Man and Wife: A Sweet Historical Love Story

by Carolyn Faulkner

  When he spoke, it was very nearly with her still in his mouth. "I would be willing to wager that your wonderful golden boy wouldn't have the slightest idea of how to do this for you."

  He had stopped suddenly the last time, leaving her with an ache that his vicious belt overran, and she was still throbbing, in both areas, now, although that mouth of his quickly brought her to the brink again and the pain in her behind faded quite a bit with the resurgence of her desire.

  Curious fingers found their way inside her again, very gently, although she tried to balk a bit at the pressure they made her feel. It wasn't altogether unpleasant, just unfamiliar, and, of course, he didn't allow her to avoid them anyway.

  She was more familiar with the feeling this time and less afraid of it, although it was even more acute than it had been before, and she felt herself being swept away by the overwhelming pleasure, completely unable to stifle the obscene moans and cries his mouth drove from her. To her mortification, he remained there after the first storm and brought her to several more peaks—some stronger, some weaker than the first, until she thought that if he forced another on her, she was likely to faint.

  But he must've realized how exhausted she was, patting the insides of her legs as he moved up and over her, making her feel just that much smaller and more vulnerable by his sheer size.

  Con kept her legs apart and around him, encouraging her to loop them around his waist as he reached down to flick her clit first—thoroughly enjoying her yelp of surprise—then taking himself in hand, replacing his fingers with his cock but not entering her yet, just teasing the two of them with what would be.

  She was still panting but much more relaxed than he had ever seen her, her hair a wild halo around her head, eyes closed, breasts rising and falling quickly and enticingly, so much so that he couldn't resist leaning down to take a nipple in his mouth.

  Her unbridled response as he suckled gently had him completely hooked. Mari seemed to be at once trying to arch her breast more into his mouth, while at the same time reaching out to try to dislodge his lips entirely.

  "No. You are not allowed to do that."

  Her eyes flitted to his, then down again, as he resumed suckling eagerly.

  "B-but…" her eyelids drooped and she bit her lip as the sensations that had begun to recede within her were easily fanned into flames again that threatened to overwhelm her. "But Con—" Her hands were no longer touching him, but were still in the area, looking lost, having no direction, not permitted to do what she wanted them to.

  "Put your hands on my shoulders, Mari, and don't remove them."

  They ended up there quite tentatively as she peeped up at him from beneath long lashes.

  He began to press forward more from instinct than conscious thought, watching her avidly, looking for any signs of discomfort at his invasion.

  But that wasn't what he saw at all.

  There were no signs of pain from her in the least. She looked a bit apprehensive, which he understood but carefully didn't encourage by acknowledging it. Instead, he continued to advance relentlessly into her until he buried himself fully within her.

  It took everything he had to remain still, but he did. "All right?" he whispered, thinking he already knew the answer.

  She frowned a bit, her eyes closed. "Mmm. I-I don't know. I feel..."

  "You feel what, Miss Mari?" he asked huskily.

  Mari did not want to say. It wasn't proper. Nothing he did to her was proper, but she didn't have to discuss it, which was also highly improper, so she shook her head, whispering in acute embarrassment, "Nothing."

  But Con wasn't going to have any of that. "Do you need more of the belt?"

  Her eyes flew open wide at that threat, and she gazed up at him, trying to gage whether or not he was serious, and he certainly didn't look as if he was kidding.

  So, she blushed and stammered prettily through her admission. "I...well, I feel...uh..."

  She was so red he wondered if she was going to faint.

  "Tell me, Mari. I'm growing impatient." Soft and firm, an implied threat, rather than a blatant one.

  "I feel full," she spit out, her cheeks as cardinal red as he had made her other cheeks.

  "And does that feel bad?" he asked.

  "It feels...different and...sensitive."

  "But it doesn't hurt?"

  "No..." she answered reluctantly.

  "Then just enjoy it. I bet it's as pleasant to feel full as it is to be the one filling you."

  She hadn't considered his pleasure, and he could plainly see that in the surprise on her face.

  "I like being inside you. We fit together perfectly."

  When he could stand it no longer, he began to move, and she began to moan in time with his thrusts. It was unbearable to hear her cries of pleasure and know that he was the one causing them—although he had long since admitted to himself that he thoroughly enjoyed a woman's cries of distress, too, when it was the result of a good, hard punishment.

  And Mari's were nearly so potent that he could come just by spanking her.

  But being inside her, feeling her surrounding him, feeling her beneath him, watching her breasts—both nipples tight pebbles atop them—as he moved within her—nothing topped that for him.

  It was so deeply arousing that he couldn't last nearly as long as he should have. Within minutes, he couldn't control the need to take her more actively, gathering her legs over his arms to hold her more open to him as he snapped his hips forward, teasing himself and her a bit before settling in to a strong, surging rhythm.

  When she began to clench around him in the throes of her own bliss, he could hold back no longer, and, with a last tremendous thrust, he set himself loose within her, wondering, frankly, if this was how he was going to die, and realizing that would be fine with him.

  Mari kept her hands where he had said she must, but she watched as he shuddered above her, looking as if someone was torturing him terribly as he writhed in ecstasy. Did she look like that, she wondered, when the same thing happened to her? As a result, she began to rub his shoulders and down his arms, trying to help him feel better, which made him chuckle softly.

  "What are you doing?" he asked, rolling off her, lest he crush her, to lie on his back with his arm over his eyes.

  Biting her lip hesitantly, Mari withdrew her hands immediately, saying, "I-I don't know. You just sounded and looked as if you were in pain, so I wanted to soothe you, I guess. I'm sorry."

  "You don't have to apologize for wanting to make me feel better, Mari. It's a very nice impulse. You can always touch me—although probably not while I'm sick. That's just not smart. But you can touch me any other time you would like."

  Touch him? She'd never really thought about it. Was that supposed to be a part of this? Wasn't this a man's thing—like golf—or was she expected to participate, too?

  "Do you want me to touch you?" she asked, surprised to find that she was quite curious about his answer.

  He smiled broadly. "Always, any time at all, anywhere at all, you could bring me to my knees." Con cupped her cheek gently, but then the memory of what she'd done—whom she'd physically abandoned him for the faint promise of while leaving herself dangerously vulnerable to do so. ""But then you're not interested in what makes me feel good, because I'm not Holyoake," he said bitingly.

  With that, he turned over onto his side, showing her his broad back and falling asleep quickly, while his bride lay awake most of the night, thinking about what had happened that day between herself and her husband, and not coming to any grand—or even satisfactory—conclusions.

  And now, here she was, sitting alone as usual.

  At least he came back at night, usually around eleven. She supposed that was something.

  And there had never been a night since their first together that he hadn't had her, in one way or the other, some of which made her blush painfully just at the memory of them. She was a quick student, and he enjoyed teaching her. He was even nice to her, in the dar
kness.

  But that temporary, tentative truce that prevailed through the evening hours evaporated in the sunlight as if it had never been.

  He kept himself busy, leaving her sleeping—exhausted—in the bed to go off to meetings, having given her express instructions to stay in the room from the first morning they'd been in it, and now she was long past bored. She'd been a good girl for the past weeks, but that was going to come to an end. She was sick of him telling her what to do. She'd been here before, she knew her way around, generally speaking, but there were things she hadn't seen, and she intended to see them—with or without him.

  So she pushed her tray away and called for Danvers, who, knowing the instructions the master had given Mari, was surprised to receive her summons.

  "You shouldn't be going out at all, my lady, but you certainly shouldn't be going alone."

  Mari made a spur of the moment decision. "I'm not. You're going with me. You can be my duena, of a sort. And don't tell me you've never had any interest in seeing the Louvre. I remember how excited you were when we came over here before."

  She wasn't wrong about that, but she was about going out without the duke's permission, and Danvers had a feeling she was going to be made to regret the decision. Mari told her everything—and she had always proven herself completely trustworthy—and she had mostly guessed about what was happening between them anyway. It wasn't that hard to tell, even though she hadn't been there when Mari had run away from him, or she would have done her best to talk her out of such an impulsive act. Danvers was much more practical than Mari would ever be. Why would any woman want a skinny, effete young boy who had less than no prospects instead of a big, strapping man like the master, who had already proven himself to be a success and could take care of his family as well as hers.

  Danvers had seen how the duke looked at her Mari and recognized the heartache that was going to be visited on the two of them if Mari couldn't come to terms with having to surrender her childhood crush.

  It was still early morning—well, for Mari, anyway—and they made a day of it, dining at a small café near the Champs Elysees for lunch and wending their way through the museum, although it would take several trips to see everything they wanted to. They even took a stroll down the banks of the Seine before arriving back at the hotel room.

  In the room, Danvers set about changing her into eveningwear, although Mari wasn't sure why she bothered. He was never home to eat with her, so she always ended up with a tray that she just picked at.

  As she stood there in her corset, chemise and drawers, her husband chose that moment to burst into the room.

  "Where the hell have you been?" he asked, in a way too tightly controlled not to be dangerous.

  Despite what he had done to her in the dark, and even sometimes with the lamps on, Mari still had the almost undeniable urge to want to cover herself from his heated gaze.

  But she forced herself not to hunch, nor to reach for her dress, saying defiantly, "Danvers and I went to see some of the sights."

  He advanced on her, and Danvers did her best to get in his way, to try to protect the young woman she was at least as fond of as she would have been of her own daughter.

  "You may go, Danvers," Con ground out.

  "No, stay, Danvers," Mari countermanded her husband. She did not want to be alone with him in this state.

  Caught in the middle between them, the older woman stood still.

  "If you value your job, woman, I suggest you leave my sight."

  With eyes that pled with Mari to understand why she had to do what she did, Danvers whispered, "Pardon, master," as she practically backed out of the room.

  Mari's eyes filled with tears. She'd known it deep down, she guessed, but it was another thing to see it demonstrated before one's eyes.

  She was, after all, alone in this world.

  Alone with him.

  He came to tower over her. "Did I or did I not tell you that you were not to leave the room?"

  "Am I your prisoner then?" she asked, looking up at him with her head high, not cowering, meeting his eyes head on.

  Dear God she was beautiful like this. He was, again, struck by the fact that she was everything he wanted in a woman—strong—even if she didn't realize it quite yet—gorgeous—even in just her under things and not dressed to the nines—with backbone to spare.

  He loved her beyond all, beyond everything. There was no reason to it, as there often wasn't in matters of the heart. He just knew that, from the moment he'd met her, he'd had to have her. He'd seen—he'd been with—women who were prettier, smarter, and bolder. He couldn't put words to his attraction to her. He just knew it was there, inside him, sometimes aching and yearning painfully, like now, sometimes poignant and tender, such as when he had given her the first taste of pleasure.

  Yet, she appeared to have no feelings for him at all. When they'd married, he'd been sure that he could do this—that he had more than enough love for both of them. But now, he was nowhere near as confident as he had been, knowing—from her own behavior—that he could lose her to another man if the right one but snapped his fingers in her direction.

  "No," he choked out. "You are my wife." As he spoke, he finished the job that Danvers had begun; only she ended up naked rather than in the splendid gown the servant had gotten out for her that was still lying over the occasional chair next to the bed.

  Mari didn't know what to do with that answer, so she remained quiet, and was actually startled when his one word order echoed through the room.

  "Kneel."

  At first, she thought to balk, but then she heard the clinking of his belt buckle and—as ashamed as she was at her cowardice—she sank down onto the luxuriously thick carpet without another thought rather than give him reason to use his belt on her again.

  But that didn't seem to be his purpose at all, although for the life of her she couldn't quite make out what that was, until he stood before her, firm fingers beneath her chin, his rampant self in his other hand.

  "Open your mouth, Mari."

  Chapter 7

  Con had to admit that he was amazed when she did so, not that he let her see his surprise, and he nearly lost control completely as his thick length slid past those pouty pink lips of hers, disappearing inside the warm wetness beyond.

  She let him press in as far as he could without making one sound of protest, too. He could barely believe it, and her acquiescence—which he liked to think of as obedience, whether or not she intended it to be quite that—only stripped away more and more of what he knew was his tenuous hold on himself whenever he was around her.

  When he withdrew, then presented himself again, she took him quietly, but this time he could feel her teeth scraping against him and pulled out.

  "Wrap your lips around your teeth, baby girl. You wouldn't want me to use my teeth down there on you."

  She most certainly would not. She was quite sure she didn't want him to use what he did use, and yet her resolve melted any time he reached for her. It even melted when he spanked her, which she could not even begin to come to grips with. How could something that hurt so badly make her feel so squirmy, as if he'd already been touching her with his fingers or his mouth? She didn't like it while he was doing it, but almost immediately afterwards, her body converted all of that agony into desire—totally against her wishes.

  As if she'd ceded control of herself to him, somehow by allowing him to do what he did to her.

  The thought was absurd. She didn't allow him to do anything. He simply did it. She was the one who needed to ask his permission to do things, not the other way around.

  She had taken a chance on this unusual position, liking how it afforded her the ability to watch him. It had become a bit of a pastime for her to glance at him furtively when she thought he probably wouldn't see, and he never noticed that she was watching him intently as he labored over her. He was too lost in the sensations, and she found that very intriguing.

  That was why she didn't put up
much of a protest—besides the fact that she would prefer not to give him a reason to punish her in any way again.

  Part of her wondered if she might use this to her advantage somehow—as much as she could get away with, that was.

  So she leaned forward, towards him, rather than away from him, actively sliding her mouth down onto him. Her hand came up naturally as his fell away. She wrapped her small fingers around his thick girth, unable to surround him completely, but enough to create the illusion of a continuation of her mouth that she was going for, wetting all of him first so that her hand would slide as easily as her lips and tongue did.

  Then she took all of him, every bit she could while hearing his breath catch, hearing him moan and throw his head back with it, whispering her name under his breath like a desperate prayer.

  It wasn't much longer before he reached down, saying, "Give me your other hand."

  She did as he asked, and he brought it to the pouch beneath his tumescence, saying, "Touch, but gently."

  Using her fingertips by instinct only, she began to Braille him, her mouth never stopping the entire time.

  Well before it should have been, it was all over for him. He literally screamed his pleasure as he shot himself between her lips, knowing he should have been more careful, should have withdrawn and cum on her breasts or something that might have been more palatable to her. She wasn't likely to be happy about him spurting down her throat.

  But she didn't say a word.

  The look he gave her, though, made her question what she'd done. "Did I do something wrong?"

  He just stood there, completely stunned by her and the tremendously hard orgasm she'd coaxed out of him in record time. He saw it suddenly, like a fog lifting, what a fool he'd been about her, wasting time being angry with her during the day—working when he could have been with her, building a life with her—building something strong, something she wanted to be a part of.