by Liz Carlyle
“No, by God, it’s not,” he said ruefully. “It certainly is not.”
“Now let me up.” She began to squirm. “I have been good, Tony. I have f-fellated you and pleasured you and—”
He laughed again, more tenderly.
“—and all I tried to do just now was watch what you were doing to me. Don’t smack me again. Please.”
“Oh, you beg so sweetly.” He leaned forward and kissed the swell of her hip. “There, love, you have been—for the most part—a very good girl. Go, and sin no more.”
She scrabbled off his thigh—a very large, very hard thigh that left her throbbing—and tucked herself against the bank of pillows.
“Now lie back down, Isabella,” he ordered, “and this time do not open your eyes until I tell you that you may do so. And if you disobey—oh, Isabella, I will have to give that pretty, pink arsehole of yours a good, hard thrust, and trust me, you are not ready for it.”
“I am not l-looking,” she said, half of her afraid he was not kidding, and the other half of her regretting she’d ever seen the rest of Lady Petershaw’s drawings—for she now knew that what he threatened was not impossible.
He was moving around the room, fumbling through the clothing, by the sounds of it.
“Wh-what are you doing?” she asked quietly.
“Surprising you,” he said.
“Oh, I know that,” she protested, “but in what way?”
“Isabella,” he said, snapping something out—his cravat, it had to be. “Do you want me to take care of you, and give you what you need? Do you want to be obedient, and trust me to love you? Or do you want to run the show? Because I can be persuaded to let you, my dear. I just don’t think that’s what you want.”
Isabella did not answer.
It was not what she wanted. She wanted to give herself over to someone strong—to him—to feel his hands and the weight of his body on her, heavy and certain. To feel his shaft thrusting deep as he pushed her down and down into the softness of the bed, taking his pleasure of her and giving it back twofold. She was done suffering with guilt for having enjoyed the things he’d done to her.
Good God, what was wrong with her?
The thought flew from her head when she felt something breeze across her face. It smelled of fresh linen and starch. “What is that?” she blurted. “Is—Is that your handkerchief?”
He smacked her hard on the side of her hip. “Not another question from you, Isabella,” he ordered, “or I will turn you over and stripe your bottom royally—and I don’t mean with the back of my hand.”
“You don’t have your crop,” she pointed out.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “I left my carriage at the coaching inn up the road. Shall I walk back up there and see, love? Or—here’s a novel thought—how about I just go cut myself a switch from that birch across the lane?”
“I will be good,” she said, stiffening her body like a soldier. “But you are stark staring naked, Tony, and your . . . your thing is getting stiff again. I don’t think you’re going anywhere.”
“My thing—?” he said, sounding wounded. “To you, impudent miss, that noble beauty is called a cockstand. Later I’ll make you say it. But not another word for now. My hand doesn’t sting so badly I can’t use it.”
And with that, he drew the handkerchief over her face and folded it like a blindfold.
“Turn your head,” he ordered.
A little thrill coursing through her at the sound of his command, she did so. He knotted the handkerchief tight behind her head and drew her face back into his, kissing her deeply, thrusting his tongue hard and repeatedly.
Suddenly, Isabella realized her every sense was oddly heightened by her blindness. “Ohhh,” she said when he was done.
Suddenly, something caught her fast around the wrist.
She jerked against it instinctively, panic rising in her throat. “What is that?”
“The tie to my drawers,” he said, his voice dark. “I’m going to bind you to the bed and take my pleasure very, very slowly—but first, my dear, kindly roll a little to the left.”
Uneasily, she did so. He struck her hard across the buttocks again, the sting sizzling through her.
“Ouch!” she said, shocked and yet oddly stimulated. “What did I do?”
“Asked a question,” he rasped. “Now will you obey me, Isabella? Because my hand really is starting to burn. And you invited me up here.”
She nodded, and gently he rolled her back over onto her stinging hip. In an instant her wrist was wrapped round and round by the tie, the back of her fingers drawn against one of the wrought-iron rods of her bed.
Lord, would she ever be able to lie here again in the dark of a lonely night and not remember this?
But what was he doing, exactly? Certainly he was binding her right wrist—binding it even tighter than the left, and for an instant she felt a little flutter of fear in her heart. He could even walk out now. Leave her like this.
But he did not. He shoved her wrist high above her head, the cold iron rod of the bedstead thrusting between her thumb and index finger as he whipped the cord tight.
“Hold on, my love,” he said, his voice dark with satisfaction. “I believe I have you at my mercy.”
She swallowed hard. “Are you going to put yourself inside me now?” she whispered.
“Lord, God, Isabella, not another question.” He sounded exasperated. “I think you want to be punished.”
She felt his weight sag onto the bed, and sensed him crawling up the mattress like a predator.
“I will be quiet,” she whispered.
He was crawling over her now. “And since my hand stings, love,” he said, “I think I will just have to do something that will distract you.”
“Y-yes?”
“Isabella,” he growled into her ear, “was that a question?”
“N-no, my lord,” she whispered.
“No, I thought not,” he said, drawing his tongue around the shell of her ear.
Then he proceeded to kiss and bite his way down her jugular vein, down to the turn of her throat. She could hear him drawing in the smell of her skin. Could feel the stubble of his beard raking her and the hardening weight of his erection rubbing its way down her belly.
Everything—every sensation—seemed suddenly intense. Her every nerve ending was heightened by the sting of his hand and the anticipation of what was to come.
“Ohh,” she breathed.
He caught her nipple in her mouth and bit—hard. She squeaked, and at once he began to soothe it with his tongue, stroking round and round before sucking her deep into his mouth again.
When her nipples were wet and pebbled hard, he drew back and lightly circled one with his finger. “I would like to bejewel these for you, Isabella,” he murmured, “with long, teardrop amethysts.”
Her breath hitched, and she recalled the sting of his hand. “I . . . I am not permitted to ask any questions,” she whispered weakly.
“Hmm,” he said. “And yet you are curious, aren’t you?”
“A little,” she said breathlessly. “Again, not a question.”
Delicately, he stroked her again with the very tip of his tongue, the lightest, most teasing stroke imaginable. “To insert a tiny jeweled ring here would bring you great pleasure,” he said, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger, “and cause you but a very brief and minor pain. Afterward, you would find yourself in a constant state of heightened awareness from the weight of the dangling stone—and in a state of constant yearning—for me, if I play my cards well.”
“I do not believe such things are done,” she said. “That is a statement, not a question.”
“Not often done, no. It is a tribal practice in certain lands, and I once met a French lady who favored it.” He was still stroking one finger round and round the pebbled nub. “Just think about it. If you wish, I will buy you a pretty chain of weighted platinum to link them. It would be beautiful against your skin.”
Isabella tried to remind herself that this was only for tonight—only this one time more—but felt as though she’d entered another world; a world of raw and unrestrained sensuality. His every suggestion seemed to suggest an exquisite sort of control in a world that had so little.
“You would enchain me,” she murmured.
“I would,” he admitted. “Were it in my power, Isabella, I would enslave you. I would take you back to Greenwood and chain you to my bed this instant. And I do not think, quite frankly, that I would ever let you go.”
But she was not going back to Greenwood, and they both knew it.
Tonight was for her; to submit to him one more time and savor that dark and wicked pleasure. To slake that unholy yearning he had unleashed inside her. Good heavens, to compare what he did to her to those few, awkward fumblings Richard had made beneath her nightdress was to compare a pool of flaming oil to a teacup of tepid water.
He was kissing her between her breasts now, slowly working his way lower and lower. When his mouth brushed her belly, she felt her skin shiver. He plunged his tongue into her navel, and she felt that hot draw of pleasure go twisting through her stomach and all the way down until it tugged between her legs, making her cry out for him.
“Patience, my love,” he murmured, his lips moving softly over her flesh. And then he drew the tip of his tongue along her inner thigh, and her body spasmed, fighting against the bindings that held her to the bed.
“Whoa,” he whispered, spreading his wide hand over her belly and forcing her against the mattress. “Be still, Isabella. Be a very good girl now—just as you promised, hmm?”
She opened her mouth to ask what he was doing, then swiftly shut it. He would only roll her over and spank her bottom with his hand again—or worse.
And to do that, he would have to stop whatever it was he was about to—
“Oh, God—!” she choked.
He had thrust his tongue into a most unusual place and set his big hands on her inner thighs, and he was slowly urging them apart. For an instant, she froze, yanking at her bindings in blind confusion.
“Shush, love, shush,” he said, kissing his way back up her belly. “Be still now, and let me have my way.”
“I—I—I can’t see,” she choked, tugging against the bed. “What are you doing?”
“Isabella,” he said sternly, “I can and will spank you. And I can bind your legs—bind them open to me—so cease fighting it and lie very still.”
“I—I can’t lie still!” she rasped, panting. “Please. Please.”
But he had pushed her legs apart again and was lightly probing her most private place with his tongue. The place she had scarcely been aware of until he had brought her to this complete and shocking awareness of what she was. Of what she could feel.
Was it normal? Or was she a whore? Was that the word? Had she simply found her true self with him and become what she was destined to be?
He drew his tongue slowly between the folds of her flesh, and Isabella knew that was precisely the case; knew that no sane and morally upright woman could feel the things she was feeling.
And she was suddenly and quite desperately frightened that she would beg—that this would not be the end. That she would never be capable of refusing him this, or anything else he might take from her.
Her breath caught and caught again, and then she was panting in earnest, straining at the ties that bound her in the desperate need to . . . to what? She did not know.
“Anthony,” she rasped, trying to reach for him.
His hand lashed out, seizing her wrist and forcing it hard against the bed. His rough beard raked the inside of her thigh. He touched her again, and suddenly she was coming apart inside, shattering with a light that began where he touched her and ran stem to stern, like an electrical current unleashed, causing her entire body to spasm and strain against the bindings.
She felt her belly go taut as pure pleasure surged and washed over her, felt his lips warm against her flesh, and then she knew no more.
When she returned to herself, she was still shaking. He was mounting her, shoving her legs wider still with his thigh.
“Draw your knees up,” he rasped, his voice demanding. “Now, Isabella, for God’s sake.”
His body settled heavily over her, the hard, hot weight of his shaft rubbing against her belly. He pushed her wider still, until she was utterly and carnally open to him.
His swollen head probed her entrance, slicked through it once, then again. And suddenly he entered her on a deep, triumphant shout.
“Oh, Isabella,” he moaned. “Such a good, good girl. So sweet. So open.”
He moved inside her with a harsh rhythm, thrusting deep. There was nothing remotely gentle in his movements; he was like a beast atop her. Already the breath was sawing in and out of his chest, the sound rasping in the darkness. Then he shocked her by sliding one arm beneath her right knee and hitching it over his shoulder.
Following suit with the left, he pushed deeper still, her legs hooked high over his wide shoulders, opening her fully to his thrusts.
“Untie me,” she whispered.
“No,” he barked, pushing and pushing until she felt as if she might shatter again. “Let me take you, Isabella. Come, love. Oh, God, yes. Once more, love. Once more.”
She felt her whole body rise to him then, answering his call. She wanted it. Oh, she wanted him. And she understood in a blinding flash just why he bound her. To keep her from splintering and flying apart. To keep her bound to him and to the bed; to hold her shattered pieces together until the storm had passed through.
And then the rush was on her again; this time a rush of darkness, her whole being melded with his; forged in the hot fires of passion as they surged and came together.
The storm did pass—eventually. Isabella found herself sobbing. She heard the soft snick! of a knife unfolding, and then his mouth near her ear.
“Hold still,” he said, his hands going to the bindings. “Oh, love. Don’t cry. Oh, just . . . don’t.”
When both wrists were free, she shoved away his handkerchief, pushing it up and off her forehead. Then, on another soft sniffle, she threw herself against the warm wall of his chest, into his embrace.
He soothed her with crooning and kisses, his hands stroking lightly round her wrists—and then lower, too. Isabella felt thoroughly eviscerated. Exhausted. And too tired even to contemplate the aberrant nature of all she’d just permitted. Somehow he managed to fold half the bedcovers awkwardly over them, and Isabella slept against his chest for a time.
When she stirred to consciousness long moments later, he kissed her again and ordered her back to sleep, his arms bound like iron bands around her, reminding her of the question he’d asked earlier.
Do you really believe, Isabella, that it is old-fashioned for a man to guard what is his?
The words had made her shiver a little, even then. And now Isabella was no longer sure what she believed. She knew only that the restraints with which he’d just bound her had left her more liberated than constrained, and that the viselike embrace about her body made her feel secure and—at least in this moment—beloved.
Oh, it wasn’t real, she knew, and it wouldn’t last beyond the night. But in that moment, she wriggled deeper into the warmth, savoring it.
Suddenly, one of his hands lifted and gave a playful smack on her hip.
“Isabella,” he growled into her ear, “I said lie still, and go to sleep.”
Obediently, Isabella returned her head to his shoulder and let Morpheus take her down.
CHAPTER 9
The Earl of Hepplewood woke to a blade of sunlight across his eyes and his arse hanging halfway off the drafty edge of a mattress. For an instant, he wracked his brain.
Isabella’s, he dimly realized, and a tide of contentment lifted him fully into the present.
The bed’s length being suited to a far shorter man, one of his legs was cramped from being awkwardly bent. On an inward groan, he shifted
. Isabella murmured something inaudible and buried her face sweetly against his side.
He pulled her body fully to his, twitched up the covers, and settled back into her warmth, one arm propped behind his head, the other cradling Isabella against him. It was light enough now to look about her bedchamber. Lazily, his gaze wandered over the faded roses on her wallpaper, the clean but shabby curtains, and the window in dire need of glazing.
It was a disheartening assessment, yet there were unmistakable touches of elegance long past in the room; an ormolu clock on the mantelpiece and a delicate figurine of a lady seated at a dressing table, her powdered hair curled high.
Hepplewood bent his head and kissed Isabella’s forehead, something about the dichotomy troubling him. Indeed, Isabella’s entire circumstance troubled him. But something she had said last night about the portraits downstairs . . .
Then he stretched and yawned, and wondered why he was concerning himself with such matters when she lay beside him, naked as God had made her, and their time together was so terribly short. There would be time later to think about the thing that had been subtly nagging at him these past many hours. And time to deal with that upstart cousin of hers, too.
As to the shabby state of her house, if Isabella could not be persuaded to return to Greenwood Farm—and she couldn’t, he feared—then perhaps he might buy her an entirely new house elsewhere, and furnish it to the standard she deserved?
She stirred again then, and turned to him with a drowsy smile. With his fingers, he combed the hair back off her face and kissed her again lingeringly. And then, before she was entirely awake, he rolled her onto her back and wordlessly mounted her, thrusting slowly and rhythmically inside her until she hitched one leg about his waist and lifted herself to him on a sweet and breathless sigh.
It was the most conventional sort of lovemaking imaginable.
It was what he thought of as “married sex”—the bland and furtive sort a couple might have before the servants stirred or the children woke. It was warm and sweet and surprisingly comforting. And when she bowed up to him with a softly keening wail, he swallowed her cries in his mouth, then thrust again, spilling himself deep inside her and finding it glorious in its simplicity.