"Was that you?" Marguerite braced a hand on the floor and looked over her shoulder at him, peering out of the ruffles and serge. "Did you just growl at me?" He did not reply, but she continued. "Just push it up."
"What?"
"The bustle, push it up."
He grasped the bottom rail and pushed, and to his amazement the entire contraption folded and revealed… well, it revealed another, simpler petticoat, but it was progress. Eagerly, he untied the petticoat and let it fall, then addressed the next layer, split drawers.
While sexy, and possibly handy, they did not bare enough of her cheeks, so he untied them at her waist and pulled them down to her knees, effectively binding her. Her dark stockings ended mid-thigh, and she now lay bared from her waist to her upper legs, pale flesh and womanly center open to his mesmerized stare.
Licking his lips, he examined the treasure sprawled over his lap. She lay nearly limp, ass presented to him like a creamy white gift.
When had she stopped fighting and why would she want to encourage him to spank her? Intriguing. Shoving the paddle away on the messy desk, he rubbed his hand in circles, on one cheek, then the other, then back to the first.
Although confused, he still had to continue, to exert his authority, to punish her for her disrespect and out-of-control behavior. But when he lifted his hand and brought it down with a sharp crack on her bare bottom, she moaned. By the fifth swat, she was writhing and his intent to discipline was long gone.
From between her parted legs, her pink femininity appeared, so swollen and pink, it called out to be touched, and he couldn't resist dragging his finger through her labia, marveling at the moisture.
His wife was as wanton woman, and he was so surprised. And pleased. Her response to the lightest spanking indicated something he'd never dreamed he'd find—a woman whose erotic response to an activity he enjoyed equaled his. He might have expected such a reaction from a woman of the streets, but not from one of such high class. Could she find her current position as exciting as he did? If only…
Testing, he lifted his palm and brought it down with a resounding crack.
She jumped and rubbed her bosom against the side of his thigh.
He slapped again. And again, while she squirmed and sighed and her bottom pinked.
His prick hardened in anticipation of penetration and he paused.
The entire situation had gotten out of hand. He was not spanking her for her pleasure or his. He sought to discipline her. Teach her control. Give her something to fear if he were not obeyed. A man who could not control his wife was nothing, a laughingstock. And Marguerite had shown few of the qualities he sought in a mother of his children.
He'd have to find those qualities if they were somewhere behind the façade of spoiled rich woman because if he didn't, they'd have a long, miserable life together.
Once she proved she could behave as his partner, once she stopped lashing out in such an unreasonable way, perhaps they could explore the pleasurable side of spanking. His gaze lit on her exposed parts again. Nobody would hold it against him if he opened his pants and plunged his prick into his wife. In fact, it would be deemed odd if he did not. But she'd let him know in no uncertain terms that she held him in disdain at best, and disgust at worst. And he couldn't have a wife who didn't respect him—not for the next twenty, thirty, fifty years.
Grabbing for the paddle, he took up where his hand left off, the wood thudding on her rounded flesh, no longer just pink but dark rose in the centers where he focused his efforts, still pale at the edges. He turned his attention to extending the rosiness and worked his way down the backs of her thighs, and up again to her buttocks. He might not be able to force her to respect him, he hoped she wouldn't fear him… but darned if she wouldn't know that her actions had reactions. Punishment at his hand.
Throw something, get a licking
Shriek at him, behave in childish ways and she'd find herself in the corner, after the licking. He might send her out to get a switch, a pleasurable idea. He redoubled his efforts, desperate to get past the battle and on to a real marriage. He needed it, wanted it, and since they'd wed, she was the only one who could give it to him.
Harder, harder, and the wood split in half, the end flying off to crash to the floor. Vaguely he heard her muffled wails and pleas, but he was beyond stopping. He was spanking her for their future.
He grabbed for anything and found the ruler in his desk drawer. It whistled as it cut the air on the way to stripe her fanny, with deeper red lines crisscrossing the dark pink of her cheeks.
She bucked and gasped. "William, no more. Please! I will do what you say. I won't throw any more food at you. Just don't hurt me. Please don't hurt me." Her voice broke on a sob.
Stricken, he dropped the ruler and pressed his lips to her fanny, kissing the welted skin. It throbbed, so hot, and he sat up and lifted her into his arms.
Marguerite buried her face in his shirt and soaked it with her tears. He patted her back, unsure how to comfort her, what to say. He couldn't take it back, although he already regretted the loss of control. No matter his good intentions, he hadn't paid attention, and might have harmed her. She would be bruised, and she would hate him even more.
Brushing the hair from her forehead, he murmured soothing nonsense until she tipped her face up to him and he saw the light in her flooded eyes. Her tear-streaked cheeks were flushed, her lips parted. He sucked in a breath at the picture she presented and remembered her arousal when he'd first spanked her.
Had that ended when he'd become lost in his frenzy?
He'd assumed so but now… now? His cock rose in response to the softness in her expression and the heat of her spanked bottom, warming his thighs through his trousers.
He cupped her chin and kissed her, savoring the salt of her tears. "I want to take you to my bed." What was he saying? He'd decided to tame her first and bed her second but he instead stood her up and helped her adjust her clothing, then scooped her up in his arms. Carrying her out of his office and down the hall, he cuddled her close, lost in the scent of her rose perfume.
His wife, his partner for life. The daughter of his enemy. The key to his inheritance. The future mother of his children.
Surely he'd made his point. She'd submitted to his hand and promised not to defy him further. He'd won the battle, if not the war.
What man wouldn't take his wife to his body and make them one? It was more than his right. It was his duty. And one he anticipated with pleasure.
Climbing the stairs to their room on the third floor, he wondered if it boded poorly that she would become his in such impoverished surroundings. He'd felt it important that she be under his roof, rather than one provided by her father, but now he doubted that decision.
Yet, he'd made it when his brain and not his prick had been in charge. Now it was hard to remember why it was so important to him. Still, he carried her down the narrow corridor and kicked the door to his—to their—chamber closed behind them. This was where they would begin. Perhaps soon he could allow her to set up housekeeping elsewhere, but as he lay her down on the narrow bed and helped her to lift her dress over her head, he remembered he had nowhere else to take her without her father's assistance. And that did not hold the pleasure it once had.
Marguerite untied her petticoat and then released the tapes that held her bustle on. She could have done that downstairs, but in the heat of the moment she hadn't thought of it. She'd found herself in the same position as the lady on the train and wondered if her body had responded to her husband as that naughty woman had to hers. The coil of heat low down certainly drove her mad.
And if she had responded like the lady, what would it mean in the act of love? She thought of Alice watching with such glee. What would her friend the mail-order-bride have thought if she had the opportunity to watch Marguerite on William's lap?
Would she have been equally absorbed?
And how would Marguerite have felt in the woman's position, exposed to any who chose
to enter and watch? That poor woman must have been so humiliated.
As the wire cage fell to the side, Marguerite rolled over on the bed. "The corset."
He struggled to untie the knotted strings. Of course, he had no one to blame but himself for that situation. He'd tied her into it himself that morning. The absurdity of the situation brought a giggle bubbling up from her abdomen but with a fierce curse, he grasped the edges of the garment and jerked it open. Shredding fabric and snapping strings confirmed the destruction of her favorite corset with the golden embroidery on taupe silk.
"I don't have another like it."
At his chuckle, chills skated down her spine. "I hope you'll pardon my eagerness to see my bride without clothing."
"I hardly think it is necessary to be entirely unclad for the marital act." She rocked up on her hands and knees.
"Necessary?" William dragged her soft chemise up, and despite her objections, she allowed him to work it over her head and arms, leaving her nude from the waist up. Her breasts swung free below her. "No, but so pleasurable." Reaching around her, he drew her white cotton, lace-trimmed pantalets down her legs and off over her shoes. So many layers. She'd never been much bothered by them before, but now her skin itched to be free of them.
Would he like how she looked, find her attractive?
Why should she care?
She began to kneel up, but he grasped her hips and ground his groin against her. "You look beautiful like that." He was so close she could feel the rough fabric of his trousers against the tops of her thighs and sore buttocks, renewing the sting. His hands came around and cupped her breasts, lifting and molding them.
He bent close and whispered close to her ear. "What if I were to spank these sweet bubbies? Would you like that, my wife?" He nuzzled her with his bearded cheek. "Or are you afraid to find out?" With a quick move, he flipped her over and loomed over her. "I cannot spank you any more on your lovely bottom tonight. I don't want to make it completely impossible for you to sit."
He slapped her right breast, then her left, not hard but the sensation resonated into her woman's parts and she brought her legs together, dismayed by all the sensations the night brought. William sat on the bed and she cringed but he smiled at her.
"I know I was hard on you tonight, my dear." He spoke so logically, as if she weren't laid out in front of him with no clothing on save shoes and stockings. He played with her breasts, one then the other, pinching and rubbing until she arched her back into his palms. "But I needed you to understand that I intend to take the lead in our household from the very beginning."
She fought the urge to purr like a contented cat under his touch, but his words were important. He was laying out their marriage and it was so hard to concentrate when her skin came alive. William bent his head and licked around the tip of her breast. He drew it into his mouth and sucked. She'd had no idea that a man would do such a thing and crossed her arms to push him away from her bosom, but he only chuckled and continued to mouth her as if she was the tastiest thing he'd had all day.
Considering they hadn't eaten and she'd thrown the apples and things at him, she just might be.
But when his lips strayed lower, kissing the under swells of her breasts, then a line down her belly, unease replaced the excitement. "What are you doing?"
He glanced up at her. "I am learning the sweetness of my wife's body. I am going to do something that may shock you, but I ask you to trust me."
Trust him. Since her mother's death she'd been manipulated from one situation to the next. Why would she trust anyone? But… it hadn't been William, had it? He had spanked her, paddled her, and married her but never manipulated her. That had been her father. Dizzy with sensations she couldn't identify, hot and cold, aching between her legs and at the tips of her bosoms, she only wanted relief and if he could give it to her, she would not deny him
Marguerite nodded.
Her husband lifted her legs over his shoulders and contemplated the area between as if it held the greatest interest for him. What did he expect to find? Was he inspecting before he climbed atop her and did his business?
He placed a kiss on her womanly parts and she panicked and tried to wrench free, but he held her knees and shushed her, his breath warming her there. "Trust, I asked for trust." He buried his face in her cunny and licked and sucked and nibbled, while she buried her hands in his hair and held him there, begging him never to stop.
When she screamed her pleasure, he rose and unbuttoned his pants and thrust within her. Her virgin barrier tore while she was too wrapped in ecstasy to feel pain. Instead, she tightened her legs around his waist and he rode her, thrusting inside her tight channel over and over, harder and deeper until he roared his pleasure and emptied his own juices into her.
They fell to the bed, tangled in one another's arms and legs, and he fell asleep, still inside her.
Marguerite awoke with a start. What had she been thinking? She'd had one simple goal: not to do anything that might result in pregnancy, but as soon as her husband tested the skin of her bottom with the flat of his hand she forgot that. When he paddled her, a yearning grew so strong it replaced every desire for freedom, any idea of running away to Boston.
Now, with the intensity of his riding her, she was sure to be pregnant. Didn't most of the girls in Boston become pregnant shortly after their wedding? And their pale, dull marital partners could not possibly compare to her lusty husband.
Marguerite winced. A corner would never be the same after he'd stood her in one at one point during the night, her bare, beaten behind on display while her nose touched the spot where two walls met. She'd leaned against it when her legs grew weary, but William had barked at her to stand still and gave her a quick strike with a quirt he'd plucked from an umbrella stand near the doorway.
A long, long night.
But she was sure of one thing. Her marriage was not going away easily. She'd have to convince her husband to allow her to participate more in the running of the school, or go mad cooking and cleaning for him.
When he returned to bed, she tucked the covers tight around them both and nestled close, every inch the obedient wife. "Husband, perhaps I can help you with those ledgers."
He stroked her hair. "Won't you find cooking and cleaning for me enough?"
She shook her head. "No. I would not."
"All right, I really do dislike the bookkeeping, but I cannot afford a clerk. So, fine. If you think you can handle the figures, you may try."
She smiled into his chest hair. How much more malleable men were when they were sated. "And teaching."
"Married women do not teach."
She jerked away but he did not release her. "And why is that?"
"They have other duties to their husbands and children."
"And do I have children?"
"No, not yet."
"No, not yet. But, my darling, I am gently raised and educated. Unless you want to live on apples and cheese, we need a cook. And a housekeeper. And someone to help me dress, because if I do not soon get a lady's maid you will ruin all my corsets and I will have to go about like a slattern."
"But we live in one small room in a school. Where will all these servants dwell?"
"Husband, I propose we spend our days at the school, together, and our nights at the house my father provided. I am really not comfortable in a small, dirty room and a bed so narrow we must cling to one another to keep from falling to the floor."
"That I will not consent to. We stay here, in a place I provide for you."
"But—"
He rolled her on top of him and smiled up at her. "But we shall maybe find a compromise." Shifting his hips, he brought the head of his manliness to her opening and slid inside again. They were both still so moist, it was no trouble, but he stopped halfway and said, "I think well when I am servicing my wife."
"What a crude way to put it. How did I end up with such a man for my husband?" She amazed herself with her shamelessness, riding him as if he were a
horse. Even with her limited knowledge, she knew it wasn't supposed to be that way. Men were on top, women tolerated them. They did not toss their heads back and moan and thrash. They did not beg their husband to take them again and again. They did not want to be spanked.
What was wrong with her?
"Marguerite? Wife?" He rocked, gliding even deeper into her until she feared he would invade her insides and never be able to find his way out again. But she didn't care, each time he moved in and out she clenched around him, as if seeking to milk his manhood for the thick fluid he'd filled her with again and again.
What depths of deprivation she'd reached since becoming a married woman.
But she'd garnered his promise to let her help with the books, not her goal, but a step in the right direction.
Chapter Nine
William watched his wife sleeping, no doubt exhausted by their exertions the night before. Her face held no guilt, only the sweet innocence he would expect from a virgin. Piercing her maidenhead had been the most amazing moment of his life. Until that moment, he'd only spent himself in less than moral women, and hadn't been prepared for the tenderness he'd feel.
His emotions were churning. How could he fall in love with the daughter of the man he hated most in the world, the man who had destroyed his family?
Leaving her behind, he slipped out of the room and the school, on his way to confront her father about his perfidy. He no longer cared about vengeance, not if it came between him and Marguerite, but he needed to tell her father exactly what he thought of him. They would be fine in the school, and if Stokes was angered enough by his confrontation to have him cast out of his position, he would take his wife and go east. Perhaps he wouldn't be able to provide for her as her father would have, as she was used to, but with his education, he could teach somewhere and take care of his little family.
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