Lord Savage

by Mia Gabriel

  I did, and he thrust again, reaching the back of my throat. Instinctively I swallowed, taking him deeper, and I felt him shudder beneath me. He pulled back a fraction, and when he again sank into my throat, I was prepared, working my lips around his thickness as he thrust forward.

  He grunted and swore, and I felt the straining muscles in his thighs beneath my palms. If my mouth hadn’t been so full, I would have smiled. I’d intended to please him, but the sense of power I felt from giving him pleasure also aroused me to a shocking degree, and I began to rock my hips to make the golden ben wah balls caress me from within.

  Breathing hard, he pulled back, slipping heavily from my mouth.

  “You’re a wicked creature,” he said hoarsely, his approval undeniable.

  I grinned. “Yes, your highness,” I said. “I am.”

  I leaned forward to grasp the base of his cock, steadying it so that I could lick and flick my tongue across the weeping little eye. Then I flattened my tongue and drew it slowly along the underside in long, teasing strokes. At the same time, I reached down to cup his ballocks in my fingers and stroked them lightly, the way I knew he liked.

  “Take me back into your mouth, Eve,” he said, tension making his voice harsh. “Suck me.”

  I took him deeper, drawing him in with my lips and tongue, and sucked him as he’d ordered. He groaned, and shoved his fingers into my hair to hold my head steady as he thrust into my mouth, once, twice, three times.

  Abruptly he jerked out, the wet, purpled head of his cock bobbing before my face.

  “Enough,” he said. “I want to spend in your hot little cunt.”

  He grabbed me by the shoulders and dragged me onto his lap, spreading my thighs so that I’d no choice but to straddle his cock.

  “Wait,” I said breathlessly, kicking off my heeled slippers. “The ben wah—”

  “I haven’t forgotten.” He reached between my legs and hooked his finger into the chain and tugged. One by one, the gold balls—glistening with my pearly essence—slipped from my channel, making me gasp at the sudden, aching emptiness.

  But not for long.

  “Put me in, Eve,” he ordered with urgency, holding his cock steady by the base for me. “Fuck, do it now.”

  Bracing my hand on his shoulder, I slowly lowered myself onto his cock. I loved that first moment when he entered me, how he could fill me so completely, and when he drove in hard to my depths, I couldn’t keep back my cry of satisfaction, of delight at this utter repletion.

  “Ride me, Eve,” he demanded. “Fuck me hard.”

  I didn’t need to be told. With my knees on either side of his hips, balanced on the chair’s cushion, I raised myself nearly off his shaft, only to let my weight carry me forcefully back down. His fingers sank into my hips to guide my rhythm as I clung to his shoulders.

  I caught a glimpse of how we were reflected over and over again in the mirrors, my back arched and my breasts bouncing as I rode him, his handsome face contorted and his fingers digging deeply into my white hips and bottom as he bucked beneath me. It was as if we’d become the amorous couple in the engravings, connected over time by sex.

  After the long torment of the ben wah balls, I spent for the first time almost at once, my quim clenching in delicious spasms around him as I climaxed.

  “I’m not done,” he said as I sank against his chest. “Neither are you.”

  He continued to thrust into me, and I felt the first tremors of another orgasm. I began moving again, determined to match him this second time. He kissed me hard, his mouth devouring mine, and squeezed my nipples with each thrust. I clung to him again as the sensations built, the goal within reach now for him as well. I felt flushed and feverish, my skin burning and my heartbeat thumping, and it still wasn’t enough.

  “I—I can’t, Savage,” I stammered, writhing against his chest. With each thrust he seemed to grow thicker and harder, stretching me further. “It’s too much.”

  “Not yet it isn’t,” he growled. “I want you with me to the end.”

  He slipped his fingers down to where we were joined and my quim’s lips were spread around his cock, and lightly pressed against my pearl. Now each time I rose along his cock, I felt the double pleasure in my core, almost unbearable as I trembled around him. I was so sensitive, so close, that it was like a spark to tinder, and I thrashed and cried with the intensity of it, yet still somehow held back, waiting for him.

  Panting, I watched him, watched the wild look in his face grow as he pounded into me, watched him give in to the need with an animal intensity, watched his eyes lose focus as he raced toward his release.

  And when at last it claimed him, he came with a mindless fury and a guttural roar, driving his cock and his seed into me with such primal force that I plunged into the depths with him. Through it all he watched me, never looking away from my face, as if at that moment he could see into my soul. I was swept along on the wave of my climax, forgetting everything else, and as it faded I shuddered and clung to him with tears in my eyes, as if my very life depended upon it, and him.

  In that moment, perhaps it did.

  I’d never felt so vulnerable, at once both lost and found, as I now did sprawled half naked across Savage in this foolish throne-chair. His strength was my solace, my comfort, and there was nothing better than hearing the beating of his heart beneath my ear.

  What was it that Simpson had told me that first night? Innocents didn’t have pasts or futures. They could live only in the present. Could any words be more true?

  He held me tight, his arms wrapped around me and his unshaved cheek pressed close to my temple.

  “Eve, Eve,” he whispered hoarsely against my hair. “Don’t ever leave me.”

  I went very still. He’d said that to me before, but it had only been part of the Game. But this—this felt different.

  Slowly I raised my head from his chest, twisting so that I faced him. “What did you say, Savage?”

  His expression was guarded and unsure, as if he feared he’d already said too much. Instead of replying, he turned my face up to his and kissed me, as if that would be answer enough. It was, yet it wasn’t, and with a small sigh that was lost between our mouths, I closed my eyes and kissed him in return.

  “Savage?” Lady Carleigh’s voice was unmistakable, calling from the larger gallery. “Mrs. Hart? Are you in here, my dears?”

  TWELVE

  At once Savage broke away from the kiss, his arm still protectively around me. “Why the devil is that damned woman here now?”

  But I wasn’t going to wait to find out. Hurriedly I slipped free of Savage and the chair, and retrieved the gold ben wah balls from the floor, tucking them into the pocket of my dressing gown. I swiftly pulled up my costume once again over my breasts and retied my dressing gown for good measure.

  Yet, one glance in the surrounding mirrors showed me how futile such small gestures were. My face remained flushed, my lips were bruised-looking from the fervor of Savage’s kisses, and my hair was tangled and matted from our combined sweat. My feet were bare, and I’d no idea where my slippers had landed when I kicked them off. No one—especially not Lady Carleigh—would doubt for a moment what I’d been doing with Savage.

  Nor would it help that he seemed in no particular hurry to dress himself, either. He’d scarcely closed the front of his pajamas when Lady Carleigh appeared in the arched doorway, a tall footman at her side.

  The viscountess was also wearing a peignoir, thick with ruffling layers of French lace. Her apricot-colored hair was as elaborately dressed as if for tea with a duchess in Portman Square, and diamonds circled her wrists and throat.

  In comparison, I was acutely aware of how unkempt—how ravished—I must look. After Simpson had been so inquisitive in her last visit to Savage’s rooms, I had not asked the lady’s maid to return. I hadn’t worried about how my hair was arranged and neither had Savage; we’d been too lost in each other to care.

  But with Lady Carleigh now before me as a rem
inder of what was proper and expected for ladies of our station, I realized that I must look like an unkempt slattern. Even now I could feel Savage’s seed sticky and trickling down the insides of my thighs, and I pressed my legs together to keep from having it drip shamefully onto my bare feet.

  Fortunately, the viscountess chose to take no notice.

  “Here you two are!” she said brightly, not at all embarrassed at disturbing two of her guests. “I’d heard from the servants that you were walking upstairs, and when I remembered how very much you like the gallery, Savage, I knew—I knew—I’d find you here.”

  “So you have,” said Savage. He rose slowly from the chair, tightening the sash on his robe, and came to stand beside me with his arm around my shoulders. “Though to be honest, Laura, I rather wish you hadn’t bothered.”

  “Oh, pish, Savage,” Lady Carleigh said, talking too fast. “Don’t be such a boor. Tell me, Mrs. Hart. Are you enjoying my husband’s collection of fine art? Has Savage shown you the choicest pieces in the lot? Have you—”

  “Enough of this nonsense, Laura,” Savage interrupted wearily. “As interfering as you can be, it’s not your general habit to come badger your guests like this. What is it that you really want? Why are you here?”

  “Why? Why?” Lady Carleigh clasped her hands before her as she gave an indignant little toss of her head. “I shall tell you why, my lord Savage. I sought you both out because I am not accustomed to having my missives ignored, especially when, as your hostess, I have only your own welfare in mind. Perhaps it is because you are American, Mrs. Hart, and do not understand the finer points of social etiquette, but I can assure you that it is barbarously ill bred of you to leave my notes unanswered as you have.”

  I stared at the woman, taken aback. None of what the viscountess was saying made any sense.

  “I am not ill bred, my lady,” I replied defensively, “nor does being American have anything to do with my manners. I can hardly reply to notes that I have never received.”

  Lady Carleigh gasped. “Are you doubting my word, Mrs. Hart? Are you questioning my veracity, when all I wished was to inquire—”

  “Why don’t you simply ask her now?” Savage suggested.

  “Yes, please, do,” I said. “What were your inquiries, my lady?”

  Lady Carleigh blinked with embarrassment. “I would rather ask you in private, Mrs. Hart.”

  I felt my cheeks grow hot, too. Clearly, whatever the viscountess was asking had to do with Savage. Now I also realized something else: the tall footman that she’d brought as an escort was one of the ones who’d intervened when Savage had attacked Mr. Henery. Why had Lady Carleigh felt it necessary to bring such an escort here?

  Savage must have sensed my discomfort, though not the reason for it. He took his arm from around my shoulder with a small bow. “If you wish me to leave you alone, then I’ll—”

  “No!” I exclaimed, more sharply than I’d intended. I took his arm to draw him back. “That is, no, please, do not leave. Whatever her ladyship wishes to say may be said before you.”

  Lady Carleigh frowned. “Are you certain of that, Mrs. Hart?”

  “Of course,” I said, as Savage once again slipped his arm across my shoulder. I was glad that he did, linking my fingers into his as well. We were united and together, and I saw us that way, reflected over and over in the mirrors around us. “Please continue.”

  The viscountess’s discomfort was obvious, and she hesitated just long enough to show that she’d thought better of her original question, whatever it might be.

  “Very well,” she said. “Will you and Lord Savage be joining us for the final dinner tomorrow evening?”

  “Indeed we shall,” Savage answered for us both. “Why shouldn’t we?”

  “Because you and Mrs. Hart have kept entirely to yourselves this week, Savage,” the viscountess answered curtly. “Because this—this withdrawal is not your usual custom, nor is it how our little game is ordinarily played. Because we began to wonder if such an absence was agreeable to both of you, or the forceful design of only one.”

  Savage drew in his breath so sharply that I felt it. “Are you asking whether I’ve made Mrs. Hart into some sort of prisoner, Laura?”

  “I’m not asking you, Savage, but Mrs. Hart,” she said, pointedly looking at me. “You haven’t played with the rest of us at all, ma’am. Has that been through your choice, or Lord Savage’s?”

  “Recall that by your rules I am her master,” Savage said, his voice tense, “and—”

  “I asked Mrs. Hart,” Lady Carleigh said, “not you, Savage, and even if I—”

  “Forgive me, Lady Carleigh, please,” I interrupted, holding my hand up for silence and peace as well. “There’s no need for quarreling, and no reason for it. I have not been forced, or coerced, or compelled to do anything—anything—that I did not wish to do. Not once.”

  The viscountess studied me, her lips pressed tightly together with skepticism. It was clear that she did not believe me, and equally clear that nothing else I might say would change her mind.

  And the worst part was not that Lady Carleigh, or any of the others, doubted my word. No, the worst was that they dared question Savage.

  I tightened my fingers around his, offering comfort and reassurance as much as seeking it for myself.

  “Are you satisfied, Laura?” he asked evenly, an evenness that did not fool me at all. “Did Mrs. Hart give you the answer you sought? Or would you rather you’d had the chance to damn me again?”

  Lady Carleigh gasped and fluttered her hands in front of her in ladylike distress.

  “Never, Savage, never,” she said quickly. “You know that Carleigh and I regard you as one of our oldest and dearest friends. We’d thought you were finally returning to your old self and at last recovering from Marianne’s death, but when we saw—”

  “This conversation is finished, Laura,” he said, biting off each word. His hand squeezed mine. “Come with me, Eve, if you please. There is no need for us to remain here.”

  His handsome face was set and implacable, his expression so hard that it might have been carved from stone. Of course I left with him, my bare feet hurrying to match my strides to his. He did not so much as glance at Lady Carleigh, let alone say anything further. He kept his gaze straight before him, and did not speak another word as we went through the long halls back to his rooms, walking so quickly that we were nearly running.

  He threw the door open and went striding past Barry, pulling me with him until we reached the bedroom, and slammed the door shut after us. At last he released my hand, and took a step backward, purposefully keeping a distance between us.

  “There are things you should know of me, Eve,” he began. He was breathing hard, struggling to keep some manner of composure, and I saw in his eyes the effort it took. “I had never intended to burden you with my troubles, but it is better you hear this from me instead of some misguided falsehoods from servants or—or others.”

  I nodded, with no notion of what might be coming. With Savage, it could be nothing, or it could be beyond my wildest imagining. Yet, because it was he, I would listen, and in silent sympathy I reached out to him.

  He would not accept my hand or my comfort. Instead, he took another step back, his hands in fists at his sides.

  “Listen first, Eve,” he said heavily. “I loved Marianne—my wife—when we wed. I was young, and I believed her to be the most perfect woman in the world. But before long I discovered the flaws in her loveliness. I knew she’d been unhappy with her parents, and I wanted to rescue her from the misery she blamed on them. But her troubles were far deeper than I’d realized. Her mind was unsettled, her behavior erratic and unpredictable. I never knew what to expect from her, and with each day she grew a little worse.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said softly, once again the only thing I could think of to say. “I’m sorry.”

  But he shook his head, shaking aside even that small solace. His face was marked by suffering, by th
e burden of his grief.

  “I took her to doctors of every kind, both in London and on the Continent,” he said. “I agreed to every treatment, praying for a miracle, and kept her at Thornbury, far from London, where she could be tended with care. When our son was born, I dared to hope his young life might be a fresh start that could bring her back, but she demonstrated as little interest in being a mother as she did a wife. I had to send our boy away to be tended by others, from fear she’d harm him.”

  So many little mysteries were now fitting together: why Savage had had no wish to speak of his wife, why he avoided his house at Thornbury, why he was distant from his son, why he feared the boy would be like his mother—it all made heartbreaking sense to me now.

  “She was only twenty-two when she died,” he said, coming at last to the inevitable end of his story. “It was the madness that killed her. For the sake of the boy, I’ve tried to keep the details of her illness and death as quiet as I could, but there are always whispers, and not just among the servants, either. Not even friends can resist the temptation to draw the darkest of conclusions. You saw that for yourself.”

  “Even those who mean well can often be cruel when they don’t know the truth,” I said softly, longing to take him in my arms and share the pain with him. “I’m sure Lady Carleigh did not intend any hurtful slander—”

  “I’m not hurt,” he said bluntly. He turned and charged from the room, leaving the door ajar. Hesitantly I followed. He was standing over his desk, ransacking the top drawer. At last he found what he was searching for: a small handful of sealed notes.

  He thrust them out to me. “There,” he said. “Read them yourself. God only knows what she’s written of me.”

  I stared down at the notes, seeing how his hand shook. “I don’t understand,” I said slowly. “What are these?”

  “They’re the notes that Lady Carleigh wrote to you,” he said. “One, sometimes two, a day. They were all delivered here.”

  “The ones she mentioned while we were in the gallery?” I asked, though it was already obvious that they were. I recognized the viscountess’s handwriting, and the coral-colored wax that sealed each letter.