Mr. Ridley: A Whipping Society Novel

by Delilah Marvelle

  The outline of a curled female body was tucked into it, the linens up to her nose, sleeping.

  Kumar had…crawled into his bed.

  His bed. As if it were hers.

  He lingered. Watching her sleep so trustingly, with her black hair curling out of its bundled pins as it grazed her bronzed cheeks made his chest tighten.

  She already trusted him.

  It was humbling. Albeit incredibly stupid and naïve.

  The soft intakes of her breath made him veer in and lean in close, almost setting his nose to her nose. In between steadying intakes of breaths, he drew in her heat. A sweet, sweet and delicate heat the devil in him wanted to swallow whole.

  No. Not swallow. He was never one to dash his way through anything.

  The devil in him wanted to chew her slowly. With eight incisors, four canines, eight premolars and twelve molars. All thirty-two of his teeth and his tongue for whatever was left over as she slid down his throat.

  Knowing full well the darker side of him was whispering things it shouldn’t, he considered carrying her back to her room, but knew he needed the sleep more than she did. The heavy quake of his arms which had thrown full force into delivering the caning Pickering needed, were weak.

  He’d only end up dropping her given it had been close to nineteen hours since he last slept.

  And yet he lingered.

  Seeing her slumbering so innocently without her knowing the violence he was capable of, one he had delivered in her name without her permission, made him feel vile and unworthy of even being in her presence.

  She was the very definition of the sunlight that made his soul squint.

  She was also the definition of the sunlight he wanted to warm his skin.

  Respect her peace. It isn’t yours. It’s hers.

  Extinguishing the oil lamp, he rounded the bed and slowly settled in beside her beneath the linen, easing himself close to the heat and softness of her body. A softness he needed to feel to remind himself of what he was protecting: her innocence.

  Although the right thing to have done was to give her his back, the overlord in him wanted to touch a thumb to the beauty of what he never touched: purity.

  It was his way of cleansing his soul.

  He pressed himself into her slim backside, his hands sliding over the soft curves. Trying not to wake her, he tucked her against himself, wrapping his arms around her.

  A gruff breath escaped him.

  For the first time in a long time, he felt human again.

  It was nice.

  Closing his eyes, he faded.

  * * *

  Muscled arms and a muscled body weighing her own body made her startle awake in the darkness, momentarily wondering whose arms she could possibly be in.

  Then she remembered.

  “Mr. Ridley?” she whispered.

  He stirred and then paused. “Yes?” he whispered back. “What is it?”

  A shaky breath escaped her realizing Mr. Ridley was not only holding her (whilst in his bed!), but casually responding to her as if they had been married for twenty years.

  The creaking sounds of the house disappeared knowing it.

  Tightening her hold on his arms in welcoming adoration, she winced against the pinch of the corset and attempted to shift out of its burning hold. The cashmere robe that was soft against her fingers, made her ease out a breath only to note the muscle of his body and its hardness.

  His Parisian cologne mingled with her breaths that made her not only melt, but sink further against him. It was agony. Agony, agony, agony.

  How was it he seemed oblivious to her being a woman?

  He appeared immune to her, and yet…he held her.

  What if she was dreaming? “Am I awake?” she ventured.

  “You shouldn’t be.”

  What if he felt obligated to hold her? After all, she’d crawled into his bed like a ninny looking for shelter. “Should I leave?” she whispered. “Would you rather I leave?”

  “It matters not to me.”

  She swallowed and turned toward him in the darkness, his undefined features in the shadows close behind her. “Your house makes too many sounds at night.”

  “It’s the books,” he whispered. “Some are as old as the Crusades and they’re all telling stories. They try to crawl out of the pages and drag you in with warped words. The ones in the attic are by far the worst. They’re piled high enough to enable you to stand on them and reach the rafters where all the old ropes from the building hang.”

  Dread crawled up her spine. “You would make for a horrible father if you told stories like those.”

  “Which is why I’m not a father,” he rumbled out, digging his chin into her shoulder. “Now can I sleep, Kumar? Or are you going to keep talking?”

  She shifted and winced against the corset. Fire ants! “Ridley?”

  “Mr. Ridley, if you please.”

  They were sleeping in a bed, her rear to his front and he wanted to be referred to as a Mister. Hahahaha. “Mr. Ridley, I hardly wish to further impose, nor am I being bold or fanciful in my approach, but…”

  He paused. “I’m getting bored.”

  She bit back a smile knowing he most probably was. “My corset.”

  “What of it?”

  “I have no chemise beneath it.”

  “Yes, I know. I saw your rear when I was fastening your gown. What is your point?”

  Her face burned. His casual indifference to her nudity was unnerving. “It pinches my skin.”

  “Welcome to life. Good-night.”

  She elbowed him. “Might you unlace it by a few strings? Only a few? Please?”

  A riled breath escaped him as if she were asking to go shopping at four in the morning. “Now I remember why I never remarried.” He tapped her. “Lie on your stomach.”

  This was about to get awkward.

  She rolled onto her stomach, pressing her cheek to the linen and waited. Any normal woman would have darted out of the room and slept with a pinching corset. Which was as equally stupid in her opinion as lying on one’s stomach asking a man almost twice her age to free her.

  Ridley tugged down her robe to her elbows and unfastened her calico gown beneath and pushed back the material with calloused fingers that brushed her now exposed skin.

  She could barely breathe through her parted lips knowing if this had been any other man, she would have been screaming. Instead, her heart did nothing but pitter-patter and flippity-flop as if it were her wedding night.

  Wedging his large fingers beneath the lacing, he unraveled several knots, tugging the lacing out, and loosened with several quick tugs, loosening and loosening and loosening as if he’d done it over a hundred and three times.

  Which she had no doubt he probably had.

  The pinching finally ceased with one last solid tug and a shaky breath escaped her.

  “How is that?” he asked.

  “Divine.” He was the ultimate hero. He didn’t even linger. Nor did he make it awkward. “I thank you.”

  “Thank me by letting me sleep. Fortunately, we don’t have to get up in the morning or the afternoon.” He tugged up the robe back over her shoulders without bothering to fasten the gown and lowered himself to the pillow beside her.

  She dragged her stockinged feet against his robed leg beneath the linen and hitching up her skirts, she rolled down both stockings and yanked them off. “Where shall I put my stockings?”

  He groaned and rattled her gently. “Toss it and let me sleep.”

  She did, her heart pounding at the realization that she was annoying him. “Forgive me. Good-night.”

  “Anything else?”

  A breath escaped her. She closed her eyes. “No.”

  “Good.” His arm folded around her quick and tightened as he remolded her against himself.

  Her eyes opened, her pulse roaring. “How am I supposed to sleep when you are holding me tighter than the corset?”

  He gently bit her shoulder, digging his te
eth into her, startling her. “Let me sleep or I will shove you off…the…bed, Kumar. Don’t think I won’t.”

  Sensing he meant it, she cringed and closed her eyes again.

  Unable to see him, only feel him, made her pulse further roar. It felt unreal and a whisper of too much more to come. If this was them now at only a day of knowing each other, she could only imagine what a lifetime spent together would be like.

  It was overwhelming.

  As if their souls had met too many times before to ignore each other.

  This she wanted. To be protected. To be warm. To become a flower nestled into a pot waiting for the water to flow and the sun to shine. Or in his case, she would wait until the moon did shine. The moon, when full, shone equally bright in its own way.

  She loved moonlit nights as much as she did the afternoon sun.

  Both served their purpose. Some flowers, like the Ipomoea alba, only bloomed at night when the light of the moon touched its white petals. The sunlight only closed them.

  Jemdanee dragged her fingertips up past the cashmere spread of his muscled arm that held her, her throat tightening and her belly with it.

  His scent penetrated her nostrils.

  His feel penetrated more.

  The hardness of his body made her core tighten.

  His heated breaths made her own become heated.

  It was as if he belonged to her.

  Stealthily, she drifted his weighted hand upward and kissed it softly in reverence, allowing his velvet heat to penetrate her quaking lips, wanting to touch his skin and everything he was.

  He said nothing as his large finger grazed her lip and pulled the lower bottom. He tapped at her teeth and then slowly slid his finger into her mouth and pressed down on her tongue.

  Something primitive within her emerged as her pulse roared and she grew…wet.

  There was no shame in it because she had made herself wet.

  He hadn’t forced her to be wet.

  Something within her body and mind wanted to prove to him that she was ready to know real passion. The sort women rarely got to touch without labeling themselves as whores. “Rith..ley?” she asked past his large finger.

  He pressed down a rigid finger on her tongue harder. “I’m holding your tongue down for a reason, Kumar. It’s so you don’t talk. Why is it not working?”

  As if she was going to sleep with his finger in her mouth.

  She tried to push it out.

  His now wet finger dragged itself to her jaw and rested there, tingling her into wanting more.

  One is reincarnated to live this life beyond its thread. Live it!

  Dragging him toward herself with a turn, she shoved the cashmere robe off his muscled large shoulders and tried to blindly capture his mouth in the darkness, only to miss. She frantically undid the belt of his robe and unleashed the body she wanted to make hers.

  His hands grabbed hers hard, but otherwise didn’t appear fazed as he held her back with the shift of dueling arms he effortlessly controlled. He wove his fingers into hers and tightened them, until they were palm to palm. “What are you doing?” His voice softened. “Wrestling a bear given your size is unwise.”

  She cringed realizing he wasn’t even physically responding to her. He was as calm and cool and collected as he always was.

  It wasn’t much of a compliment.

  She swallowed and sank back down onto the mattress, her body burning as she released his hands. “I have desires and feelings much like any woman. Yet you refuse to acknowledge it. Why?”

  He set his shaven chin against her throat. “I am acknowledging it by not permitting you to have control. Don’t throw yourself at things you have no understanding of. There is more to me than even I understand. Leave it be.”

  She swallowed.

  “Respect yourself in the way I am respecting you.” His now nude, muscled body, which he didn’t bother to cover up with his robe, gently pressed into her as his hands dragged into her hair, loosening the pins holding them. He raked the pins off the pillow, sending them tinkering to the floor beside the bed. “Maybe one day, when you’re older and our paths cross again, you will tie the first knot,” he whispered, tracing a finger down, down her back to the curve of her bum.

  A shiver consumed her body as her senses roared to life with each quaking breath. What was this? Why did she feel as if throwing herself at him wasn’t enough to hurl out everything she felt and wanted?

  He laid himself beside her again, dragging her back against himself. “This is not the first knot, Kumar. This is rest. Something we both need.”

  She tightened her hold on his arms, trying to ignore her racing heartbeat caused by his unashamed nudity. A shaky breath escaped her. There were too many things happening to her head and to her body which she didn’t even understand. What did he mean by knots? What did he mean by one day? Would there be a day? When? When, when, when?

  She tried to sit up. “Ridley—”

  He jerked her back down against the mattress and rigidly held her against the mattress. “Learn to kneel.” His voice grew gruff and ominous. “It’s Mr. Ridley given I do not belong to you. Just as you are and will always be Kumar, because you do not belong to me. We belong to ourselves and not to each other.”

  She jerked toward him, refusing to let him command her. “What did you mean by one day?”

  “As in not now.” He flicked her forehead. “Cease letting your body dictate what you want. At your age, even a finger resting in your mouth seems exciting.” His tone hinted he was mildly amused. “You were riled by it, weren’t you?” He tsked. “Call on me in five years. In the meantime, do you need a towel for those moist thighs? Because I’d hate for you to slide off the bed and hit the floor.”

  Her own pride got the best of her. She shoved him. Hard.

  His muscled, naked body shoved her back. Harder.

  She thunked off the bed and grudgingly blinked. “Ow.”

  “Better ow than now. Let me sleep.” He was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry. Are you all right?”

  She rolled her eyes. “If I were in any way wounded, I would never admit to it.” Especially given she was rejected to the point of being shoved off the bed.

  Did women usually have this much of a problem seducing men or was it only her?

  Grudgingly crawling back into bed in the darkness, she collapsed onto the mattress beside him and gave him her shoulder and bum.

  She was determined to push out any awareness of him.

  He slid her back hard against himself. “I didn’t mean to shove you off the bed,” he murmured, smoothing her hair. “I simply haven’t slept in over eighteen hours. I’m barely functioning.”

  Jemdanee’s stomach sank knowing she hadn’t even considered him. She deserved getting shoved off the bed. Though she wanted to apologize to him by whispering it, she decided to let him sleep.

  He had more than earned it.

  Her breaths remained uneven in the darkness. She chanted to herself to count through different gods to help her sleep. There were more than enough to exhaust her.

  His breaths soon faded and his arm loosened its hold, hinting he was asleep.

  She’d never known anyone to fall asleep that fast.

  A shaky breath escaped her as she closed her eyes and tried.

  She. Tried.

  Chapter 8

  The scent of a sweet, leafy cigar tugged her from the long lush sleep she had succumbed to. She streeeeeeetched against the smooth linen surrounding her. Sunlight poured in through a massive window, making her squint.

  The sound of a page turning made her blink.

  She paused, realizing she was staring up at the velvet brocaded curtains of Mr. Ridley’s bed. Remembering all too well how she had deliriously thrown herself at him, she cringed. Sitting up and dragging the linen to her chin, she veered her gaze to the leather upholstered chair set beside the window where Ridley sat.

  He was fully clothed in grey and black, a charcoal cravat knotted and ti
ed with a ruby red pin glinting against the sunlight in which he sat. With a half-smoked cigar resting between large fingers and a book set on his crossed knee, as his lowered eyes intently followed the words whilst slowly drawing the cigar to his lips, he exuded a sophistication that made her almost sink into the mattress with a breath she could hardly hold in.

  Waking up to him made her feel ravishing.

  “If you require more rest, feel free to do so,” he intoned, never once lifting his gaze from the book. “It’s almost two in the afternoon, but we have nowhere to be until tonight.” He drew in on the cigar, inhaling smoke that caused the tobacco to gently hiss, then blew the smoke out, still reading.

  She quickly propped herself onto one side, attempting not to openly admire him yet failing to do anything but that. With the sun brightly blanketing in and his dark chestnut hair swept back with tonic, he no longer looked so imposing.

  He looked debonair. Like a gentleman basking in his own sophistication.

  The house didn’t look quite so imposing either.

  Daylight certainly changed one’s perspective.

  Trying to find something to say, given she felt a touch awkward about last night, she smoothed the linen around herself. “What are you reading?”

  He didn’t look up. “The Cure of Old Age and the Preservation of Youth written by mathematician and physician Roger Bacon, printed in 1683. It’s worth two hundred and fifty guineas, but I’m attempting to get four hundred for it from another collector.”

  She bit back a smile, realizing he was in the business of more than investigative work. “You aren’t at an age to be reading books about curing youth. Maybe in another five years given that appears to be the time you have set for us.” She tilted her head. “Shall we agree to meet in Calcutta in five years?”

  He dragged in more smoke. “Are you insinuating you would wait five years?”

  Was that an offer? Or was he teasing? She couldn’t tell.

  She sat up and propped her shoulder toward him, trying to exude the sort of grand sophistication he required. “If I am promised something worth waiting for, why would I not?”

  He said nothing, merely drew in more smoke. Turning a page, he kept reading.