by Flora Dain
“I’ve been fasting for days.” I writhed again. My protest faded into a low moan as he stirred his hand once more.
As ever, he held all the cards. I was strapped and helpless, my wrists looped to the padded ceiling of the silken luxury of his carriage, my arms stretched to aching. I bent low over the seat, pinned under the weight of his power and his prodding lust.
I felt his lips hot on my neck as his fingers lingered in my swollen, lustful folds, slick with moisture, oozing my shame.
He knew. He well knew what I wanted. Now I felt the full weight of his cockstand—hard, hot and insistent—lodged between my ass cheeks like a flagpole. It shifted in rhythm with the jolting carriage, as eager to plunge up inside me as I was to receive it.
Unable to stop myself, I rubbed against it, clenching and riding it in a silent, heartfelt plea. Please, please…
“Open. Wider.”
His grip tightened as his harsh command hissed in my ear, too low to startle the driver but enough to scare me. I’d been trussed like this for what seemed like hours as he explored my resistance, tested my reactions, primed my lust.
Now he fondled my wet, dripping slit yet again, pushing easily into my most private and forbidden place, sending shivers all through me. I felt him tease and explore, obscenely invading me, stoking my flames to a fire of arousal. His hand stayed firmly in place, shifting gently with the jolting of the wheels, teasing more moans and whimpers out of me in a constant anguished melody over the driving rhythm of the horses’ hooves. He turned his busy fingertips to my constant delight and my perpetual torment, as he made me arch, made me writhe and made me ache.
Hourly he edged me ever closer to bliss—never close enough.
I’m so close. Please, please…
“Is this what you want? Tell me. And not in words.”
To stress the point, he clapped a hand over my mouth, ensuring my silence. The ferocity of his grip and the dark, sensual smell of his skin sent flurries of excitement straight to my groin.
Nostrils flaring, I drew in air. Between my legs heat flared as he swirled his fingertips slowly around my swollen, aching little bud.
I was burning up now, ablaze with frustration. Dare I bite him? Too risky. His own arousal was already poised on frenzy. A sudden lurch of the wheels might sink my teeth deeper than intended. His powerful grip might snap my neck in reflex.
Delicately I licked his hand, thrilling to his taste. Like a wicked kitten, I teased him with little darts of my tongue-tip and laved his palm in a slow, lascivious sweep, signaling my want as clearly as I could. Down below I clenched again, clutching at his hot, hard bulge in a lewd, sinuous thrust of my rump that left no room for doubt.
He knew perfectly well what I wanted. And what he wanted was simply to deny me, hour after hour, with every ounce of his superior strength, to prove his hardened discipline was always in control. To show how my girlish lust merely provoked him to make me earn more torment.
Along my back I felt the heat and ripple of his chest muscles through his clothes as he sensed my need, his own reaction a cruel reminder of his power and his will.
“Good. Your signals improve. Clench again, harder. Not too much. If I mess my breeches, you’ll be sorry.”
I was sorry already, sorrier than he knew. I did it, moaning again as he grazed his fingertip over my swollen, pebble-hard clit, nudging me ever closer to the climax he’d denied me for hours. Now his need fueled mine as I clutched him with my ass. Every clench edged me closer to release, each clasp of my aching muscles reminding me vividly just how much he’d denied me, how good it would feel when I finally came…
I was so, so close…
With a deliberate sweep of his fingers, he pinched my aching little place and took his other hand away from my mouth. I jerked against my bonds, wracked now with hot, burning need. I shrieked out loud. Yes, yes—nearly there…
“Again, again. For pity’s sake…” Just once more. Just one more touch would tip me over the edge and grant the release he’d refused me since Dover.
But cruelly he kept his hand away. Once more I was left suspended in an agony of fiery arousal. Worse, his dark chuckle, the light touch of his lips on my rear and the rattle of the harness outside warned me our journey—unlike me—was coming to an end. Our cushioned privacy would soon be over.
In minutes we’d be among servants and fellow guests, including some of the most influential voices in France. Freed now from Napoleon, proud of their new Bourbon king, the few remaining French nobles were eager to welcome wealthy tourists.
My guardian—Jacquard Forsley, fifth Earl of Endale—had lived in Europe for years. Skilled in the arts of pleasure, he’d be in his element here, elegant, urbane and among friends. In contrast I, Lady Saffina Wilby, barely eighteen and on foreign soil for the first time, was new here.
Thanks to him I was now also hot, frustrated, desperate for completion, flustered by his knowing smiles and well aware I was doomed to stay high and dry until nightfall.
After he unhooked my sore wrists, he twisted me to face him then fell on my mouth, his greedy tongue a cruel reminder of what my now-throbbing private place—now slick with moisture, aching for him, primed and ready for all he had to offer—had missed.
As I fluttered my hands downward in a furtive attempt to finger myself to release, he sensed my movement. With a deep chuckle he caught my wrists in a painful grip then pulled me along the seat onto his lap. He collapsed back into the corner, keeping his mouth still firmly on mine.
He pulled away with a sardonic smile. “No touching. You must be primed and ready. I want you at your peak.”
I glared at him. “You’ve been saying so for days, sir. This journey has been sheer torture—”
“Enough.” He held up his hand as the carriage slowed to a juddering halt. “Tidy yourself or our hosts will think the worst. Monsieur le Marquis is a stickler for etiquette. You’ll get no suitors if he thinks you’re mad.”
“Surely all Frenchmen think the English mad?” I spoke without thinking, all of a panic now. I smoothed my rumpled gown and hunted on the floor for my scattered gloves, reticule and pelisse.
In truth, I was nervous.
His face softened. With a few deft touches, he patted my hair back into place, twisted a stray curl or two on my neck and tidied my gaping cleavage. We shared a smile as his fingers lingered in the swell of my bosom, rosy now with excitement.
Our host, the Marquis de Ronville, was a real French aristocrat and one of the few to have survived the Terror. It seemed his château was something of a mystery, its location known only to a select few. But my guardian hinted it was magnificent, the hospitality excellent and the guest list exclusive. Invitations were eagerly sought.
Lord Endale was one of the privileged few welcome here at any time—everything, in fact, that I’d dreamed of since his lordship had agreed to take me to Europe to broaden my education. I’d pestered him daily for more information.
Jacquard had merely smiled his maddening, mysterious smile and put a fingertip on my lips. “That would be telling. Wait and see,” he’d said.
The gleam in his eyes had warned me he was funning. The main reason he was taking me on tour was to find me a husband. On that point he’d been adamant. The guest list here included some of the richest and most important men in Europe. If I played my cards right, I could take my pick.
Except that on the matter of a husband, my mind was already made up. I wanted him and no other.
I’d fallen under his spell the minute we’d met. But I was barely eighteen and he many years older, with dark, silvered hair, a piercing, intelligent gaze and a past full of more lovers than anyone—probably even he—could recall.
And early on, he’d made it plain that while he was happy—nay, eager—to take full advantage of my person and my thirst for his instruction in the arts of pleasure, marriage between us was out of the question.
His ban simply made me more determined.
His skills in the
sensual arts had quickly ensnared me. But to my dismay, he showed no sign that my enthusiastic responses affected him in the same way. It seemed my girlish charms had no allure for a man like him. And to my surprise, given his terrible reputation, it seemed he also had scruples. He’d agreed to bring me with him on one condition—that I genuinely sought a match.
He was already wealthy, so the prospect of my coming inheritance had no power to lure him. To add fuel to my fire, he insisted our liaison stay private. The fiery affair that had flared between us was allowed to flourish freely but had to stay a secret.
So I’d vowed his hold over me would remain mine. But I’d already sensed the path ahead would not be easy.
He was not a man to suffer fools, male or female, however attractive or wealthy. He’d had chances aplenty and refused them all for reasons impossible to fathom. He had exotic tastes and a cynical mind.
To win him, I needed more than my girlish lusts. I needed a brain.
As we emerged from the coach, I looked round expectantly. The other coach with our luggage and servants was already here. Lined up next to it stood his secretary, his valet, my stern former governess, Madame Junot, now traveling as my personal maid, a land agent and two footmen. Beyond them loomed the fairy-tale château with turrets, tall windows and formal gardens and fountains.
“Endale, mon ami. Quel plaisir exquis. Je suis ravi de vous revoir.” The marquis greeted Jacquard like an old friend, clapping him on the back and shouting loudly in French. As he caught my eye, he switched to English, his drawl a perfect copy of the ton of St. James’.
“Delighted to see you, old boy. And what’s this? You’ve brought a charming companion? Delightful, my old friend. Delightful.” He glanced my way with a heavy wink. “Still up to your old tricks, eh? I declare the ladies have been in a perfect frenzy ever since I told them you were coming…”
At his casual half-wave, his ladies curtseyed stiffly in their elegant French brocades. They scanned me with swift downward looks, pursing their lips. I saw them take in every detail of my rumpled Indian muslin and the telltale flush on my cheeks.
I held up my head, unconcerned. My antics in coaches were my own affair. Let them think what they liked. My life up to now had been harder than most. I was determined to take pleasure where and when I could.
On this point Jacquard—once he’d known the whole reason—had been willing, nay eager, to give me his full support. Indeed, it was one of the few areas where we’d reached any kind of agreement.
With a sigh, I scanned our host’s companions, waiting in line to greet us. The oldest and most haughty-looking was introduced as his wife, the marquise. His daughters were older than me and fully made-up, with old-fashioned patches, vivid blobs of rouge and thick white powder. An elegant creature standing a little apart from the others I guessed must be his mistress.
She was tall and striking, with carefully groomed hair and heavily powdered shoulders and neck. Her gown was sumptuous—far too dressy for daytime, in my opinion. She was introduced as Madame Lamont.
But my biggest shock was still to come. Monsieur le Marquis bowed over my hand and kissed my fingers. He gave me a knowing leer as he straightened up again.
“Ah, Lady Saffina. Enchanté. What a pleasure to meet you. I do hope you enjoy your stay.”
Keeping a firm hold of my hand, he looked my guardian in the eye and lowered his voice. “How much did you say this little temptress would cost me? She’d better be worth it, Jacquard, or you forfeit your life.”
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About the Author
Flora is a multi-published author who is married with two children and lives in the UK. She loves reading, writing, good reviews, cold, crunchy ice cream and hot, smooth movies. And especially connecting with readers—a real thrill!
Email: [email protected]
Flora loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.totallybound.com.
Also by Flora Dain
Love Beat
Suting Saffina: Taming Saffina
Suiting Saffina: Saffina’s Secrets