Saffina's Season

by Flora Dain

  Table of Contents

  Legal Page

  Title Page

  Book Description

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  New Excerpt

  About the Author

  Publisher Page

  Saffina’s Season

  ISBN # 978-1-78651-013-6

  ©Copyright Flora Dain 2016

  Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright March 2016

  Edited by Jamie D. Rose

  Totally Bound Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Totally Bound Publishing.

  Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Totally Bound Publishing. Unauthorized or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

  The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

  Published in 2016 by Totally Bound Publishing, Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN

  Totally Bound Publishing is a subsidiary of Totally Entwined Group Limited.

  Warning:

  This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Totally Sizzling and a Sexometer of 2.

  Suiting Saffina

  SAFFINA’S SEASON

  Flora Dain

  Book three in the Suiting Saffina series

  When he treats her to her first London Season, she looks set to shine. But the more she sparkles, the more he despairs.

  Now happily married with a baby son, Jacquard treats Saffina to her first London Season. He’s keen to show off his new countess, and she means to enjoy it to the fullest. She flirts outrageously, sees off catty remarks from jealous rivals with smart retorts and generally has a terrific time.

  But when she’s waylaid by footpads one night in the backstreets of Chelsea, she’s unexpectedly rescued by a struggling artist. Inspired, she commissions a raunchy portrait for Jacquard’s birthday. As she struggles to keep it a secret, Jacquard grows moody. Soon he suspects an affair and thrillingly, steps up her discipline by giving her a taste of leather.

  But at the Carlton House ball, when the prince reveals his new mistress, both she and Jacquard get a shock. He storms out, enraged.

  Has she gone too far? Will she lose her husband, her good name and her son?

  Chapter One

  “You do this on purpose, I swear. Why do you torment me so?” His dark eyes glittered in the cushioned privacy of his carriage. His mouth twisted, sulky as a schoolboy’s.

  “You torment me all the time.” I pouted. “Now you know how it feels. Just one day more, then I’ll be fresh for you.”

  “You’re always fresh for me. You’re irresistible at these times. Your power is at its height. Even the ancients knew that. Please, Saffina, just once.” He growled in my ear, nipping my earlobe. “Please.”

  I writhed as he slipped his hand up into my skirts, his touch light as a feather on my inner leg, his fingertips trailing tiny shivers over my soft skin.

  “Tomorrow,” I giggled. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

  He slumped back in the corner with a groan. “Now. And make it quick. We’re almost there.”

  With a wry grin, he freed himself and sprawled back, pushing gently on my shoulders to get me in position. With a coy glance, I slipped down between his thighs then leaned up to kiss his hot, glossy cock.

  “Like this, sir?” I folded my hand around it, fondling its silky stiffness for a moment, then dipped my head to taste, licking the crown with the tip of my tongue.

  I glanced up to check his response. Thrilling to the heat in his look, I grew bold.

  “Or like this?” I surged forward, driving my eager mouth along the hot manhood, arousal pooling between my legs as it filled my mouth and nudged mercilessly at the back of my throat.

  Jacquard Forsley, the great Earl of Endale, stunning, distinguished and rich beyond reason, was now my husband. As his new countess, I belonged to him, body and soul, both in law and in my heart. Pleasing him was all my joy.

  I had few powers over him, but this was one. I vowed to make it last.

  Like all women, I cursed my time of the month. However gently I denied him, refusing him full access drove him wild. But teasing him with my mouth like this was a constant delight and drove him even wilder, it seemed, especially when I timed my caresses to match our arrival at some ball or other, when—surprise, surprise—we had to break off just before he came. It meant an evening of anguish for him and plenty of fun for me—and high risk of a severe and truly satisfying spanking when we finally met up again.

  In truth, my worst had passed. Only traces remained. But for the fun of it, I’d deny him a few more hours.

  Now, just to tease, I pulled away at his peak. “So shall I pick you up after the club, my lord?” My mouth was all moist softness, my look all innocence.

  His flash of irritation betrayed his need. “I can walk, damn it. Finish me, for pity’s sake.”

  He was en route to his club, I to an exclusive soirée. We rarely split up for the evening, but tonight we had to. Jacquard had promised to show me a Season. Our arrival had caused quite a stir.

  I was a great curiosity, partly because my dashing husband had evaded marriage so long, partly because so many mamas longed for a glimpse of me, the hoyden who had finally snapped him up from under the very noses of their daughters. Jacquard was one of the richest men in Europe.

  They could carp all they liked. I meant to have fun.

  Now I leaned back on my heels, mock stern. “You can do many things, my lord. But walking alone in the capital at two in the morning? Far too risky.” I gave him a lofty smile. “Some poor footpad will accost you, and you’ll run him through. Then I’ll lose you to the gallows. Let me collect you in the carriage. Then we can arrive together.”

  His eyes gleamed. “Arrive together? Surely you mean come together, ma’am? And did I not warn you that I require payment for lending you my carriage in the first place? You have your own phaeton. You could have come in that.”

  I leaned up to kiss his cheek. “You know I’d far sooner come in private, sir.”

  With a grin, he hoisted me onto his lap and edged my flounces up my thigh.

  I drew in a sharp breath as he began to explore, quickly searching out my pleasure spots with his fingers, his persistent touch so exciting that it made me writhe.

  “Are you going to lower the blinds, at least?” I sounded husky over the clatter of the carriage wheels. At this hour, the streets were busy. Any minute someone might look in and see me clasped in my husband’s arms, with his hand buried in my skirts.

  “Hush, my sweet. Your lace hides all. You think I want people to see me make love to my wife? Spread your legs.”

  Almost at once the carriage juddered to a halt. Outside, his coachman was about to open the door.

  Jacquard ran his hand down my cheek, his eyes dark with lust.

  “Later, my own,” he murmured. “You’ll
fetch me when?”

  “Around two, sir? To finish our tête-à-tête?”

  I saw his fine mouth twitch at the corner.

  “See that you’re on time. I ache for you already, my sweet. Au revoir.” He kissed me lightly on the forehead then paused, his hand resting on the door.

  Surprised, I glanced up with a fond smile. His thirst for pleasure, like his range of torments, seemed boundless. My least mistake earned far more than simple reproofs. It could ensure several nights of exquisite, pleasurable torture and leave me shaky for days at a time.

  I hoped I tormented him too, just a little. He played me like an instrument. My sole revenge was to toy with his affections, easily done here in the capital. The London Season offered so many distractions, what with routs, balls, receptions and parties. And, amazingly…admirers.

  It seemed marriage and a title were no bar to ardent followers. To my surprise, being new to smart society, flirting seemed quite the thing here—expected, even. And not much to my surprise, since I knew him so well, my flirting drove Jacquard to fury, even while he laughed it off in company and urged me on. It was entirely possible he found it flattering, but I took care not to ask.

  Afterward, I would return home with pleasurable dread. How would he take it? With a laugh or a scowl? A kiss or a whipping? And if he laughed, how long before he whipped me anyway? And after that, what other trials lay in wait?

  He could tease me for days, if he felt like it. And I vowed to endure it even longer. The need for secrecy, by contrast, was as vital as ever. Intense passion—and our particular path to it—could easily cause offense. We took care to arrive at a ball in the same carriage, leave with a wave and a fond glance—but the hours in between were to be filled with other people, other dancing partners, light flirtations.

  No wonder he found my present indisposition a strain.

  As the coachman reached for the door, Jacquard spoke to him through the window. “Her Ladyship needs a moment.” With a cruel smile, he turned back, shielding me from view. Once more he freed himself.

  I swallowed. “The blinds, sir?”

  He eyed me sternly. “We’re already in shadow, ma’am. If I draw them now, we’ll also draw attention. Finish me. And take your time.”

  With hot arousal rippling through my belly, I slipped once more to the floor and leaned between his thighs to see his swelling cock before me, shiny and hot. I fell on it with a will, taking it as deeply as I dared, then setting up a lusty rhythm.

  Now fear and lust spurred me on. This was risky indeed.

  Suppose someone should see?

  At this hour the streets were crowded. Standing carriages lured the curious. Any minute some passerby might peer in and see us…

  “Slower, my sweet. Your mouth is all heaven.”

  His low groan pierced my heart, while dread of discovery laced my excitement with raw fear. I felt a throb down below, where I’d been neglected for days while my cycle ran its course.

  I should be fresh and eager again by the morrow. But oh, how I missed him there. Despite the exotic and delightful uses he made of my other places, that one was ever my favorite.

  “Slower. Make it last. You should work your tongue harder.”

  His soft growl made me throb again, as I realized his hungry gaze drank in every move of my straining mouth and my tight, stretched lips. I tried to slow down, mindful of his command, but with him at his full size, I found it difficult.

  Later, I knew, he’d recall my every lapse, every mis-stroke, then use them to set up an elaborate punishment, or whip me to within a whisker of climax and torment me till dawn by denying me for hours.

  Now chatter and laughter sounded all around us. A crowd of pleasure seekers strolled past both sides of the carriage. It rocked alarmingly. Panic spurred me on.

  I pulled away for a second, hauling in breath to whisper a plea. “Pull the blinds, sir. I beg you. Someone will see—”

  “Too late. I warned you to be quick. We’re out of time.” He glared down at me as he fastened himself, his face grim.

  “We’ll finish later.” He smiled again, curving his mouth into a cruel grin. “And you’ll learn the price of defiance.” He brushed my fingers with a light, playful kiss and stepped out of the carriage.

  I watched him go, knowing my fate was sealed. We’d meet in the early hours, when the streets were quiet. Then his luxurious carriage would barely contain his passion or his insatiable need for my mouth.

  I might regret this.

  As he left the carriage, he looked back one last time, his face stern. “Don’t be late.”

  With a curt nod to his coachman, he vanished into White’s, St. James’ most prestigious club.

  I drew a sigh, already well aware how my own evening would end. I would throb and pulse, unsatisfied, while I made small talk with various titled dowagers and their catty protégées. After a long evening of polite chat, I would come back to pick him up. Then my torment would resume.

  Back at our townhouse, he’d lead me upstairs. Once there, my tearful plea for privacy would earn slow, possibly painful, reprisals. And his need for my mouth and my body would consume him till morning, overriding my need for sleep, until he aroused me past bearing, and we clung to each other, thrust for thrust, then one or both of us surrendered to full satisfaction.

  As the carriage turned riverward to the tamer delights of Lady Carstairs’ elegant soirée in Chelsea, I squirmed with frustration.

  If only I could feel myself, grant the release he’d denied me all week. If only I dared break my word and give in to simple pleasure. But knowing how hard he found these times, I felt bound to keep my word. He felt spurned, uneasy, because he was denied all of me.

  It was only fair that I should suffer too.

  Lady Carstairs was a poor substitute for my stunning, skillful husband, but her parties were ultra-respectable and invitations much prized. Jacquard insisted I go to cement our social status. For the rest of the evening, the stilted chatter of Her Ladyship and her genteel guests must suffice until we met again in the dark privacy of his carriage.

  If only I’d finished him.

  And, in a flash, I knew he’d done that on purpose to make me feel bad about leaving him unsatisfied.

  He knew I’d feel guilty.

  I laughed out loud. How like him to leave me panting too. Impatience—and a fresh flare of arousal—rippled through me.

  Just you wait, my lord. Just you wait.

  * * * *

  The soirée in Chelsea was worse than I’d feared. The company fairly bristled with gentility. As I walked in, all eyes fell on my stunning necklace—my diamonds, famed throughout Europe for their beauty and worth a fortune.

  Lady Carstairs, her pinched face sour as a lemon, took my hand stiffly.

  “Ah, Lady Endale. I see your husband still rustles up enough cash to deck you in splendor. Surprising, from what I hear of his passion for cards. How can he make his money, I wonder?”

  I beamed around at the silent onlookers, no doubt hoping I’d blush and stammer out some feeble defense.

  “These, ma’am?” I fingered the jewels absently. “My grandmother’s, as I’m sure you know. And His Lordship never talks to me of business. Is that how you spend your evenings? I thought I’d come to a party, not a bank.”

  My hostess turned an ugly red and hastily backtracked. I noticed some of her more fashionable guests smirk behind their hands. It seemed the queen of the Chelsea set rarely lost face.

  I sealed her shame by sparkling for the rest of the evening—even taking a turn about the room with her pompous ass of a husband, before glancing at the clock and taking my leave.

  But it seemed her daughter had been primed for a parting shot. Lady Hornsea was middling pretty, save for her sharp nose and small eyes. As I made for the door, I heard her shrill bleat clearly over the music.

  “Lor’, Mama, was that the Wilby girl? The child of that dreadful pair who sank at sea?”

  I paused. The crowd grew q
uiet as I glanced back to make sure I’d heard her right. Lady Hornsea was staring at me with an open sneer. As I watched, she whispered to the dowager next to her and tittered.

  I turned away, sickened. As I left, I heard whispers.

  “Worth a fortune.”

  “Her husband won’t touch a penny.”

  “A wife with her own money? How shocking.”

  “No good will come of it.”

  Temper flaring, I swept grandly out.

  My past was my own, but gibes still hurt. I saw my carriage already parked across the street.

  The coachman and my footman were nearby, both turned away and talking quietly together. Neither spotted me.

  Still fuming, I paused. Should they see me like this?

  I wanted to rage and shout. Instead, I slipped around the corner for a few moments to cool off.

  It was dark in the shadows, out of sight of the street. I took several deep breaths to compose myself. All at once, bulky shapes loomed over me.

  “Quick, grab ’er.”

  Before I could shriek or lash out, rough hands snatched at my cloak and exposed my bosom. In the moonlight, my diamonds flashed fire.

  “Blimey. Cop a load of these, lads. Hold her down. We’ll have ourselves some fun and get rich on the side.”

  I opened my mouth to scream. Instantly a filthy hand clamped on my mouth. In vain I struggled. One powerful ruffian held me fast. Another reached for me, gloating.

  Just then a shout rang out.

  “Let her alone.”

  At the same moment, a bundle of wooden struts crashed around in an arc, scattering the group. It swung back, knocking my assailant out of the way. The wood was balanced on the shoulder of a bearded man with wild eyes and a hungry look.

  He snatched my arm.

  “Hurry, milady. This way.”