by Lilia Ford
Damian moved closer, looming over her seductively, and whispered in her ear, “These are yours, Genevieve. They are specially made for you, and whenever you are in this room, you will wear them.”
“Damian, please, no…” she pleaded.
“Yes, Genevieve,” he said, his eyes heavy-lidded with desire. “I have no doubt that just the sight of them will soon be enough to make you mad with desire—and me as well. Hold out your hands, darling,” he said soothingly.
She couldn’t resist him, though she was sure she should. He took each hand and gently buckled on the cuffs, giving her a wicked smile when they were on.
“No touching them, Genevieve,” he said firmly. “I decide when they come off.”
Genevieve’s face flushed for what must have been the thousandth time, and her breathing stuttered. They’d just been intimate—how could she be thinking of that again? But her desire crashed just as quickly as she wondered again if he disliked her touch. To her annoyance, he was watching her carefully as usual.
“What is troubling you, Genevieve?” Why couldn’t she control her expressions! “Whatever it is, darling, you won’t make me angry—I give you my word.”
“I want to touch you,” she whispered.
Damian’s smile was surprised. “I’m glad you do, love. I am your husband after all.”
She took a deep breath of relief—he sounded completely sincere.
“You thought I wouldn’t want you to?”
Genevieve blushed again—this was so hard to talk about. “I thought perhaps you didn’t like it—you bound my hands….”
He laughed and kissed her warmly. “You dear, insane girl! That is emphatically not the reason. I’m afraid, darling, that there is almost nothing I find more arousing than the sight of my bride bound for my pleasure—and hers. However, I did it just now because you need to become accustomed to accepting my touch—your instinct is to fight me, and I won’t allow it. If you knew what the sight of you in those cuffs did to me….” He shivered dramatically. “I’ll show you later. But for now, time for chores. It’s wonderful having privacy, but it means we have no servants for the next few days. Would you mind helping me change the bed-linens?”
Genevieve almost laughed. She did not grow up in a house with servants who did such things. Together they pulled the linens off the bed. Of course, Damian must hold out the part that was stained with her virgin blood with an arrogant smile.
After the sheets were off, he suggested they air the bed. He opened the casements, letting in the fresh summer air. She followed and looked out the window.
Their room looked out over a garden, a few acres large, with a gurgling fountain at the center, surrounded by white benches. Fanning out in a star pattern from the fountain were diamond-shaped beds with hedge borders that could barely contain the lush herbs and flowers growing within. The whole garden was enclosed by high brick walls with vicious-looking spikes on top. But the harshness was greatly softened by a plethora of flowering vines and a white pergola overflowing with bougainvillea, which ran the length of the far wall.
The garden surprised her, probably because it seemed so classically pretty. It was feminine, she realized, in marked contrast to all the stone and dark colors of the house—at least the one room she’d seen—which seemed so relentlessly masculine. On that June morning, her wedding morning, she couldn’t imagine a more lovely, peaceful spot. She started when Damian wrapped his arms around her, kissing the top of her head and down her neck.
“It’s lovely,” she murmured.
“It’s yours, darling—your domain.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that you may redesign it in any way that you please. I will introduce you to the castle groundskeeper in a few days if you like. And when you desire peace from the overbearing males you share a house with, you need only say the word, and you will be left undisturbed. The walls have no gates and are warded so it is as safe as the house.”
“This room is your domain,” she said after a minute.
“Yes darling. You share it with me, but this is my domain.” The idea evidently sparked his arousal, and he pulled her in and began fondling her.
Genevieve pulled away, not wishing to be distracted by his kisses. “And if I wished to make some change?”
“Just ask. Anything you need—I want you to be comfortable here, love,” he answered, giving her an amused smile that just irritated her.
He wasn’t obtuse—he must know what she was trying to ask. Behind his relaxed expression he was watching her closely. He did that often, she realized. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that—he seemed almost too clever at guessing what she was thinking. It gave him even more advantage.
“You used the word domain, Damian,” she said, pressing the point. “Is there a room in the house that is mine—my domain—or is it only the garden?”
“Yes, of course,” he laughed. “There are several rooms set aside for your use. If you wish to make any changes to them, I will arrange for it. The cost is not a problem.”
She shook her head. Clearly money was a very different matter for the Black family, but she didn’t want to address that question now. “But not this room.”
Damian’s eyes got that dangerous glint. “I told you already: I decide everything in this room, Genevieve.”
There was the crux. There was a world of meaning contained in Damian’s word, everything. She sensed that she was only beginning to grasp its implications.
“May I see this room of mine, then?” she asked, knowing she sounded petulant, but truly he was exasperating!
“Not today,” he said. “I think it’s time for lunch. I’ll see what they’ve brought for us.” He held her chin, leaving her in no doubt that she was not allowed to leave the room.
She bit her lip, angry with him and annoyed that the muscles between her legs clenched. How was it that her treacherous body became aroused by Damian’s despotic side? She stayed by the window, enjoying the light breeze that played over the “dress” he’d chosen for her.
Damian returned within a few minutes, bearing a tray laden with plates and a covered casserole. It smelled heavenly. She really was hungry for more than the tarts and cherries he’d taunted her with for breakfast.
He nodded towards the table near the windows. She sat while Damian set the tray down on the coffee table and went out again and returned with a bottle of white wine and two glasses. He piled two plates with a delicate dish of creamed chicken baked over rice, dotted with fresh June peas, and some doughy rolls with an excellent cultured butter. He then poured them each a glass of the bright yellow wine, which proved to be nicely chilled and deliciously floral.
Genevieve was relieved that Damian did not feel it necessary to scrutinize her eating the way Derek did. They were both hungry from their activities and for several minutes were too busy eating to make conversation. But again, Genevieve did not find the silence uncomfortable. Every time he caught her eye, Damian gave her an affectionate smile or blew a kiss, which made her giggle.
Genevieve had never imagined she would love being married so much, but she did. But even more extraordinary to her was that Damian was so clearly happy. She made him happy. It had been many years since she could think of herself as anything but a burden and a source of misery to those she loved. As she sat with her husband, those feelings seemed somehow irrelevant to her new life.
After lunch, Damian removed the dishes to the mysterious depths of the house, returning with fresh sheets. They remade the bed, and Genevieve wondered at how enjoyable it was to do such homely tasks with him. But of course, once they’d finished, he got a look in his eye that she had learned signaled that he felt amorous. He came around her and nibbled her neck, lightly brushing her breasts through the silk dress until her desires easily equaled his.
“Perhaps we should continue our lessons,” he murmured. “My bride has proven herself a very apt pupil so far. You mentioned you wished to touch me.”
&nbs
p; “Yes!”
“Ask me to teach you.”
“Teach me!” she said laughing. She was discovering that she loved these lessons.
“Very well, darling. We will continue our game of the barbarian and his captive. One of the captive’s duties is to rub her master’s body with oil each day.”
He went into the bathing chamber and returned with a glass bottle and a fresh towel. He pulled the spread down and laid the towel over the mattress. “First my captive will help me off with my shirt,” he said.
She made a wry smile, but obeyed, going up on tiptoes to lift the shirt over his head.
“My captive does not wear clothes with her master,” he said and whisked the silk shift over her head before she could object.
He gave Genevieve the bottle of oil, climbed up on the bed, and lay on his stomach with his head resting on his folded arms. The bed was too high for her to reach him, so she had no choice but to climb up after him. She unstoppered the bottle, poured some of the oil onto her hands, and put the bottle on the bedside table. The oil smelled lightly of jasmine, which she decided was a very sensual scent.
When she hesitated, unsure what she should be doing, Damian drawled out in his version of the mighty barbarian, “You may begin, slave.”
He glanced over his shoulder and gave her a merry smile, well aware of his own absurdity. Genevieve giggled, deciding she liked this game very well. There was nothing for it but to start, so she slapped her hands down on the middle of his back, grimacing that her touch was not exactly seductive.
She quickly became preoccupied by the problem that his skin absorbed the oil too quickly. She reapplied it to her hands twice, and finally poured it directly on his back, which caused him to shiver. Once there was plenty of oil, she began sliding her hands up and down the length of his back.
Damian lay quietly, seeming quite content, which helped her confidence. She’d never even seen a man’s bare back up close before. His skin was lightly browned—he’d spent time in the sun without a shirt. Her thighs squeezed involuntarily when she pictured it—she wondered if he would ever do such a thing when she was present.
Even lying in this relaxed pose, Damian gave off an aura of coiled power. His forearms in particular proclaimed his strength. They were twice the size of hers—no wonder he subdued her so easily. She didn’t even try to pretend the idea didn’t excite her.
She soon forgot she was naked and straddled him to get better access to his shoulders. She couldn’t resist the chance to plunge her hands into the roped muscle. She began kneading and soon found a hard knot of tension. She went to work softening it as Damian let out a purr of pleasure. “That feels so wonderful, you can’t imagine.”
Delighted, she began rubbing in earnest, reveling in the subtle scent of the oil, which became stronger as it was heated by the warmth of his skin.
As she reached again for the oil, Damian turned over pulling her to lie against his chest. It was sprinkled with dark, wiry hair that tickled and abraded her breasts in a way that made her gasp. There was no missing his aroused state.
He gently touched her cheek. “Pull my pants off,” he ordered softly.
Genevieve didn’t hesitate: she was done with being lady-like.
Chapter Sixteen
By the end of Genevieve’s first day of being married, spending the day locked in her room did not feel like a trial. She’d lost track of how often they’d made love, her soreness not able to compete with her desires. Her modesty likewise fell easily before Damian’s demands, and when they took a quick bath before retiring for the night, she could even laugh that only this morning she’d felt mortified at the idea of being unclothed in front of him. Indeed, as she curled against his chest sleepily in the warm water, she decided she never again wanted to bathe alone.
Tired as she was, though, she didn’t fail to notice the gleam in Damian’s eye as he was helping her dry off. She discovered the reason when he fetched her nightdress—he’d not even let her enter the dressing room yet. She stood stiffly as he slid it over her, but when he took her hands to replace the green cuffs, which he’d removed for the bath, she wrested her hands away. “What are you doing?”
“You know the answer to that, darling,” he said silkily, grasping her hand again.
“You mean to bind me to the bed?” she demanded. He gave her a sultry smile in answer. “No!” she said outraged.
“In this room, Genevieve, you obey,” he warned softly.
“Are you always going to ignore my wishes?”
She suddenly felt how exhausted she was, and before she could stop them, tears of frustration sprang to her eyes.
He looked at her thoughtfully and then pulled her onto the bed and settled her in his arms. For a moment she thought he’d given up, but it appeared he was arranging his thoughts. “I’m going to ask you a few questions, darling.” She nodded. “The first one is this: if you truly disliked something I did—if it gave you no pleasure at all, or left you feeling humiliated or frightened—would you keep silent?”
“No!” The very idea offended her.
“And thank Titania for that,” he said feelingly. “Second question: last night if I’d asked your permission before tying you to the bedpost and taking your beautiful sex with my mouth, would you have said yes?”
Her sharp red blush was answer enough.
“Final question: do you think that I could not tell the difference between a true, urgent refusal from you and, say, the kind of objection you made when I ordered you to come a second time as we made love last night?”
“No,” she said grumpily, though it comforted her that she knew he would instantly be able to tell the difference.
“Genevieve, please attend, because this is very important. If we are playing, making love, and you are still experiencing pleasure, if your refusal is driven by frustration or village modesty or testiness then I will likely disregard it. If your refusal is driven by fear or distress, I will always, always stop immediately. Do you trust that I speak the truth?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you. Now, let’s assume that you have an objection to something, but it is not a matter of distress, not urgent. That is fine and you should tell me, but such discussions will not take place during our play, but after we are finished. If the objection is serious, I will consider it. But Genevieve, I would counsel you to think carefully about any objections you make.”
In a gentler tone he said, “Certain things, such as my binding your hands or spanking you if you are very disobedient are not subject to debate. You must understand that they are part of what it means to be descended from Declan. It is not merely a taste or a liking for us, but a very powerful drive.”
“You mean that it will always be like this?” she whispered.
“Almost always, yes.”
She rested her head against his chest, silently pondering what he’d told her as he rubbed her back. “That’s what the heartwood box is for. It wasn’t for the village. Titania did it for Declan, so he might find someone….” She didn’t know how to finish.
Damian looked at her in utter amazement, as if he were deeply moved. “Yes, that is why, you clever girl. She did it for his descendants. Those girls whose boxes turned black could find pleasure submitting to their mastery; they would not break under their demands.” Damian’s voice cracked slightly as he asked, “Do you regret that you are one of them?”
“No!” she said, half laughing, trying to keep the tone light. “I wouldn’t mind getting my way at least once—or perhaps being allowed to see my new home. But no, I’ve no regrets.”
She closed her eyes—she never would, so long as Damian did not.
“I know I’ve been ruthless with you—we have only the four days alone here. Once they are over, I promise I won’t be so tyrannical. And Genevieve, never forget, the things we do are always meant to give pleasure to both of us. They are never meant to frighten you or crush your will. And the other side of informing me if you have an objection is t
hat you are always free, more than free, required to let me know what pleases you—what you desire. I wasn’t joking about it being impossible for you to be too wanton. All of that rot about virginal brides and shamefaced modesty—that sort of village rubbish has no place in our bedroom.”
She looked at him skeptically. “Damian, you talk as if a girl mustn’t be a virgin when she marries.”
“Well, to be completely honest, I’m very pleased you were a virgin. Being the one who first possessed you fills me with such an unholy satisfaction, it is almost savage. But that has nothing to do with whether you were pure and modest or a good girl. Thank the heavens you are none of those things! And if you hadn’t been untouched, I wouldn’t have thought less of you for it. It is practical for a girl to delay lovemaking until she can find a reliable man lest she get pregnant and be left on her own with a child—practical, not moral. If it were truly a matter of morality, it would be expected of males as well, which it is not.”
“You were not a virgin—before our wedding.” She didn’t phrase it as a question. She knew it was impossible, that boys were not expected…. But she suddenly wondered about the other women he’d been with. He was watching her closely. She tried to make an unconcerned smile, but it didn’t fool him.
“Genevieve, you understand that there are women who are willing to accommodate men, who don’t expect marriage….”
“You mean for money—yes, I am aware there is such a thing as whores, Damian.” She wished she didn’t sound bitter, but she couldn’t help it.
“Well, I’m glad to hear that my little bride didn’t grow up completely wrapped in cotton-wool. In truth, I don’t use that word because Declan would thrash me unmercifully if I did—there is almost nothing that would make him so angry.”
Genevieve swallowed, chilled at the thought of Declan’s anger.