by Sabrina York
But, no. Not yet. He had much more planned.
He thrust the nightgown at her. He wanted—needed—to see her in it. “Put this on.”
She blinked. “What is it?”
“Put it on.” She flinched at his tone. Ethan, preternaturally aware of her every nuance, froze. He cupped her cheek, drew her closer, tipping her face up to his, though she resisted. “Eleanor. Are you all right?”
She swallowed heavily. “I… No. Yes. I don’t know.”
“Do you want to stop?”
“Stop?” Her eyes were wide, pale-gray pools.
“This is a game, you know. Only a game.”
“A game?”
“Come now. I saw the look on your face when Darlington took that tone with Helena. I saw your reaction at the thought of being bound to my bed. I know what you want.”
“What do I want?”
His lips skated across her cheek, along the sensitive skin of her neck. “You want a man to take charge. To command you. To force you to passion. Don’t you?”
“Ethan…” Her breath hitched. “I’m…afraid.”
“Of me?” He stepped back, instinctively, repudiating the thought. He couldn’t bear that. He just couldn’t.
She caught his lapel and halted his retreat. “No. Not of you. Of being hurt.”
He suddenly understood. Hell, how could he not have realized? She’d been married to Ulster, after all. “I won’t hurt you. And if you want me to stop, I will.”
“You will.” It was not a question.
“Yes. Eleanor, you can trust me. You must trust me.”
She softened, smiled, cupped his cheek. And then her brow furrowed. “Would you really bind my hands?”
“Only if you wanted me to.” He tipped his head so he could see her better. “Do you?”
It was fascinating, watching the thoughts flitter across her face as she considered his question. Very few of them were unclear. For one thing, it was obvious the prospect of being tied up and teased to insanity aroused her. But her fear was palpable.
“Eleanor,” he breathed into her hair, “it doesn’t have to be now.”
“It doesn’t?”
“No. In fact, I shouldn’t like to do it right now.”
She tipped her head to the side. “Why not?”
“Because I have something else in mind. Now…” He crossed his arms over his chest and glowered at her with the fiercest expression he could manage. “Put on the nightgown.”
A laugh bubbled through her at his melodramatic tone and then she reassumed her submissive role. “Yes Sir.”
A shaft of lust shot through him. Despite her apprehension, he decided to press her. Just a tad. “Master.”
“What?”
“Call me Master. You’re my servant, aren’t you? My slave?”
She stared at him in silence, and again, he could read the thoughts, taste her longing. His heart thudded as he awaited her response. If she refused him, he would scuttle this fantasy, this delirium. But if she didn’t… If she didn’t…
“I…” She dropped her gaze. “Yes Master.”
Holy hell.
Agonizing lust, hard and hot, slammed through him, fisted in his gut. His cock, already hard, shot to pike stiffness. That telling swell of pressure in his balls warned an explosion was in the offing.
But no.
He refused to come. He refused to lose control this soon.
He was disciplined.
He was.
Muscles clenched, fingers curled, he turned his back, trembling with the effort to maintain his distance. “Put it on, Eleanor. Put it on and go lie on the bed.”
Lace rustled as she complied with his order, the bed creaked. But still, he kept his back to her. He had to. He wasn’t able to look.
Well, maybe a peep.
He tipped his head until he found her image in the mirror hanging on the wall. She lay on his bed in a scant scarlet gown watching him. His knees nearly failed him. He clutched at the back of the chair by the fire, allowing it to bolster him. He pressed his cock against its hardness, rubbed. Not much though. Too much would unman him. Just a slight pressure to assuage the ache the sight of her caused.
He hadn’t forgotten about the challenge she’d posed when she questioned his discipline. He would make her come first, make her beg to come first. And he would hold out. He would. Slowly, he edged away from the chair. “Spread your legs.”
“What?” She sprang up on the bed and stared at him, mouth agape. Ah. What a beautiful mouth. Hell. What a beautiful woman. The gown was sheer and festooned with ribbons, which artfully framed her breasts and waist. It hit her midthigh—a scandalous length. She wore nothing underneath.
“Do not question me. Do as I say. Now, lie back and spread your legs.”
She hesitated but, after an excruciating moment, did as he asked. He swallowed a pool of drool as she eased back and slowly slipped her legs apart.
It was all he could do to rein in his raging passion.
“Reach between your legs.”
“Aren’t you going to—”
“Hush, Eleanor. No questions. Put your palms on your belly and run your hands down your legs.” She did, quickly finding the hem of her gown. “Now up.”
Naturally, she attempted to run her palms up her legs over the gown, but he stopped her with a sharp bark. “No. Beneath the gown. That’s right. Nice and slow. I want to watch you reveal yourself.”
She closed her eyes and arched her back, mewling at his harsh command.
He did not allow her to hide from him. To retreat. He wanted her with him in this. Completely.
“Eleanor. Open your eyes. Good.” God, she was lovely. Even reflected in the mirror. “How does it feel?”
“W-what?”
“Knowing your cunt is open, exposed.”
“I-I…” She could offer no more, nothing but a deep groan. Ethan was gratified at the knowledge that she was so close to completion she could barely form words. Because frankly, he was running out of restraint himself. There was only so much a man could take.
But still…
He leaned closer. Because he really wanted to see this. “Slip your hand between your legs.”
She quivered, swallowed. Obeyed.
“Good.” His heart thudded. “What does it feel like?”
“Warm. Wet.”
“Yes. It’s warm and wet because you’re aroused. Aren’t you?”
“Y-yes.”
“Can you feel that hard ball there?”
“Yes.” A whisper, but barely.
“That’s called your clitoris. Can you say that?”
“Cl-clit…clitoris.”
“Rub it.”
She moaned at his words. Then moaned again as she sank deeper, into her furred nest, between the swollen lips protecting her center, and found her pearl. “Ethan…”
“Keep rubbing. Do it slow. Now, with your other hand, rub your nipple.”
“I-I can’t.”
“You did it earlier. Never say you are refusing to do it now.”
She whimpered and lifted her hand. He watched with avid interest as she explored her breast, traced a tentative path to the crest and, through the lace, stroked.
Her eyes flew open. “Oh my.”
“What is it?” He perched on the edge of the bed. “What did it feel like?”
“The lace…is rough.”
“Do you like it? The rough lace?”
“Y-yes.”
Yes. He knew it did. He bit back a smile. She was panting now, hips wriggling ever so slightly on the bed. “Do it again.” She did. “And again.” Yes. She arched her back and cried out, but it wasn’t a cry of fulfillment, it was a cry of desperation.
“Ethan. Ethan. Please.”
“Please what?”
“Please help me. Help me come.”
A flash of triumph washed through him, but it was quickly followed by a searing ache that settled in the region of his hard, tight balls. The desire to
mount her racked him. He fought it back. Scrabbled for control.
“Eleanor, I do love it when you beg.”
She wriggled again, fervently stroking her cunt, plucking at her breast. “Please!”
So tempting. He tightened his fingers into a fist.
Discipline. This was about discipline.
He had it.
He was certain of it.
He swallowed heavily. “You can make yourself come, my little one.”
“I can?”
“Yes.” And he would watch. “Arch up your hips. Yes. That’s nice. Now slip inside.”
“I couldn’t.”
“You can. And you will.” He tried to be stern but his tone sounded somewhat pleading, even to his ears. Dear God, he wanted to see this.
He leaned forward and watched as her finger, slender and slick with cream, slipped into her cavern. He shuddered.
As did she. “It’s not enough. It’s not enough!”
“Two. Try two.” She did. Her groan of satisfaction quickly turned to frustration. “Three. Three. Try three.”
She shifted her position, arched her body even more and did so, fucking her sopping cunt in a frenetic rhythm. All the while, the other hand tugged at her swollen nipples, one after the other. She was wild, she was crazed. She was coming.
It was written on her face. The relief. The bliss. The release.
He didn’t remember undoing the placket of his trousers but he must have, because before she’d finished with the first of many tremors, he was on top of her, cock in hand. The second she vacated that coveted cavern, he was in, thrusting past the tight, tense walls.
She constricted on him as she came, massaging and caressing his length, sucking at it as he withdrew until he thought he would lose his mind to the pleasure of it. He shoved in again and again and yet again as she quivered and cried out and squeezed him in a mindless frenzy.
“Yes,” he huffed as he jammed himself deeper and deeper still. His cock throbbed intensely. His balls were tight nuts pulled up between his legs. The burn, the ecstasy welled within him. It was entangled with a deep sense of satisfaction, of vindication. For he had made her beg, made her come. He had tormented her and not given in.
“Who has discipline now, my little one?” he growled into her ear.
“Ah, Ethan,” she cried as she came again. “Who cares?”
They fell asleep after their tryst, and no wonder. They’d barely slept the night before. When Eleanor awoke, warm in Ethan’s embrace, the sky was darkening. They’d slept the afternoon away.
“Oh dear,” she murmured and attempted to slip from the bed.
His arm tightened around her.
“Why is it you are always trying to escape my bed?” His words were harsh but he said them on a laugh.
“We need to dress for dinner. It must be close to six.”
“Mmm.” He tugged her closer and nibbled on her shoulder. “I’m not hungry for food.”
“Dear heavens. I’m beginning to suspect you’re insatiable.”
“I feel that way when you’re around.” His hands began to wander. A telltale stirring against the curve of her bottom portended a late arrival at dinner.
“Ethan. We must dress.”
He stilled. “Are you giving me a command?”
She turned to him. The light in his eyes was difficult to interpret. Was he angry? He’d never lost his temper with her. Not yet. She so didn’t want to learn he was like Ulster after all. She swallowed.
“N-no.”
“I think that was a command.” He sat up and threw the covers back, revealing the body of a Greek god, rippling muscles dusted with dark hair. He was fierce, dark and alluring.
No. Definitely not angry. She relaxed a tad, but only a tad. Her body tightened again at his next words, but in a very different way. “Do you know what happens to a slave when she gives her Master a command?”
Eleanor licked her lips. “N-no.”
He loomed over her, easing her back onto the bed. “He punishes her.”
“Oh. My.”
Was that a lustful shudder coursing through her body? Again? How on earth did he do it?
“And you’ve been naughty. You deserve a punishment. Don’t you agree?”
“I…”
“Don’t you?”
She dropped her gaze “Yes.” Heavens. Could she take him again? So soon? Her body ached in so many ways, in so many places. But she loved each and every ping. So much nicer than…
No. She wouldn’t think of it. She wouldn’t.
She would focus on Ethan.
On now.
“Are you ready for your punishment?”
She nodded. “But…”
His brow darkened. “But what?”
She stroked his chest. Rather fascinated by the taut, silky muscles, she became distracted.
“Eleanor.”
“Yes?”
“But what?”
She blinked. What? Oh. Yes. “But it’s almost dinnertime.”
His grin was wolfish. Twin shards of lust and fear engulfed her. But it was a delicious kind of fear. “I know. Your punishment will last through dinner.”
Her brow wrinkled. What on earth could he have in mind?
“Stand up. There. By the nightstand.”
She did so, and he scooted over to sit on the edge of the bed, facing her. He was just at breast level, couldn’t resist a quick nuzzle. She moaned as the nuzzle became a suck, then a nip. She put out a lip when he stopped, when he sat back and reached for something on the nightstand. Something she hadn’t noticed there before.
“What is that?”
He held it up, a length of…was it lace?
“Where did you get that?”
“Madame Fourtenouy’s, of course.”
“You bought lace?”
“Yes.” He folded the length in half and then reached around her waist. When his hands came back into view, he held the looped end in one hand and the loose ends in the other. The length of lace belted around her back.
“What are your doing with th—” He passed the strands between her legs. They nestled between her cunt lips and slipped inside to rub against her clitoris. “Oh my.”
He stood and stepped behind her and she tipped her head, desperate to see what he was doing. In horror, she watched as he threaded the loose ends into the looped end and pulled tight.
The sensation of the rough lace scraping against her tender center was intense. And four strands of lace rubbed at her. He tugged on the ends, testing. A welter of sensation, of insanity flooded her body.
“Do you like that?”
“Ethan. It’s positively wicked.”
“Do you like the lace?”
“Do I what? Well, yes. I suppose.”
He grinned. “It matches your dress.”
“It matches my… Whatever are you talking about?”
“You’ll see. Hold this.” He handed her the long loose ends of the ribbon. “No. Hold it tight.” He yanked the reins tightly and she sucked in a breath as agony—ecstasy—sliced through her again. Dear heavens. “Hold it tight.” His tone was commanding, indomitable, determined. When he was convinced she was holding the lace with sufficient tension, he paced to the center of the room and retrieved her dress. He returned to her and dropped the garment unceremoniously over her head.
“But Ethan. My chemise.”
“You don’t need a chemise tonight.”
Eleanor blanched. No chemise? But what would protect her nipples from the thick, rough material of her gown?
Oh. Oh mercy.
She whimpered.
“Hush now. Hand me the ribbon and put your arms in the sleeves.” She did, but slowly, ever cognizant of the bombazine against her sensitized skin. When she had the dress on, Ethan threaded the lace up the back of her dress and pulled it tight. She winced. “Here.” He handed her the strands again and deftly began doing up her buttons. When he finished, he walked her to the mirror. She couldn’t help no
ticing how each step was an agony. An agony of bliss and torment.
She walked slowly.
He tracked each movement like a starving man tracks a rabbit in his path.
“Watch me in the mirror. I want you to see.”
She turned and saw he had indeed buttoned her dress, but the lace emerged from the gap under the bottom button. It hung down like a tail. She was stunned to realize he had taken great care to find a ribbon that matched her dress exactly. The tail appeared to be a natural accoutrement of the costume.
He took the ribbon and deftly threaded it through the bottom buttonhole, effectively anchoring it there tightly. He glanced at her to be sure she was paying attention and gave the tail a tug. Delight sliced through her as the lace tightened, rubbing the whole of her slit, including—dear heavens—the suddenly tender pucker of her ass.
She nearly came. “Ethan. I can’t do this.”
“You can. You will.”
“But Helena…James…”
“Won’t know what’s going on. Not unless you let on.” He leaned closer, whispered into her ear. “And you won’t let on. Will you?” His hand came up to her breast and he stroked her. The unfamiliar sensation of the rough fabric against her throbbing nipple made her moan. “Will you?”
“God. I hope not.”
God, help her. Help her to control herself.
Help her to not come at the dinner table with Helena and James and Uncle Andrew looking on.
Chapter Seven
Dinner was a torment. Although, Ethan reflected, probably more so for Eleanor than himself. But his torment was fairly sharp.
They’d made their way together down the stairs to the drawing room—she mincing—to join James and Helena for a pre-dinner drink. Eleanor had hesitated to take the chair Helena offered, then winced as she sat. Ethan watched with an eagle eye. So he didn’t miss the glare she sent him.
When they moved on to the table, Ethan had suggested they be informal and skillfully arranged to sit to Eleanor’s left. Thus it was no challenge to allow his hand to drift to his thigh, skate below the tablecloth and over behind her back. To find the ribbon.
To tug. To tighten it. To tease her.
He loved playing with her, as Uncle Andrew—who came to the table late—babbled on about the challenges of researching ancestry, or some Darlington forbearer, or the intricate details of consanguinity.
