once again, Kitty,” he said, emphasizing her name. “Are you certain you are in the right place?”

  “Yes.”

  The fiend raised a black eyebrow.

  “Yes, Master,” Kitty added.

  His gaze moved down her body with deliberate slowness and despite herself, Kitty felt her nipples tightening against her cotton chemise. Her thighs trembled as if the lecher could see straight through her clothes.

  “I am a difficult man to please,” he said, and Kitty had the distinct feeling he was baiting her.

  But for what reason?

  His gaze traveled back up to her eyes and Kitty once more lowered her gaze.

  “When are your menses?” he inquired bluntly.

  Somehow, she stifled a gasp. “Pardon me?”

  “Your menses. Your curse. When is it?”

  Her face flamed. “What does…that…have to do with anything?”

  He laughed as if she should know the answer to that question. “I need to know when to give you the week off. Now, when is it?”

  Kitty still could not comprehend his meaning. Did he think menstruating women were unclean? Did he find them distasteful? New ire for him smoldered within her. “If you must know, I had my courses just this last week.”

  He stared as if awaiting something else.

  Realization flooded her. “Master,” she added quickly.

  He relaxed into his chair. “Take off your clothes.”

  Kitty’s gaze collided with Bram’s. “Sir?” Certainly she’d heard him incorrectly.

  “My dear, are you hard of hearing?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “No, Master.”

  “Take off your clothes. Strip. Down to your drawers. Now. I shall not repeat myself again, Kitty.”

  Her lips parted to ask him why but he leaned forward in his chair. “Now!”

  Kitty stared, debating. She could leave now. She could refuse. But then she would not have her story.

  But dear Lord, what would he do to her?

  Fear swamped her and she trembled as she reached for the buttons at her throat. She could not tolerate this. She could not submit to this.

  “Get on with it,” he urged.

  Her breathing quickened as, with shaking fingers, she undid the row of buttons down the front of her dress. Whatever was the purpose of this?

  The earl gestured with his hands. “Off with it, girl.”

  Hesitantly, Kitty pushed one sleeve down and then the other until her bodice hung around her waist and she stood with her top bared to her thin cotton chemise. Without looking down, she knew her nipples were pebbled and blatantly visible and the way his gaze fixed on them made Kitty even more aware of her breasts. She moved to cover them.

  “Don’t you dare,” he warned, his gaze warming as it lifted to hers. “The skirt as well.”

  Kitty’s breath left her body in a ragged rush. No! Her brain screamed the word and yet her fingers untied her apron and let it fall to the floor. She could hardly believe it when her hands began unhooking the fastenings of her black broadcloth skirt. The fabric whispered downward, settling in a pool around her ankles.

  Bram stood and Kitty’s knees went weak. Would he bend her over his desk and take her like he had the duchess?

  Somewhere in Kitty’s mind it occurred to her if word got out that she, a chaste woman, was standing here in dishabille in this lecher’s study, she would be ruined, without any prospect for marriage.

  But what did that matter?

  She never intended to marry anyway and there was her article to think of.

  “Is your thatch as blonde as the hair on your head?” he asked.

  “Sir!” Kitty said, aghast.

  Every muscle in her body grew taut as he came around the desk, his eyes narrowed into slits. “That is a fine chemise for a servant girl,” he said knowingly.

  Kitty tore her gaze from his and cast her eyes to the floor. She had already overstepped the boundaries of any servant. She shook as he came impossibly closer.

  “I paid you a compliment, girl.”

  “T-thank you…Master.”

  His devilish chuckle infuriated Kitty but she keep her eyes down while her mind raced at what he might do next. She was in over her head and she realized it. Common sense told her that as soon as she got out of this room, she should leave this place and forget she had ever come here.

  “Now, are you going to answer my question or am I going to have to coax it out of you?” Bram asked, dragging her back to the present.

  “Question?” What had he asked her again?

  “Your thatch,” he ground out.

  Kitty’s breath caught. “I’m not sure, Master,” she muttered. She was not about to confirm
it was, in fact, the same color. What did he take her for? The same sort of licentious libertine as himself?

  “Then let’s have a look at it.”

  Her gaze swiveled to his. He could not be serious.

  Oh, but he was.

  This close, she could see that his eyes were the color of polished silver. This close, she could smell the scent of him, of his masculinity tangled with something spicy and clean. His hair was the blue-black of a raven’s wing and one dimple played on his otherwise chiseled cheek. A combination of chills and perspiration trickled down her spine.

  “Draw up your chemise, Kitty,” he said, his voice low and husky like the rough nap of velvet brushed backward.

  Everything Kitty had ever been taught about propriety and being a lady simmered beneath her frightened surface but still her hands were already clenching the flimsy fabric, pulling it up, higher and higher.

  Cool air brushed her stocking-clad legs and the tops of her thighs, which were bare. Underneath she wore short cotton drawers, the only barrier preventing him from seeing her femininity.

  “Remove your chemise, Kitty.” It was a command.

  Something deep inside her clenched in anticipation as she drew the fabric up and over her head. Instinctively she attempted to cover her bare breasts with her chemise but Bram took it, tossed it across the room and caught her hands in his before she could move.

  Kitty could hardly swallow as his eyes drank in the sight of her breasts, of her diamond-hard nipples. She held her breath, afraid of the slightest movement.

  His hands were hot as coals on her wrists and she wondered what that same heat would feel like if he cupped her breasts or if he tugged on her nipples the way he had the duchess’s.

  “Do not cover yourself,” he said as he released her.

  A surge of something akin to disappointment swept through her at the sudden absence of his touch.

  “Now,” he said. “Take down your drawers.”

  Kitty’s heart ran wild as she tugged the drawstring that held up her cotton drawers. She even felt as if her pulse were beating in the crevice between her legs but the thought of exposing herself to this rake suddenly became unthinkable. How dare he ask her, a supposed maid in his service, to represent herself to him this way!

  “No,” she said with authority.

  He laughed and Kitty’s cheeks burned with shame and anger. She clenched her fists to keep from slapping the grin right off his face. This was enough. She had no business here. She started to dip to retrieve her clothes but he caught her and, before she could cry out, he had her bent over his desk.

  His knee pushed between hers, prodding her legs apart as he easily held both her wrists in one hand and pinned them behind her back.

  Kitty bucked until a resounding slap landed on her buttock. Shock immobilized her. Heat radiated through her bottom and, as the sting subsided, something else replaced it.

  Something delicious that seemed to prick that throbbing between her legs, making it more acute, almost painful.

  Part of her was humiliated beyond belief and another part of her yearned for him to do it again.

  Would he?

  She struggled.

  Once more, the firm hand found its target.

  Kitty heard a sigh and realized it was her own voice, sounding very reminiscent of the moans the duchess had made in the bushes that night. This should have been the most humiliating moment of her life and yet Kitty’s body rebelled against propriety, wanting more.

  “Are you ready to pull down your drawers and show me your cunny, Kitty?”

  Her pulse thrummed through her veins in a slow, steady, thick throb and all she could think about was assuaging this yearning between her legs.

  What was she considering?

  This man was a fiend. A deviant!

  But he had her in a vise hold and there was nothing—absolutely nothing—she could do or say now other than yes. Her total loss of control filled her with dark desire she could not explain.

  She simply could not agree to it, though. When she had come here to spy on him, to reveal all the horrible things he had done, how could she willingly pull down her drawers like a common doxy and show him her virtue?

  “No,” she said, knowing he would surely punish her for insubordination and instinctively her bottom raised a fraction of an inch, awaiting the sting, the throb, the heat.

  “So that’s the way of it, is it?” he asked, his voice terse, strained.

  Kitty swallowed thickly, listening to the hoarse sound of his breathing, feeling the tension of his thigh that was pressed against hers. But there was more… Oh God, no.

  His phallus!

  And it was hard as stone.

  But there was no time to consider what he might do with that thing. His palm fell on her bottom and she pressed her lips together to keep from crying out. Again and then again.

  Kitty’s forehead fell to the cool, polished wood of the desk. Her channel tightened over and over until she felt something wet oozing down her thigh. What was happening to her? She should be horrified at herself. Any sane person would have already agreed to his demands. It was almost as if, by her refusal, she was giving him permission to…spank…her into submission.

  With each new slap she whimpered, dying for the fire between her legs to be quelled.

  His hips rocked against her thigh and she suddenly knew she wanted that thing inside her. She wanted him doing to her what he had done to the duchess—and the shocking realization she wanted such a thing made her think she deserved the punishment the earl was meting out to her.

  “Do you burn for me?” he demanded. Again his voice was rough. “Do you tingle here?”

  Kitty gasped as his fingers sought through her drawers the part of her that ached for him. She rocked toward his hand like an animal but he quickly withdrew it. Inside she was screaming, begging for him to touch her, as if his touch could somehow magically make this carnal ache go away.

  He released one of her hands. “Touch yourself.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Do it, now. Pleasure yourself,” he commanded.

  When she hesitated, another slap landed on her buttocks.

  And then, as if she had lost all sense of control and decorum, Kitty pushed her hand between her legs and began to furiously rub the hard little nub that so ached for this man’s touch.

  It feels so good…

  She had never known a person could find such pleasure at their own fingertips, and while she struggled to attain something she did not yet understand, Bram soothed her stinging buttocks, kneading and rubbing and encouraging her.

  “I smell your cream,” he muttered, rocking against her thigh. “Are you close, Kitty? Yes, that’s it, darling. Let it come.”

  Kitty’s knees buckled as something wonderful exploded between her legs, sending waves of mind-numbing bliss through her body. She rode it, feeling herself growing even wetter through her drawers and then, when the last of the spasms in her channel melted away, she grew still.

  Shame flooded her.

  How could she have willingly committed such lewd and sinful acts?

  Bram released her other wrist and moved away, leaving her feeling completely fallen and disgraced. “Get off my desk. Dress yourself.”

  Some part of her wanted to play the game again, wanted him to ask to see her, wanted him to throw her down on the carpet and rut inside her to bring her to that bliss all over again.

  He moved to the window with his back to her. “Are you certain you want to remain in my service?”

  This was her way out. She should grab this opportunity and tell him what she thought of him and run for her life.

  Instead, she said, “Yes, Master.”

  Chapter Three

  Bloody damn hell.

  Bram kept his back turned while he heard her scraping up her clothes and donning them.

  He knew if he turned around, she would not make it out of this room with her virginity intact. He inhaled sharply and immed
iately wished he had not done so. The room was fragrant with her cream, with the scent of her unsullied sex.

  He swallowed. What on earth was a woman like Katrina Hartford doing disguising herself as a maid?

  It made no sense.

  Unless she, like so many others, sought him out for the taboo pleasures only he could provide them…

  He had known from the beginning she was not Kitty Hartley the maid, but instead the haughty creature he had seen at the Duke of Blakemore’s party.

  But why was she here? Most women who sought his services were married and had long since become bored with their bed partners.

  Bram recalled his friend telling him that Katrina Hartford had refused the suit of anyone who’d proposed courtship to her. That did not sound like a woman who wanted what Bram had to offer. No. There was certainly some ulterior motive that had brought the curious Miss Hartford to his doorstep.

  Bram’s conscience prodded him to turn around, to expose her identity and send her packing, but the memory of her body convulsing on her own hand—and knowing full well it was the first time she had ever known such sensations—filled him with the desire to learn more, to watch her learn more.

  He had seen women in the thrall of deriving pleasure from punishments but, by God, he had never before seen one so thoroughly succumb to the sensual delights the body had to offer. Not like that. Not so quickly.

  He shifted from one foot to the other, clenching his teeth at the swell of his cock struggling against the confines of his breeches. An image welled in his thoughts of bursting through her maidenhead and then finding the little death inside her treasures.

  Every muscle in Bram’s body grew taut.

  Of course, he would not fuck her.

  He was a beast but he was not a goddamn beast.

  No. He would and could control his libido and Katrina Hartford would leave here as the virgin she had arrived. There were many other things two people could do that did not involve the actual act of copulating.

  Still, the desire had welled in him so strongly, it had taken every ounce of restraint he possessed not to rip off her drawers and plunge his cock up her cunny. Something told him she would have allowed it. Welcomed it even. Propriety be damned.

  He had offered every opening for her to leave, to stop, but she had not. She had stayed. She had pulled off her clothes with the exception of her drawers, she had submitted to being spanked.