by July Hall
Oh. Charles felt a little dizzy. Well—better punishment than indifference. “By taking off your clothes?” he asked. Maybe this was going to be some kind of denial thing, when she teased him with what he couldn’t have until she accepted he was sorry. He could do that. Could it really be that easy?
“No,” Sandra said. “Not with that. I changed my mind, Charles.”
He heard the zipper reach the end of the line. She shimmied her hips and pushed at the edge of her bodice, and the gown fell into a pool around her ankles.
She wasn’t wearing a proper bra, just two black cups that appeared to hold up her breasts by defying gravity. There were faint, pink indentations in the skin around her waist where the fitted bodice had dug in a little. Her panties were the midnight-blue satin ones with the black lace.
She peeled off the cups with a wince. “They always say the adhesive’s painless,” she muttered, and rubbed at a faint red mark beneath her right breast. She tossed the cups to the floor. “You guys don’t know how good you have it.”
“You changed your mind?” Charles said.
“Yes.” Sandra stepped backward, out of her dress, until she stood before him just in her panties and jewelry. “I do want to hear what you have to say. I do want you to ask for what you want.”
Heat flooded his face.
“I want you to ask,” she repeated, her voice getting hard, rough with command. “I want you to beg.”
He couldn’t respond. He couldn’t even think. He was being torn in too many directions—frustration, desire, and shame all tried to pull him to pieces. And yet somehow, he managed to say the worst possible thing: “I can’t.”
He’d told her. He’d tried. Didn’t she understand?
She didn’t look very understanding. Or impressed. “Yes, you can,” she said flatly. “If you can jump in front of a train, you can figure out what you want and find a nice way to ask me for it.”
She would think that. How could he explain to her that it would be easier to jump in front of a train than to ask for everything he wanted and be refused and cast out into the cold? At least the train would kill him instantly.
“But you don’t have to do it right now,” Sandra said. She turned her back on him and began walking toward his bedroom. “You can take your time and think about it. You can go back to the wedding and say good-bye to your guests.”
If he couldn’t beg, still less could he leave. Charles followed her into the bedroom. She stopped by the bed, looked over her shoulder, and appeared a little surprised that he was there.
“You know what I want,” he said.
Sandra looked silently at him. Then she turned around so he could see her again, nearly bare from head to toe. “You keep saying that, but you don’t really mean it,” she said after a moment. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be so scared I’d say no. I don’t know what you want, Charles.”
He opened his mouth.
“But I know what you need,” she said.
She reached out and touched his chest. He held absolutely still while she unknotted his bow tie, tossed it away, and opened the top stud of his dress shirt. “Is it easier to breathe now?” she murmured.
“What do you think I need?” Charles asked.
She didn’t look him in the eye as she opened the next stud. “You’ll see. Don’t worry.” Then she looked up at him, and he was stunned by the tenderness on her face. “And you’ll get it.”
“I will?”
“Yes.”
He put his hands on her hips again. His palms brushed against the black lace on her underwear. “I’ll get you?” he asked hoarsely.
She touched his face. “I didn’t say that.”
“Sandra—”
“I’ll tell you what.” She pushed his hands from her hips. “How about this? You can be in charge after all.” She took another step back. “You can do whatever you want to me.”
He looked her up and down. The shine of copper hair, her pale breasts and pink nipples, her long legs. Her soft mouth. Her blue eyes.
“It’s not a trick,” Sandra said. “Do you want to touch me? Or fuck me? Do you want my mouth on you?” She rubbed her hands over her smooth, bare abdomen. Her manicured fingernails traced over the elastic lining of her panties. “What do you want to do the absolute most right now, Charles?”
His heart was pounding so loudly he could barely hear her.
“You can do it,” she whispered. “Do want you want.”
Charles’s eyes closed. He swallowed.
“It’s all right. I want it too.”
In the end, he wasn’t sure what pulled him hardest—desire, inevitability, or gravity. The result was the same.
He went to his knees.
And as he pressed his face between her legs, mouthing frantically at the satin and inhaling her musk, he felt her fingers comb through his hair while she whispered, “Oh yes, baby. That’s exactly right.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
It was working. Possibly. Maybe.
Maybe, Sandra thought, as she swayed on her feet and tried not to come in less than two seconds while he nuzzled her.
They were alone. She’d texted Arnaud to say that she’d found another ride home, then texted Kristen to say that she’d be staying in Long Island, no need to wait up. Then Warrick had arrived in the study with a long shawl to help her cover herself. He’d taken one look at her and said, “I warned you.”
“Yeah,” Sandra had replied. “Thanks a lot.”
Now she kept her hands on Charles’s head, because whatever Warrick thought he knew, he didn’t know this. Nobody knew this. She trembled at every breath Charles exhaled against her, and combed her fingers through his hair until he began tugging at the waistband of her panties.
Then she smacked his hand away and said, “Uh-uh.”
He looked up at her, and that damn near made her come all by itself, the sight of Charles Magister on his knees. His eyes were glazed with need. She waited for him to protest, say that she’d told him he could do whatever he wanted.
He didn’t. He just looked up at her, panting, waiting.
Sandra choked down a moan, and managed, “Not yet. Keep goi—”
The words weren’t even out of her mouth before he leaned back in, grabbing her hips and licking her through the satin with the greatest possible abandon. Sandra nearly screamed. Charles always licked her cunt like it was the only way to get into heaven, but this was enthusiastic even for him. “Oh my God!” she whimpered.
Charles groaned against the satin. His hands slid around to cup her ass and bring her even closer in. She stopped him by tightening her grip in his hair; when he looked up, she whispered, “You’re the only one who ever saw me in these.”
His hands flexed hard on her.
“Bradley never did,” she continued. “I never let him, after you saw. You’re the only one.” Charles’s mouth went a little slack. Never breaking eye contact, she pushed his hands from her and then took two steps backward until she bumped into the bed. She sat down on the mattress. “Maybe I should throw them away.”
Charles said nothing. He just looked at her and ground his jaw. Sandra’s internal voice was gibbering away in terror, screaming that she had no idea what she was doing and maybe she just ought to screw him and let this all blow over.
Her internal voice faded away when she looked between Charles’s legs and saw the outline of his erection against his thigh.
She swallowed and spread her legs wide. She asked, “Is there a wet spot?” Charles’s eyes fell shut for a second, and he gave a faint groan. “I guess so.” She reached down between her legs and stroked over it, shuddering at her own touch. “I-it’s not all from you.”
“Oh, fuck,” he whispered, looking at the floor.
“They’re probably ruined. Should I throw them away?”
“No.”
“Why not?” she challenged. “Couldn’t you just get me some new ones?”
He gave her a swift, ferocious glare. Inside, she t
urned to jelly. Outside, she made sure to raise an eyebrow while she leaned back on her elbows.
Charles said nothing this time. Nor did he get up and pin her to the bed, as she’d half expected. No. He stayed on his knees and crawled to her, somehow managing to remind her more of a tiger than a supplicant.
Sandra trembled. She trembled more when he pushed her knees shut and began to tug her panties off.
With his teeth.
The brush of his incisors against her skin made her whimper again. A gesture that should have been meek, even submissive, became a threat. He could always devour her if he felt like it, if he wanted to stop playing along. The look on his face told her as much.
His eyes closed halfway, and he kissed her hip gently, as if reassuring her she was safe.
Oh no. He didn’t get to do that. He didn’t get to win that way.
“You’re still doing what you want?” she asked.
“Yes,” he whispered. Before she could respond, he hooked a fingertip beneath the lace on one hip, took the other bit of lace between his teeth, and slid the panties all the way down to her ankles—and stopped. Her legs remained bound together. She realized it just at the moment Charles looked up at her with a gleam in his eyes.
I’ll tie you to the bed. They’d spoken of it many times. Was that what he was thinking about? Like hell. Like hell was he going to…
To…
“Yes,” Sandra whispered as she looked down on him. “Oh yes, what a wonderful idea.”
Charles’s eyes burned with a light that was truly predatory. The light vanished when she scooted away from him and kicked her panties off before he could stop her.
“I need to kiss you,” she said. “Or…I need you to kiss me.” She scooted back on the mattress. He rose to his feet, looming over her, and she looked up at him. “You wouldn’t even let me say you looked handsome.”
Charles’s breath caught. Sandra lay flat on her back and held her arms open.
He was on her in an instant. He lay on top of her and settled between her legs, fully clothed. The cold chain of his pocket watch pressed into her skin, and she squeaked. He swore, reached into his waistcoat, and threw the watch away from the bed.
“Family heirloom?” she whispered.
“Useless nuisance,” he said. His breath caught when she stroked her hands over his waistcoat.
“Well, you do,” she said. “You look very handsome. I couldn’t keep my eyes off you during the ceremony.” She slid her hands beneath his jacket and tilted her hips, urging him to settle in closer. “Suspenders. No belt?”
“Not for white tie.” He suddenly looked a little awkward. At least the interruption had bought her some breathing room. “I know they look silly, but…”
“They don’t look silly on you.” Sandra wrapped her bare legs around him, around the backs of his thighs. She sighed happily when they pressed close together. “And this definitely feels better than a belt would.”
Charles shivered and kissed the side of her mouth. “Am I still being punished?”
Instead of answering, Sandra tilted her head and urged him to kiss her again. And again, and again; she kissed him like he loved it best, soft and slow and deep, until he moaned.
She touched his temple and felt the sweat there. “Handsome, but overheated,” she said.
He managed a half smile. “Perhaps a little.”
Sandra sat up. “Don’t let me stop you.”
She could see the storm still in his eyes. He was waiting for the other shoe to drop. “It’s my turn to put on a show?” he asked.
“No,” Sandra said innocently. “But would you, if I wanted?”
“If…” He gritted his teeth. “If you wanted. Yes.”
Sandra smiled. “That’s sweet.” She stroked his face. “I don’t want that. Just take off the coat.”
Relief shone plain as day on his face. He began shrugging out of his tailcoat. It was more well fitted than a blazer, and she enjoyed the little grunt he gave. He had the left sleeve almost all the way off, and the right sleeve still around his elbow, when she touched him.
“Let me stop you,” she said.
* * *
At first, Charles didn’t understand what was happening. Sandra reached down and tugged his left sleeve back up to his elbow. The tailcoat, like all his other suit coats, had been tailored to his exact measurements. Its narrow cut meant that his arms were all but pinned behind him. “What is it?” he asked.
“I want to sit on your lap,” Sandra said.
Hope leapt in him. That was such an intimate position; she wouldn’t want it if she was really angry with him. This way, he could kiss her, hold her, stroke her, fuck her, whatever she wanted. He began shrugging out of his jacket again.
She stopped him again. “No,” she said. “Like this. With your arms behind your back.”
Tied behind his back. The world tilted sideways as Charles’s brain howled in protest that this was not how matters went—Magister men were never bound and helpless.
He barely heard it. How could he, over the roar of blood in his ears, the pounding of his heart? And for once, the little voice in the back of his mind had nothing smart to say.
While he reeled, Sandra slid one leg over both of his and straddled him. She regarded him seriously and began to unfasten the rest of the studs on his shirt. “What do you want, Charles?” she asked softly.
The words brought him back to himself. “World peace,” he said through his teeth.
She took one of his suspender straps and snapped it against his chest. He hissed. “Okay,” she said mildly, and returned to his shirt. “I could leave you here and get to work on that, I guess.”
“You’d start a war,” Charles growled. “They’d all fight over you.”
“They?” She wouldn’t look him in the eye as she bared him to his waist. “Who are ‘they’? Men?” She pushed his shirt open and looked at his exposed chest. “Men like Bradley?” She stroked his pectorals. Her soft weight pinned him to the bed. He couldn’t move his arms. “Men like Arnaud?”
“Men like me,” Charles said.
She looked into his eyes and whispered, “There aren’t any other men like you.”
Then she leaned in and gave him a kiss so sweet he arched up against her. “It’s why I want you so much,” she said, and her voice broke a little bit. She kissed him again. “It’s why I’m here when I shouldn’t be here…”
“You should be here,” Charles panted. He struggled a little against his makeshift bonds. He needed to embrace her, hold her tight—
“Shh,” Sandra said, kissed him, and then pinched his nipples. Twisted them. The shock of pleasure was so intense that he actually cried out.
“So you like it too, huh?” she whispered, and pinched again. He moaned. “You know, I don’t get to use my hands very much on you. I think I called you ‘grabby’ once or twice.”
“I can’t help i—” That was also the wrong thing to say. He’d damn well better learn to help it, if the alternative was what had happened in the study. He gritted his teeth. “I’ll work on that.”
“Oh, usually I like it.” She gave him a shy smile that burned his blood as much as any vampy look. “I like that you want me so much. When you did it in your office the first time, I wanted you to never stop.” His breath caught as he remembered it—the little whimper in her breath, what it had been like to have her in his arms after days of unrelenting fantasy. Better than his dreams.
Then she added, “But you stopped when I asked…no. You stopped when I told you to.” She blinked at him. “Wow, you weren’t kidding. You wouldn’t have stopped if I said ‘please’? Really?”
Of course he would have. He wasn’t a monster. He wouldn’t have held Miss Dane down in his office and had his evil way with her while she begged him to stop. And he had no right to be indignant that she’d asked. “I would have stopped,” he told her.
She seemed unconvinced. He tried not to squirm and kept looking in her eyes.
&
nbsp; “Well,” she said, her voice cool again. “Tonight you’ll do as you’re told.”
Again, his rational self rebelled. He did not do as he was told, he did not obey. He was obeyed.
Sandra reached down and palmed his rigid cock through his pants, because his body was saying otherwise, and he gasped. Then she bent and licked his nipple, scraped it with her teeth, and he cried, “Fuck!”
“Oh God,” Sandra gasped, “why haven’t I been touching you more?” Charles had no answer, except maybe because it would have killed me, but he couldn’t even say that much. It was too late anyway. Her fingers slid over his chest, his belly, and she kissed him, let her hair fall against his skin.
She opened the top button of his trousers and carefully unzipped him. The easing of pressure on his cock made him gasp in relief. Her fingers quested inside the waistband, and after a few false starts, unfastened his suspenders. A woman had never undressed him before. Oh, Eleanor had torn his clothes off plenty of times, but he was always going at hers too, in a frantic, mutual dash to the finish line. He’d never sat still while a woman uncovered him bit by bit, taking her sweet time.
He hated this. Didn’t he? His hands bound behind him, Sandra undressing him and taking forever about it, sometimes stopping to kiss or stroke him, didn’t he hate it? This was punishment, after all. Hating it was the whole point, so didn’t he?
He was so hard he was straining against the waistband of his silk boxers. He hadn’t cursed his own dick this much since he was fourteen years old and trying not to get an erection every time a girl looked at him. It ought to know better, it ought to have some fucking shame.
Sandra ran her fingertips up and down him through the silk, and he bit back a cry. “Oh, Charles,” she whispered. “Here.” She carefully parted the opening of his boxers and eased his cock through it, holding it lightly in her hand. “There now. Is that better?”
Before he could answer, she kissed him gently. It knocked the discretion right out of him, and he panted, “Yes.”
“Good.” She surveyed her handiwork, and he ground his teeth when he realized how he must look with his shirt and pants open, his cock out, and his arms tied behind his back.