Dark and Stormy Knight

by Nina Mason

  “Flattery will not save your skin, you cheeky scoundrel.” She ran the whip up and down his erection. “Though it may induce me to add more pleasurable tortures to your sentence.”

  As a shiver snaked through her, the fantasy faded, but the dark desire her imagination had summoned still pulsed in her loins. Perhaps she wasn’t such a mouse after all. Perhaps whipping him would prove cathartic for both of them.

  Half an hour later, after gobbling her breakfast, Gwyn arrived in the dungeon playroom to find the candelabras lit, but no other sign of Sir Leith. The place smelled of dank, melting wax, and bodily fluids. Rather than repel her, the eerie ambience excited the dark thing at her core.

  She peeked through the doorway into the adjoining room she couldn’t see into last night. The lights were out, so she felt along the wall for a light switch. Finding one, she flicked it on.

  Holy smokes.

  There was a huge four-poster bed against one stone wall and a sizeable cage along the other. Outside the cage were a set of feeding bowls. Did he have a dog?

  Wait a minute. He was a cat. Of course he didn’t have a dog. And then, in a flash of realization, she knew. The cage was for his subs.

  Shaken, she flipped off the light and headed for the wall of toys. She was clueless about most of what hung there. And would prefer to remain so. She moved toward the whips, tapping her lips. Which should she choose? She fingered the multi-tail floggers. Some were velvet, others viciously stiff. When her gaze fell on a riding crop with a rhinestone-studded handle, a smile tugged on her mouth. Liberating the tool from its peg, she took a moment to examine its stiff yet bendable body and leather tongue. She flicked the whip a few times, liking the way it felt in her hand. The stem was light and would be effective to both tease and punish. Yes, this would suit very nicely.

  Footsteps shocked her heart and spun her toward the door, crop still in her grip. There stood her naughty footman in a long-sleeved white shirt with neck cravat, a fitted linen waistcoat, and a simple tartan kilt. Lower down, he wore cream-colored knee-high hose and black brogues laced around his ankles. He’d tied his hair back in a queue, but a few loose strands still framed his face.

  To say he looked 18th-century hot would be a gross understatement.

  Catching sight of her, he clasped his hands just below his sporran, which resembled a small animal, and bowed his head in deference.

  “Ye wished to see me, m’lady?”

  She lifted her chin. “Indeed, Mr. MacTavish. And I believe you know the reason.”

  Keeping his head down, he lifted his eyes to hers. “Has it to do with Miss Brown?”

  “It has to do with your repeated impudence.” As she said the word “impudence” with all the haughty affront she could muster, she snapped the crop across her palm. The sting shot straight to her clit. “If you expect to remain in the baron’s employ, you must demonstrate the humility befitting a personage of your lowly station.”

  “Mr. Brody said ye meant to take the buggy whip to me backside.” He looked incredulous. “But, to tell ye the truth, I rather doubt ye have it in ye.”

  She puffed up, feeling both affronted and challenged. “We all have it in us, you insolent dog. If pushed far enough. In fact, when you came in just now, I was in the midst of choosing which whip to use on your sorry hide.”

  He looked from the crop in her hand to her face. “Aye, well. Ye willna teach me much of a lesson with that wee toy.”

  She stared him down, again feeling affronted by his mockery. “This is just to warm up my arm. And your buttocks. Among other parts of your worthless anatomy.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, aye?”

  She aimed the whip at his sporran. “Take that awful dead thing off and lift your kilt. I’d like to see what you consider worthy of such cheek.”

  The sporran dropped to the floor with a thud. Then, seizing his kilt, he raised the hem without the slightest hesitation.

  Lust tickled her vulva as she took stock of his manhood. Stepping up to him, she ran the crop’s soft leather tongue over his scrotum. “I can see why you’re proud,” she said, eyes on his drooping erection, “but that doesn’t excuse your effrontery.”

  With a flick of her wrist, she snapped the crop against the head of his cock. His breath caught and he flinched. Good. Let him suffer. She’d cried into her pillow half the night when he failed to come to her room.

  “Don’t presume to know what I’m capable of, Mr. MacTavish. I’ll be nobody’s doormat ever again.”

  “Ye never struck me as a doormat, m’lady,” he said a little huskily. “Though I canna say his lordship shares my view.”

  Her gaze jumped to his and narrowed. “And what prompts such a bold accusation regarding the baron?”

  “Look around ye, m’lady. Do our surroundings not speak volumes about yer husband’s twisted proclivities? I hear he gave Miss Brown a good seeing to down here last night. The poor lass was so done in by his—well, let’s just say flogging, eh?—she could hardly crawl out of her cot this morning.”

  “For your information,” she said, stroking his hardened cock with the whip, “my husband punished Miss Brown for improprieties in which you yourself were complicit.”

  He arched a dark eyebrow while producing that crooked smile that always made her weak in the knees. “And might you be planning to punish me in a similar fashion, m’lady?”

  His raging hard-on coupled with the knowledge she could do just as she pleased made an intoxicating cocktail of power and desire. Struggling to stay in her role, she scowled up at his face. While he towered over her in stature, he was miles beneath her in station, and far too equal in his addresses. He needed taking down and she knew just how to do it. She dropped her gaze to his erection, which taunted her with its uppity posture and squinty eye. Lips pursing in disapproval, she brought the crop down hard on the jutting upstart.

  He gasped and bent slightly at the waist, but didn’t drop his kilt. A red welt joined the bulging blue veins adorning his member, but it continued to defy her with its audacity.

  The dark, primitive thing inside her swelled in size. Her jaw was tight as she said, “Is there a word you might wish to invoke, should my rebukes prove too harsh?”

  The impudent eyebrow shot up again, challenging her nerve. “Is that a possibility, m’lady?”

  “It’s hard to say.” She lifted her gaze, meeting his with a spark of awe. God, he had beautiful eyes. She swallowed hard, reminding herself of her role and her deepest fear. “Whipping you just might pop the cork on my repressed rage—a cork, I might add, that’s been snugly in place a good, long while.”

  “Do yer worst, m’lady.” Desire as feral as her own smoldered in his eyes. “I promise ye, I’m man enough to take it.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Her power over him felt at once heady and dangerous. “Now, turn around, lift your kilt, and bend over.”

  The dark thing sank lower and throbbed with need as she watched him carry out her instructions. God help her, the man had an ass worthy of a sonnet. How do I love thy taut, globular buttocks, let me count the ways. With a trembling hand, she ran the crop over his sculpted cheeks before slipping the stem between his legs.

  Slapping the whip back and forth against his inner thighs, she barked, “Spread your legs, you filthy cur.”

  As he widened his stance, she ran the stem of the whip around his dangling scrotum. Desire pooled hot, thick, and electric between her legs. She’d never felt this aroused before. Not even close.

  Swallowing hard, struggling for control, she stepped back and ran the crop’s soft tongue up the crack of his ass before poking the hard tip against his anus.

  “Free to do my worst here as well?”

  “Aye, m’lady.”

  The dark thing dropped between her legs and turned molten. Holy crap on toast. She’d never dreamed debauchery could be such a turn on. She stifled the laugh attempting to escape. Obviously, lots of people knew.

/>   “Dear, me.” She pushed the crop a little ways into his ass. “I do wonder if his lordship has a strap-on.”

  “I believe he does, m’lady.” He held his position. “Do ye have in mind to bugger me, then?”

  That was exactly what she had in mind, and the idea was making her fevered and dizzy. She suddenly wanted to show someone how it felt to be on the receiving end of a jackhammer with no chance of fulfillment.

  The toxic waste of old resentments bubbled up inside her. With a vicious laugh, she snapped the whip across his buttocks. He didn’t as much as twitch. Determined to elicit a response of some sort, she hit him again, harder. He still remained steadfast.

  “As I said, m’lady. Ye willna bring me to heel with a wee riding crop.”

  “Do you have a better suggestion?”

  “Aye,” he said, “the cat.”

  How she knew he meant the cat o’nine tails, she couldn’t say. She also couldn’t bring herself to use anything so cruel. She wanted to torture him in a teasing, erotic way, not disfigure his beautiful body.

  “Won’t that hurt you?”

  “Aye. But what good is a painless punishment? The trick, m’lady, is to keep the endorphin levels up by alternating pleasure and pain.”

  She had a pretty good idea what he was driving at—and that the instruction had come from Sir Leith, not MacTavish the footman. Stepping right up to his backside, she bent over and rubbed her hand across the welt she’d raised on his previously perfect ass. As she did this, she slipped her other hand between his legs and cupped his balls, which were soft, but heavy.

  “You mean like this?”

  “Aye, m’lady.”

  Moving her hand forward to his cock, she teased and stroked. When he was breathing hard, she withdrew, stepped to the side, and raised the whip. The hard shaft cracked across the midpoint of both buttocks. He flinched and made a strangled sound. Guilt jabbed when she saw the mark left by the blow. She stepped up to him and planted penitent kisses across the welt before pulling down his kilt to cover the damage.

  “Stand up and turn around.”

  He responded to her command without ado. Loins on fire, she stepped up to him and tilted back her head. Their eyes met with a thunderbolt.

  “You’ll do anything I say without argument?”

  “Aye, m’lady.”

  She’d find out soon enough if he spoke the truth. She stepped closer, slipped her arms around his waist, and docked her cheek against his waistcoat. He might be playing Mr. MacTavish right now, but he smelled gloriously of Sir Leith MacQuill.

  “Carry me to the bed,” she said, her voice choked by desire, “and make slow, passionate love to me.”

  He stiffened. “But, m’lady—”

  She snuggled into his chest. “You promised no argument.”

  “I know what I promised,” he said, sounding unnerved. “I just didn’t expect—that is to say, what ye’re suggesting is, well, quite out of the question.”

  “You said no argument,” she repeated with more vigor.

  Have you lost your mind? fear whispered. If you persist, he might give in. He’s a man, after all, with a hard-on, and you know what that means. Do you have a death wish?

  Forcing herself to let go of him, she stepped back and turned away, but her arms and legs refused to obey her command to retreat. He felt too good, too right—despite the rigidity of his stance and the ice creeping through her veins.

  “Why do you want me to beat you?”

  “I’m a sinful creature, m’lady.” He still stood at attention, arms at his sides. “And my sins have cost those I cared for more than they’ve cost me. I should pay for that, no?”

  “By being flogged?”

  “I’m a knight,” he said, his voice tight. “Sworn to be loyal, honest, faithful, and noble; to protect the weak and honor God, my king, and my lady. I have broken every one of those vows. Does that not earn me a beating?”

  Her heart flared in protest. “But—you only followed your heart.”

  “My heart is deceitful and desperately wicked, m’lady. As are all men’s.”

  The words rang true. Men were deceitful and wicked. They would say anything to get what they wanted, no matter who got hurt.

  “Leave here, Miss Morland. Today, this minute. Go back to Los Angeles, make your movie, enjoy your success, forget you ever set eyes on me.”

  Tears threatened. “No. I can’t. I won’t.”

  He turned on his heel, strode to the wall of toys, and removed the cat o’ nine tails. Returning to where she stood, he held the flogger out. “Here. It’s less than I deserve, but the most I can ask of you, as a scourge makes a gruesome mess of a man’s back.”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “You’d be doing us both a favor.”

  “I don’t care.” Her throat was so tight she could barely speak. “I won’t do it.”

  “Even to save your own life?”

  “We’ll break your curse. I know we will.”

  “No good can come from this.”

  He seized her wrists and forced her to look into his stormy eyes. “Can’t you see that, even if we break the curse—a big fucking if, mind—we’re unsuited. You live in California and I, here in Scotland. Can you honestly see that changing? And what about our lifespan disparity? You’re mortal, Miss Morland, in case you’ve forgotten. You’ll grow old and die in time, while I’ll remain as I am. So, tell me. What’s the point of pursuing something which, any way we slice it, has no chance of ending in anything but tragedy?”

  “I still want to help you,” she said, wilting under his scorching gaze. As badly as she wanted to tell him she would move to Scotland in a heartbeat, it seemed too much, too soon. “And to be with you for as long as possible.”

  “Even if we only break our hearts?”

  She blinked up at him, disheartened, though far from defeated. “Haven’t you heard? ’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.’”

  “Aye, Miss Morland,” he said, jerking her against his chest. His mouth was as tight as his grip on her wrists. “I’ve heard the assertion. I’ve also heard that a taste of honey is worse than none at all. And painful experience tells me there’s more truth in the latter.”

  Tears leaked from her eyes. Feeling foolish, she pressed her face against his chest. As she cried into his waistcoat, he let go of her wrists and wrapped his arms around her.

  “Don’t cry, my wee mouse,” he said, rubbing her back. “I’m not worth it.”

  “You are to me,” she sobbed.

  For a long while, he just held her. She could hear his heartbeat, as fast as her own, could feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed in and out. He was so big and strong. And so real.

  “A role is the most I can be, Gwyneth.” His voice was low and strained. “And the most I can accept from you. Now, please stop stepping out of character or I will be forced to terminate all our agreements.”

  She caught the veiled threat. He meant the film rights as well as the role-playing. She couldn’t have that. If she must go back to Pinnacle Pictures, she could not do so empty handed, could not admit to Mr. Robbins she’d blown the deal by making inappropriate advances toward the author. She’d never live it down. Her chances of advancement would be forever ruined.

  “Fine. Have it your way. But I’m not going to whip you whatever you say.”

  “Understood,” he said, releasing her.

  He stepped back, untied his cravat, and pulled the neck cloth free of his collar.

  She watched him, puzzled. “What are you doing?”

  “Changing roles,” he said. “If the baroness won’t punish the footman, the baron will finish his business with the abigail.”

  Gwyn swallowed. Before she could ask if he intended to spank her, he took her by the wrist, led her to the chaise, and sat her down.

  “Lie back, Miss Brown, with your arms over your head.”

&
nbsp; Spanking didn’t seem to be his intention, so she did as he asked. He went around to her hands and proceeded to bind them with his neck cloth. When they were secured to the chaise, he moved around to her feet and lifted her voluminous skirts. She had nothing underneath but stockings secured with ribbon garters.

  “Why did you bind my hands, my lord? Don’t you want me to touch you?”

  He had hold of her shins and was pushing her knees up and apart. Once he’d opened her like a ripe fig, he bent over and skittered his tongue up and down her folds. As her excitement escalated, he pushed two fingers into her. “I’ve bound your hands, Miss Brown, because I want you to touch me more than is safe for either of us.”

  He climbed up on the chaise, straddling her, and unbuttoned her jacket. Taking her breasts in his hands, he squeezed and pushed them together, brushing his thumbs across the tender tips.

  “You offered me your blood last night,” he said hoarsely. “Is the offer still open?”

  “Yes.”

  In that moment, she wanted to give him everything, to surrender herself completely to the experience.

  He reared up and grinned down at her, revealing his fangs for the first time. Before she could get a good look at them, he moved his face to her left breast and ran his tongue around the aureole. Tiny electric eels swam through her bloodstream. .

  “Go ahead, my lord,” she whispered. “Drink to your heart’s content.”

  He slurped the nipple into his mouth and flicked the tip with his tongue, shooting an arrow of ecstasy straight to her sex. Her body shook in response. He bit down hard enough to puncture the skin. Pain stabbed, making her back arch in protest.

  As he began to suck, the discomfort soon gave way to euphoria. She closed her eyes, savoring the strange sensation. Her senses seemed more alert somehow. She could smell his manly scent intermingled with the freshly laundered pillowcase under her head, could feel her own heartbeat pulsing in every vein and his hand hiking up her heavy skirts. Cool air chased by a warm touch swept over her thigh. When he groaned against her breast, she felt the vibration in every highly attuned nerve ending.

  He found her clit and began to play, heightening her enjoyment. A sort of twilight trance took her over. He finger-banged her as his tongue circled her nipple. A surge of ecstasy made her cry out, the sharp sound piercing the silence. His thumb circled her clitoris the same way his tongue circled her nipple. Circling and circling. Turning and turning. A key in a clock of pleasure, winding the mainspring tighter and tighter.