by Nina Mason
Caveat emptor.
Maybe that should be her new motto. Let the buyer beware instead of seize the day. At least Sir Leith wasn’t a liar. He’d made no bones about what he wanted from her.
The squeal of the opening door gave her a start. When she spun around, her jaw almost hit the floor. Gone were the frockcoat, waistcoat, breeches, and boots. He wore nothing more than yards and yards of tartan belted low on his waist.
“Wow.”
Heat flushed through her system as her gaze drank in every glorious detail. His torso was a monument to manliness. Muscular and rippled in all the right places with the perfect amount of dark hair sprinkled across his chest. There was a ring in his left nipple and tattooed bands of Celtic knots encircling his muscular biceps.
Holy smokes. He looked like a Celtic god.
She swallowed to moisten her mouth, which felt as dry as Death Valley. “You wished to see me, my lord?”
“Aye, Miss Brown.” His tone matched the sternness of his expression. “And I believe you know why.”
“I do, my lord.” She lowered her head in deference. His legs were long, strong, and peppered with the same soft, dark hair as his chest. Her insides went molten and she started to perspire. She gave everything she had to stay in character. “Please, my lord. I know I’ve displeased you, but my poor mother depends on my wages to feed my brothers and sisters.”
“You should have thought about that before you let the grooms have their way with you,” he said. “From where I stand, you’re naught but a whore, Miss Brown. A devil masquerading as an angel to lead honorable men into temptation and ruin. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t cast you out on your ear.”
“I meant no harm.” Her eyes were on his bare feet, as marvelous as the rest of him. “I just get this terrible itch sometimes.”
Under the circumstances, nymphomania seemed the more fitting backstory.
“What kind of an itch?”
She brought her gaze up to his. Her face heated as their eyes met. “The kind only a man can scratch.”
He took a moment to examine her in a salacious way that made her pulse quicken and her body temperature rise. His gaze also aroused something dark and carnal deep in her abdomen.
“Perhaps if you were to demonstrate the proper penitence,” he said, bending over her, “I might be persuaded to reconsider my decision to give you the sack.”
Her heart pounded wildly as she fought the urge to capture his mouth with hers. “Please, my lord. I’ll do anything it takes to restore myself to your good graces.”
“I do hope you mean that, Miss Brown.” He pressed his mouth, warm and moist, to her cleavage, making the moths in her belly flutter more violently. “For both our sakes.”
Stepping back, he swept his arm toward the chamber’s interior in a gesture of invitation. A warm glow emanated from inside. She moved past him and, with a hammering heart, surveyed the chamber’s interior.
The longest wall held a low dresser and a rack of pegs stretching its length. From the pegs hung a daunting assortment of the tools of his perverse trade. Whips, floggers, handcuffs, and other things whose purpose she’d rather not contemplate. Holy cow. Was that a bridle? A fine sweat broke out across her skin as she recalled her stepmother’s severest beating. Thrashing on the bed as the belt stung her flesh. Crying so hard she couldn’t scream. Suffocating under the pillows of humiliation and helplessness. When the urge to flee rose inside her, she balled her fists against the desire.
Carpe diem.
Various tables and benches, some padded, some slatted, hugged the stone walls. She could guess what they were for. Images of herself strapped to them in various positions flashed through her mind.
May I insert things into your orifices?
What kind of things?
Plugs, dildos, fingers, and my cock, of course.
She swallowed the lump in her throat. There was a large cage next to one and a cart of some sort parked beside another. What the fuck were those for? Did she really want to know?
Deciding she didn’t, she continued her sweeping inventory, pulse climbing with each new discovery. Through an arched stone doorway another room lay in darkness. There was an armoire beside the archway, bathed in shadows.
The centerpiece of the room was a tufted velvet fainting couch with eyebolts screwed into its carved wooden frame.
Holy crap. This went right past “seize the day” to “seize the devil by the tail.” She mustered every ounce of courage she could to keep from running for the stairs. Not that she’d ever find them again without his help, which made any escape attempt pretty pointless.
The door boomed shut, jolting her heart. When the lock clicked, her breath caught. He came up behind her, brushed aside her hair, and kissed the back of her neck. Tingling warmth flooded her body. Her knees turned to rubber, but somehow still supported her.
“Are you all right, my wee mouse?”
“I’m not sure.” Her voice, true to character, was a squeak.
The kilted cat slipped his paws around her waist, pulled her against his lissome torso, and held her there.
She trembled, half-afraid, half-aroused. He was so big and strong, she so tiny and weak.
“I said I wouldn’t hurt you, and I meant it,” he purred, the way cats do. “I will, however, push you as far outside your comfort zone as you’ll let me.”
“I have news for you.” Her voice sounded strangely high. “I’m already miles outside my comfort zone.”
“Mind your role, Miss Brown.” He took her hand and pulled her toward the chaise. “And show me just how eager you are to remain in my employ.”
He sat on the chaise, motioning for her to take the spot beside him, which she did. Before she could form a thought, his mouth was near her ear “You are mine, Miss Brown,” he whispered. “A willing slave to do with as I please. If you do not do what I ask or behave as I wish, I will punish you. Do you understand me?”
White-hot, fear-laced longing swept through her. “Punish me how?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he twirled his tongue around the folds of her ear, turning her insides to quivering jelly. Then, he bit down hard on her lobe, shooting an arrow of pain through the side of her head. She whimpered and tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let her go.
“Does that answer your question, you cheeky wee wanton?”
Indeed. His behavior also gave her the distinct impression what she’d just experienced was the least of the punishments she could expect if she crossed him.
He proceeded to suckle her ear in a sensual way that set fire to her nether regions. He moved on, kissing his way down the cord of her neck to her collarbone, which he stroked with his tongue before descending to her cleavage. He paid homage to her décolletage with lips, tongue, and teeth before planting a row of kisses along the edge of her bodice.
Oh, yes. Threat of punishment aside, she could get used to this.
Beneath her stiff stays, her nipples tingled and sprouted, eager for his mouth. Her hands, meanwhile, ached to steal beneath his kilt and explore.
“My lord, may I touch you?”
“Not yet, Miss Brown.” He slipped his tongue between her heaving breasts. “But soon.”
He untied the bow securing her bodice before freeing one of her breasts with a cupped hand. Taking the nipple between his lips, he proceeded to suck, flick, and lick with the finesse of a connoisseur. She closed her eyes, savoring the sublime sensations engendered by his masterful ministrations.
“Do you like that, Miss Brown?” His voice was low and seductive.
“Yes. God, yes.”
“Good.” He freed her other breast and took the nipple between his lips, unleashing another torrent of sensual tingling. “Because there’s more to come. Much more.”
Something metal jingled nearby. Then, pain bit down hard on her nipple. Gasping, she opened her eyes and looked down. Holy crap. He’d put a clamp on her tit. Before she
could react, he pushed her down on the chaise, hiked up her skirts, and thrust his hand between her legs.
He clawed at her labial folds as his mouth explored her neck. When she squirmed and made noises of protest, he pinched her clit so hard her whole body bucked under him. He released her and drew back, fixing her with a reproachful glare.
“Wee, crafty, cowering, timorous little beast,” he said, his hand simulating a running mouse. “O, what a panic is in your little breast!”
Wounded by his mockery, she wanted to slap him, but didn’t dare. The verse was from a poem by Robert Burns titled To a Mouse. She’d come down here to push the envelope, to break out of the cage she’d cowered inside all her life only to be defeated in the first five minutes by nothing more daring than a nipple clamp.
“I’m not a mouse.”
“Aren’t you?”
“No. Or don’t want to be, anyway.”
She bit her lip and dug deep for her courage. The sting of his teasing was worse than the pain in her nipple.
He removed the clamp and blood rushed to the spot in a way that felt kind of stimulating. So, maybe there was something to this enmeshment of pleasure and pain thing—something worthy of deeper exploration.
Jaw set with renewed determination, she slipped her forefinger through his nipple ring and tugged.
“Do you take as well as give, my lord?”
“Oh, aye, Miss Brown.”
She tugged the nipple ring again, harder this time. He flinched and gasped a little but didn’t move to stop her.
“Didn’t this hurt?”
“Aye, but not as much as the one on my cock.”
Holy smokes. He had a piercing on his dick?
“Can I see it?”
He pushed up on his knees and lifted his kilt like a theater curtain. Holy crap. His cock was huge and hard and, sure enough, a small silver ring pierced the flesh just below the clove in his glans.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
She gaped at his impressive erection, the urge to touch burning in her fingertips. She didn’t dare. He hadn’t given her permission to touch his penis and, with her luck, he’d punish her for doing so in some dreadful way.
“Why would you do that to yourself?”
“I didn’t do it,” he said. “Queen Morgan did. To stop me from crossing the veil.”
Her gaze jumped to his face. “What veil?”
“The veil between Hitherworld and Thitherworld,” he said. “It’s not an actual veil, of course. More of an invisible barrier.”
She returned her gaze to his penis. “May I touch it?”
“Aye.”
Gingerly, she ran her finger down the bluish, eraser-like dome of his glans until it stopped at the ring. He wasn’t circumcised and the piercing hung from the spot where his foreskin had folded back.
“How does it keep you from crossing the veil?”
“The metal becomes electrified.”
Her gaze flew to his. “Holy smokes. That would hurt like hell. Can’t you take it out?”
“Nay, lass. It’s enchanted. An unbroken ring none but Herself can remove.” He cupped her unclamped breast and brushed his thumb across the nipple, activating delicious flutters in her abdomen. “The upside is, it enhances sexual enjoyment.”
“Whose?”
“Both partners.”
She regarded the piercing, which looked painful, but obviously wasn’t. Her mind jumped back to their dining room escapade. She’d gotten off for the first time with a man, but assumed clitoral stimulation was the cause. Now she wondered if the piercing might have played a role, too.
“Couldn’t you cut it out?”
He coughed and his complexion paled. “Why would I want to do that?”
“So you could cross the veil.”
A hard scoff escaped his throat. “And why the hell would I want to do that?”
Bending over her, he took her nipple in his mouth and sucked with vigor. The sensation was at once excruciating and exquisite. With a humid laugh, he scraped his teeth over the nipple in his mouth, letting fly an arrow of excruciating ecstasy. He then sat up and, without another word, climbed off the chaise and set off toward the wall of toys.
Chapter 8
Leith finger-plowed his scalp as he scanned his vast collection of BDSM accoutrements. What to use and what to do? The sky was the limit. Well, apart from the things he really wanted but couldn’t allow himself—like claim her sweet mouth, make passionate love to her, bare his soul to her, and hold her in his arms all night long.
Taking a breath to purge these dangerous desires, he selected a set of leather wrist cuffs lined in hot-pink rabbit’s fur, a leg spreader, and a riding crop. Returning to the chaise, he set the items beside her, noting her alarmed expression with a qualm.
“Relax, Miss Brown. These won’t hurt.”
“Are you sure?”
Holding up the cuffs, he ran his fingers over the fur lining. “You see, they’re very soft. Nothing that could pinch or chafe.”
She looked them over, yanking the chain between the cuffs, stroking their leather exteriors, and caressing their inner fur.
Seemingly satisfied, she handed them back to him and looked into his eyes. The urge to kiss her rose hot and urgent from somewhere in his depths. He averted his gaze, dispatching the desire back from whence it came.
“Lie back and put your arms over your head.”
While she did as he’d instructed, he went around to her outstretched hands, clapped on the soft handcuffs, and secured them to the eyebolt at the top of the chaise.
Returning to her side, he resumed unfastening her bodice. Her breasts spilled out like two generous scoops of vanilla ice cream, each topped with a pomegranate seed in a pool of its own juice.
“Did the grooms fuck your tits, Miss Brown?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Och, aye? When did that happen? He fought a smile as a thrill snaked through him. She was inventive, he’d give her that.
Good. She was gamer than he’d expected. Reaching under his kilt, he took his cockstand in his hand and steered toward her mouth. She wicked away the pearl of pre-ejaculate with her tongue, sending a surge of euphoria straight to his bollocks.
“How does it taste?”
“Like caviar, my lord.”
Titillated by her saucy retort, he picked up the spreader bar and circled around to her feet. He took off her slippers, but left on her stockings.
“Lift your knees and open your legs.”
The command was soft but firm. As she obeyed, he inventoried the delicate pink rose before him, his to do with as he pleased. He held up the bar so she could see.
“Do you know what this is for, Miss Brown?”
“No, my lord.”
She was putting up a brave front, but he could see the fear flickering behind her beautiful eyes. He didn’t like it. His goal was to objectify, not terrify.
“It’s to spread your legs,” he said in soothing tones. “And once I’ve put it on you, I’m going to hoist you up using this.” As he said it, he took hold of a hook suspended from a heavy length of chain.
“You’re going to hang me upside down?”
The fear in her eyes intensified. He couldn’t help but wonder if his wife had looked that way when Cumberland’s men cut her open. Grief gripped him, stealing his breath. The stretcher bar slipped from his grasp, dropping to the floor with a jarring clang. Overwhelmed, he set his hands on the chaise to steady himself.
“Are you okay?”
He wasn’t, but to tell her the truth would be too personal, too revealing.
“I’ll be all right,” he said through clenched teeth. “Just give me a minute, eh?”
“Are you sure?” Worry shadowed her face. “Because you look like you’ve just seen the devil himself.”
Aye, well. He had in a way. He took a couple of deep breaths to regain his bearings, picked up the
stretcher bar, and looked her in the eye. Her expression conveyed concern for him, which he didn’t like any better than fear, though for different reasons.
“I’m not going to hang you upside down,” he assured her. “I’m just going to raise your hindquarters a wee bit for better access.”
“Better access?”
“Relax, eh?” He forced a smile. “I’m going to have a bit of fun, but nothing that should hurt you.”
Damn her and damn his memory. He’d completely lost his focus, his erection, and his predatory playfulness. Now all he wanted to do was shift into a bloody cat and curl up in a corner somewhere.
The women he brought here got off on the whole Dom/sub gestalt. This one clearly didn’t, which aroused his compassion more than his passion, a perilous reaction for one who required indifference.
He secured the sturdy leather anklets and hoisted her up until her sex was level with his. He unbuckled the belt securing his kilt, and tartan puddled around his ankles. He stepped out of the pool of plaid and bent for a closer look at her labial folds, which the bar had opened the way time and sunshine opened a rose.
Desire promptly rekindling, he ran his fingers over her petals and teased her stamen until she hovered on the brink of climax. He then withdrew, leaving her unfulfilled apurpose, and returned to the wall for more props.
* * * *
Gwyn the Brave, playing the part of Miss Brown, watched with breathless apprehension as her wicked lord and master selected his instruments of punishment.
Gwyn the Meek, meanwhile, was kicking herself for allowing Sir Leith to string her up like a side of beef in a butcher’s window, rendering her utterly defenseless in the dark bowels of a remote castle when the rest of the world believed her dead.
Was she scared? Hell, yes. Scared shitless. He could beat her, cut off pieces of her, skin her alive. Her only consolation was he couldn’t rape her—but only because she’d more or less consented to whatever acts of sexual depravity he chose to subject her to.
Fear screamed warnings inside her brain, but all she could do at this point was listen—and beat herself up for being so incredibly stupid.