by Susan Stoker
“Are you?” She lowered her lashes. “Pleased?”
“Look at me,” I murmured, tapping her cheek. When she lifted her eyes, I smiled. “Not yet.”
She blushed. “You need to punish me first?”
My smile grew wider. “Yes, certainly that. More than one punishment, baby. Many, many punishments. But I won’t be pleased until you get on my jet and fly back to my country with me.”
She swallowed and pushed herself up on her elbows, her perky breasts bouncing with the movement.
“The queen wishes you to be the official biographer of the royal family.”
Her pretty lips parted.
“It would mean moving to my country. It might take a while. Years, even. But at least when you found yourself bound to my bed, you would know you didn’t give up your career for a man.”
She gaped, but still didn’t speak. I did my best to hide the tension building in me. I needed her answer. Needed this settled.
“I would have to punish you every night. It might take me a long time to forgive you for leaving me. You fucking broke my heart, Chelsea.”
I hadn’t meant to lay it all out there, but there it was.
Chelsea burst into tears. “I broke mine, too. I’m so stupid and stubborn. I don’t know why I couldn’t trust you and let down my walls. I’ve regretted it a million times these past two months.”
“You chose a story over me.” There it was. I thought I’d reconciled her actions, but her choice still hurt. Even if she did keep my collar on.
“I thought… I thought I was choosing my life over someone else’s. I was wrong. I should have realized that you might be my life.”
I stroked her cheek, all my last reservations washed away.
“I always thought I’d lose myself with a man. I was so afraid.” She swallowed the thickness in her throat. “But after I left Ibiza, I realized I was more myself with you than anyone else. Maybe that’s what scared me. You saw—see—the real me. You know the real me. You may not have known my name, but you had my number from the very beginning. So I clung to the one thing I could keep from you—my identity. The one separation. I was so terrified to stay with you and lose myself. Or worse—that you wouldn’t want to keep me after that week.”
“I wanted to keep you from the moment I saw you, baby. You’re this crazy blend of innocence and sophistication, of youth and maturity, intelligence and naiveté.” I cleared my throat, fighting the lump in it. “I’ve been a disappointment to everyone in my life, but you… made me into a hero.”
“You are a hero,” she whispered, bringing her bound hands to my face.
I unwound her bra from her wrists.
“To me, to Kaspar, to Madison, even though she didn’t deserve it. To everyone around you. How many times have you taken the fall for someone else? You’ve probably been doing it your whole life, haven’t you?”
I blinked, shocked by how bright she made my existence appear.
She gripped my face between her two hands. “I’m not going to let you do it anymore. I’m your official biographer and I’m going to show you who you are.”
I went still. “Does that mean you’ll come?”
She nibbled her lower lip. “What will I be to you, if I do?” Her voice was no more than a whisper.
I knew this was serious, but I couldn’t help myself. I pushed her onto her back and straddled her waist, slipping a finger under the cord that served as her collar. “You’ll be my slave, baby. My duchess. Whatever the hell you want to be.” I caressed her cheek, dropping the dominance. “I need you in my life. In my bed. I need you on that jet by morning, Chelsea. Will you come?”
Her smile lit the entire room. “Yes.” She blinked back tears. “I’d love to be your slave. Maybe duchess, too. Can we see how it goes?”
I quirked a wry smile. “We can try. You’ve seen how possessive I am. I’m going to want to push you into every kind of commitment I can get, but I’ll try to give you space.”
She shook her head and reached for me, pulling my mouth down to hers. “No space. Just you. That’s all I need.”
~The End~
About Renee Rose
USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR RENEE ROSE is a naughty wordsmith who writes kinky BDSM novels. Named Eroticon USA's Next Top Erotic Author in 2013, she also won The Romance Reviews' Best Historical Romance, and Spanking Romance Reviews' Best Sci-fi, Paranormal, Historical, Erotic, Ageplay and favorite couple and author. She's hit #1 on Amazon in multiple categories in the U.S. and U.K., is often found on the list of Amazon's Top Author list. She also pens BDSM stories under the name Darling Adams.
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A Rakehell’s Heart by Annabel Joseph
Chapter One
In the faraway kingdom of Hastings, long ago
A crisp knock sounded from the door of Gideon’s dressing chamber. “Your Royal Highness, I beg you, time is of the essence.”
“I know, old man.” Prince Gideon of Hastings looked down at Adele’s bouncing, honey-colored curls as she slid her mouth up and down his cock. “Timing is everything.”
Unfortunately, his new princess had arrived at the exact moment his former governess was feeling amorous. Whenever Adele sought Gideon out, he did what he could to satisfy her—and oh, how talented she was at satisfying him.
“Yes, my darling,” he said, stroking her shoulder. “You mustn’t rush. The rest of the world can go to the devil.”
Bertram’s gruff voice sounded again from the other side of the door, a concerted effort of throat-clearing and coughing followed by the harshest warning his valet dared to give. “Your Highness, if you do not appear below, your mother and father will come upstairs to see what detains you.”
“They can come if they wish,” he sang out with no shame. “I won’t greet my princess until I’ve come too.”
“Your Highness, please.”
Bert sounded desperate. Out of respect for the elderly retainer, Gideon tried to muffle the growls of pleasure rising in his throat. He took Adele’s head between his hands, stilling her—momentarily—so he could find the wherewithal to speak.
“Tell my parents I’m too ill to come down at present. Some bad fish at dinner, and I’ve taken to my bed. Have them offer some flowery compliments to my bride on my behalf, and tell her I’ll greet her tomorrow at breakfast.”
Bertram sighed so loudly he could hear it through the door. “As you wish, Your Highness.”
Gideon released Adele’s head as the old man shuffled away. He’d had a younger valet once, but that one had resigned his job because of an “excess of debauchery” in the prince’s life. In truth, Gideon had been a bit of a hellraiser at that time, but youth will be youth. He was twenty-six now, and done with sloppy, drunken antics.
Well, mostly.
“Yes, just like that,” he sighed. He pushed away a half-empty glass of wine and leaned back near the window as Adele bathed his shaft with her avid tongue. Her enthusiasm was unmatched, so he was glad she’d stayed on as a Lady of the Chamber once her governess duties were no longer necessary. “Oh, my pretty, you know so well how to please me.”
As she serviced him, he saw the first of several carriages roll up to the palace’s main courtyard. The one at the front was a behemoth contraption staffed by a dozen or more grooms and porters, all wearing the livery of the King of Carlisle, the most powerful monarch west of Hastings’ kingdom. His bride must be inside, the dark-haired, dark-eyed Princess Cassandra. Gideon had never met her, only seen paintings and miniatures that her family had sent when the betrothal documents were signed.
“Christ on the cross!” he moaned as Adele located the sensitive bit of skin behind
his balls. What was worse, taking the Lord’s name in vain during an enthusiastic bout of fellatio, or wallowing in that fellatio when he ought to have been greeting his future wife? “You’ll kill me, Adele. I think you want to kill me.”
“No, Your Highness,” she murmured against his cock, peering up at him. “I only want to please you.”
She set about doing that so well that he forgot about the window, the carriage, and the royal princess who rode within. He much preferred common women, with their simple, sensual appetites. Besides Adele, there were a few other palace maids who enjoyed his company for the price of a few coins and an extra portion of silk or wine. He supposed those dalliances must come to an end, at least temporarily.
He pushed such thoughts from his mind to draw the last few shudders of bliss from this lovely, if ill-timed, tryst in his bachelor bedroom. In a few days, he’d move into the east wing with his new bride, into a suite of rooms with nurseries for children, and a salon and drawing room to be decorated to his wife’s tastes. Salacious interludes like this would become rarer, so he was determined to enjoy Adele’s mouth while he had it.
It was in this resigned but ecstatic state that he emptied himself into the back of his former governess’s throat.
She was not a romantic, his Adele. As soon as he finished groaning and twitching, she pulled away and stood to look out into the courtyard, taking care not to be seen by the milling dignitaries and servants below. Gideon joined her a moment later, looking over her shoulder.
“Do you see my fiancée?” he asked.
“There are your mother and father, so that must be her in the gray cloak.”
The crowd parted, drawing his gaze. A giant man in purple robes approached his parents, extending a hand in welcome. The King of Carlisle, no doubt. The man turned to his daughter, urging her forward. She complied reluctantly. One of his big paws pushed back the hood of her unembellished cloak, revealing a small, dark head piled with tightly braided hair. She accepted his parents’ greetings with her gaze trained on her toes.
He’d expected his princess to look grander, with sparkling jewels, bright silks, and a dashing capelet. Hastings’ servants dressed better than his future bride.
“She’s so…my goodness, Gideon. What’s the word? Shy? Demure?” said Adele.
“Mousey is more to the point.” He watched the princess pause before the great doors of the palace. This wasn’t an execution, for God’s sake. She wouldn’t even lift her head.
Gideon frowned. “What do you think is wrong with her?”
“She doesn’t want to marry you,” Adele replied with no regard for his feelings. Not that he had any when it came to Princess Cassandra. He couldn’t be bothered to care if his bride was willing or not. Either way, she’d have to stand beside him at the altar and give herself into his keeping. It wasn’t as if she gained nothing in return—she’d be the High Queen of Hastings one day.
He turned away with a grunt. “I’m sure she’ll prove a perfect, angelic little martyr. Just the sort of princess my parents would choose for me.”
“You did ask them to pick whoever they thought most appropriate.”
“A demure wife is not an appropriate choice for me.”
“You must not make her miserable.” Adele held up a finger, wagging it beneath his nose. “I taught you better than that.”
He pushed her finger away, impatient with the conversation. He wouldn’t go out of his way to make his new wife unhappy, but she’d piqued his temper with her timid mien and bleak attire. Who wouldn’t be pleased to marry him? Who wouldn’t be ecstatic to be chosen as his bride?
The Princess of Carlisle, apparently. Damn his luck.
He’d have to sneak into her chamber later, when everyone was abed, and show her the sort of man she was betrothed to. He was a bold, sensual prince, a future monarch, so her timid manner would not do. And those ghastly braids coiled about her head?
Surely her lady’s maid took them down for the princess to sleep. He wanted to see her dark hair long and loose, flowing over her shoulders. If her hair looked pretty, he’d run his fingers through it. Yes, for certain he would. When Cassandra was his wife, he’d touch her at will, so she might as well start getting used to such treatment. Maybe he’d kiss and caress her in the dark to see how she responded. If she responded.
He hoped his princess would not be so demure with her tight braids unbound.
***
Cassandra woke in the middle of a dream she couldn’t remember. She peeked over the top of the covers, looking around the huge bedchamber where she’d been left for the night.
What was that sound? Had she imagined it? Everything at Hastings Palace was so different and daunting, from the long, soaring corridors to the army of formally attired servants. The moon provided some light, but not enough to calm her nerves. The cavernous room had black corners where anything might lurk.
At the convent, she’d slept in a tiny, plain chamber, with none of the grand furnishings and ornate tapestries that decorated this space. This bed was large and high, festooned with embroidered curtains. When the fire had burned more brightly, the embroidery had glittered like gold. Now the fire had dimmed, the room was dark, and her courage was stuck in her constricting throat.
“Is someone there?” she asked in a whisper. Her heart pounded as she looked from corner to corner, searching the shadows for something. Someone.
She darted a look to the candle beside the bed. She could light it if she wished, but it would only make her appearance brighter, and the corners darker, so whatever hid there could see her more easily.
Cassandra, really. It’s only a room. Things in the dark are the same as they are in the light.
Her father used to tell her so when she was little, and tormented by nightmares of monsters. He’d taken her out walking in the blackest night to prove that she shouldn’t be afraid of the dark, but she was. Her knees would knock together on those forced walks, her teeth chatter in terror as he taunted her for her imaginings.
Cassandra closed her eyes, but just before her lids met, there was a movement, a dark spot that grew less dark. A human shape emerged from the shadows, a tall man in a dark coat and cravat, and a shirt with lace at the sleeves. Her muscles seized, her heart pounding even worse than it had on those dark walks many years ago. Who was this intruder? She tried to scream but no sound came out.
Was he some Hastings ghost? She scuttled from the bed, realizing he couldn’t be an apparition. He was too large, too real. A marauder then, or an assassin, someone who had breached the palace’s wall of security and meant her harm. There were many who supported her marriage to the Prince of Hastings, but just as many who stood to lose by the union. She pressed her back to the wall, finding nothing at hand to use as a weapon.
Scream, you lackwit! Nothing would come, except choking breaths. “Don’t,” she gasped, as the intruder stepped closer.
His soft laugh terrified her. “My apologies, princess. Pray, return to your bed.”
His voice was low and smooth, his gaze taking her in from head to toe. This smirking menace of a man was more frightening than all the monsters of her dreams, and she felt her knees giving way even before the edges of her vision turned black.
She fell insensible, remembering nothing until she came awake with a start. She’d moved from the back wall to a chair before the fire, a large, uncomfortable chair which she realized was partly comprised of her assailant’s lap. She struggled to escape, only to find herself caught against his chest.
“There you are,” he murmured. “Did you have to faint? I nearly didn’t catch you.”
“Let me up.” Her voice sounded weak and whispery, which wouldn’t do in a situation like this. She turned to push him, speaking in a sharper tone. “I’m a royal princess, and you molest me at your peril.”
“I’m a royal prince, and I insist you remain still for a moment before you faint again.”
At those words, she studied his face. Now that he wasn’t a blur of
terror, he very much resembled the man she’d seen in the portraits downstairs.
“You’re Prince Gideon,” she said. The dying fire flared, illuminating his pursed lips and bold features, his light eyes and dark blond hair.
“Stop trembling, would you?” he said in a mild tone. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to welcome you earlier. Goodness, look at this.” He reached out and she tensed, but he only stroked a lock of her hair, an ebony corkscrew that lay over her shoulder. “Your hair looks much better this way.”
She gaped at him. “B-better than what?”
“Better than when you arrived. I may have been spying on you. At any rate, I’m the man you’re to marry in two days’ time. We ought to introduce ourselves properly, don’t you think? If you’re finished fainting?”
“You frightened me.” It seemed embarrassing now, to admit that her first impression of her betrothed was as a murderer.
“You needn’t be afraid of me,” he said. “I have a vested interest in your well-being. Here, sit up and let me look at you. You may look at me too, if you wish.”
“I’m not dressed.” She held her arms across her chest but he took no notice of her modesty, nor did anything to protect it. When she ducked her head, he tilted up her chin with firm fingers.
“This isn’t the time for an introduction,” she said. “I wish you would go.”
“I will, once I’ve indulged my curiosity.” His arm tightened at her waist when she leaned away, making her aware of how strong he was. “Don’t frown at me, princess,” he said. “If we’re to have a long and happy life together, we must get to know one another.”
“But it’s the middle of the night.”
“You weren’t sleeping soundly.” His full lips half-frowned, half-smiled. “Not that I was watching you. Well, not for very long.”
That must have been why she’d awakened in such a panic. She must have sensed him staring at her from the shadows. None of this was proper, not the late hour, or the fact that he still held her on his lap. Yes, she had fainted, but she felt better now. She shifted in his arms, but he didn’t release her.