by Jane Henry
“What do I think?” I repeat. “I think you and your team needs to leave this room.” Her eyes widen and she takes an involuntary step back.
“Sir, I haven’t even dressed her yet,” he says, shaking his head, and I know if I was anyone other than the pakhan, he would slap my hand and send me out of here until he was done.
“It’s precisely because you haven’t dressed her yet that you need to leave,” I tell him. “Now.”
He actually has the nerve to chuckle, gathering up his team and rustling out to the door.
“See you tonight,” he says. I overhear him whisper to his assistant in a stage whisper, “I predict we will soon see little Bratva boys and girls in this house. You watch.”
The door shuts. They’re gone.
She stands in front of me, eyeing me with a good deal of trepidation. Capturing her lips between her teeth, she looks shyly my way.
“They did a good job,” she whispers. “I—” She freezes, and I wonder if she remembers my admonition not to make self-deprecating remarks. She was about to. “It’s sort of miraculous,” she finally mutters, like she can’t even believe it. I’ll let that pass.
“Come here.”
I quirk a finger at her. Though taken with her beauty, I haven’t forgotten my primary duty, to train her in obedience so we can fill our roles, so we can lead this group of men with the clear understanding of who we are and what our duties are. Holding my gaze, she comes to me, and it isn’t until she’s within arm’s reach of me that I realize she’s trembling.
When she reaches me, I take her hand and tug her closer. She gives a little squeal and trots quickly to me.
“Tomas,” she whispers, fear written in her wide eyes. “I don’t… please—”
But I ignore her. Whatever it is she fears, she’ll face it and I will lead her. We don’t have the luxury of a lengthy courtship or weeks to get to know one another. Tonight, our hall will be filled to capacity with the most powerful leaders in America. My men will come in droves, expecting to see me arrive with my wife on my arm. An obedient, beautiful, submissive wife.
I reach one hand to her thick, gorgeous hair, running my fingertips through it from scalp to tip. The first time I do it she tenses, but the second time she begins to relax. By the third, she’s leaning into me, her eyes closed. The faintest scent of honey and violets lingers, carefree and feminine. It stirs something within me.
She’s ignorant to how beautiful she is. I’m losing myself to her already, and she doesn’t even know.
I kiss her forehead, marveling at the silky feel of her skin at my lips. Dragging my hand along her shoulder, I draw it down, grasping her lower back and pulling her to me. She grasps my shoulders, anchoring onto me as I make my way down from her forehead to the apple of her cheek, the tip of her nose, the delicate chin, her graceful neck. But I don’t kiss her lips.
I release her just enough so that I can grasp the sash to her robe.
“Tomas,” she breathes.
“Caroline. What do you have under that robe?”
“Undergarments,” she says on a shaky whisper. One tug, and the tie comes undone.
“Show me.”
With her head bowed, she shrugs out of the robe and lets it fall to the floor. She stands in front of me now wearing nothing but a push-up bra and the thinnest pair of panties. I feel as if I’ve just unwrapped a gift of immense worth, and I’m not worthy.
“Did they leave you clothes to change into?” I ask, looking around the room. Logically, I know they had to but a part of me wishes they didn’t. I want to keep her in my room forever with nothing but this robe between us. And I could if I wanted to.
She swallows hard and points to a gown hung on a hook at the back of the bathroom door. It’s pale blue and edged in delicate lace and silver, almost old-fashioned yet low-cut enough to be modern.
“I’ll dress you myself,” I tell her. “But first you will spend some time with me.”
I can see her pulse at her neck, and when I take her wrist between my fingers, I can feel the way her heartbeat thunders.
“You’re afraid.”
“Of course.” She swallows hard.
“What are you afraid of?”
A pause before she responds.
“You.”
My cock tightens, the need to claim her hard and fast all consuming. I want to show her where fear can take us while at the same time giving her more to fear. She doesn’t know what I have stored in this room, the tools in my closet and in the table beside the bed. The instruments of torture and pleasure I’ll use to command her body to orgasm over, and over, and over again.
“When do we have to go?” she asks, lifting her fingers to her neck, an automatic move of self-protection. “I should maybe get ready, you know. It looks hard getting into that dress and my hair will have to be done again. And makeup. Maybe everything. You should maybe even call Eliott back.”
It’s cute how she’s trying to distract me, as if mentioning a commitment will somehow make me forget I have a beautiful woman who is all mine standing in front of me. As if I don’t command the time we arrive tonight. I could call everything off with one word. I answer to no one.
“Should we?” I ask. I close the distance between us with one step and bend at the knee, lifting her straight up in my arms and to my chest. She squeals like a little girl as I step toward the bed, her arms encircling my neck on instinct. “We have plenty of time, Caroline. Plenty.”
The bed is the largest one I could find, custom made. King-sized and four-poster, the headboard is sturdy and outfitted with solid rings to suit my purposes. I look briefly at the new bedding Yvonne purchased, pinks and ivory, just before I lay my wife down. I approve.
“What are you going to do with me?”
“Anything I want.”
“Charming,” she mutters.
I roll her over and slam my palm against her full backside. Though she gasps, she closes her mouth obediently.
“Tonight I want you on your best behavior. No backtalk or sarcasm, detka.”
“I’m not a brat!”
I chuckle. “Baby, brat. This time, I meant baby. The term can vary depending on your behavior.” I tweak her nose. “You sure there isn’t a brat in there?”
The way her brows draw together and she hmphs out loud, I suspect there’s more brat in there than I first realized.
“Now close your eyes and no more talking,” I tell her. “We’re home now, and I’ll only warn you once. In my closet hang my whips and tools, and I won’t hesitate to punish you if I need to.” A low throbbing stretches across my chest at the thought, and I swear she swallows, aware of the sexual tension between us.
Her lower lip sticks out and her brows draw together. “You’re dying to punish me, aren’t you?”
She knows. She fucking knows.
My dick presses up against her side, a steel rod that throbs with unadulterated need at her taunting. “You have no idea.”
“That seems rather disordered. Deviant even. If I—”
I take her mouth with mine to silence her. It almost amuses me she calls me deviant.
She has no fucking clue.
I’ve long since given up any flirtation with normalcy. I like control. I like pain. I fuck hard, often, and without regret, and when I do, I want my woman beneath me, submissive, and begging.
Her delicate lips meld with mine, sweet and decadent like strawberries and cream. Gently, I explore the fullness of her lips with my tongue before I take her lower lip between my teeth and bite down. She bucks and gasps then moans when I reach for her back and unfasten her bra, still holding my mouth over hers.
I palm her full breasts and work my fingers over her nipples.
“You like that, detka?” I ask. “Do you, baby?” She can’t answer pinned beneath me. When I take her mouth again, she moans into my mouth, filling me with her essence. She wants this so damn bad she doesn’t even bother trying to resist me.
I work her nipples until sh
e squirms and moans, then drive one of my fingers between her legs, pushing them apart. I release her mouth and kiss her jaw, her neck, the sweet valley between her breasts until I reach the fullness of her breast and her peaked nipple, fluttering whispers of adoration to this beautiful goddess of a woman.
“Prosit.”
Beg.
She shakes her head, biting her lip to keep from crying out. I crash my palm on the fullest part of her thigh which makes her cringe and whimper, but she still shakes her head.
I will have her obey me if we need to travel the road of deep pain and contrition before I have her where I want her. I will have her deferring to me.
“No?” I ask, pulling away just long enough to fix her with a stern glare. She winces as if I struck her, then shakes her head again.
“Never,” she whispers. “I won’t beg you.”
There’s the girl I was after. There’s the feisty one I wanted.
I shake my head with mock regret. “Baby, if you don’t learn to beg, you’ll never learn the pleasure that could be yours.” I tsk under my breath. “And I’ll also be forced to punish you.”
I’m pushing off the bed when she protests, her voice shrill and nervous. “Punish me! Like I’m a prisoner or a child. I’m neither, Tomas. I’m your wife. And need I remind you that you’re only setting me up so that you have a reason to punish me!”
“I am well aware of who you are, Caroline.” I push off the bed and take a step toward the little bedside table, to my tools. “However, I’m not exactly sure you yet know who I am.” I point my finger to her. “Stay in that bed until I come back to you or your ass feels my whip.” I don’t address her accusation. I won’t deny it. I’m so eager to punish her my mouth is dry at the prospect.
And I mean every word. I’m fully prepared to strap her if I need to.
She watches me with curious, angry eyes, lying so still I wonder if she’s breathing. Removing a pair of handcuffs from the drawer beside the bed, I go back to her and quickly fasten her wrists. “Here we go again,” she mutters. “Just like last night.”
I ignore her protest. If she won’t cooperate, I’ll have to force her, and the prospect excites me. “No, not quite. This won’t be like last night. Last night, you were given the opportunity to sleep when cuffed. This time, the restraints will hold you still for punishment.” Her eyes flicker with fear, and she doesn’t move when I open the door of the closet and look at the tools I have at my disposal. Tonight, will be a reminder and a warning. Foreplay. There will likely come a time when she needs more intensity, but tonight I’ll choose the lesser implement. With a smile, I remove a feather-tipped riding crop. The tamest of the lot. I don’t want her marked and wincing before our reception tonight, but a good taste of a lash will keep her tongue in check. Plus, the alternating sensation will keep her on her toes.
Her eyes follow the solid black in my hand, from the feather tip to the little square strip of leather at the bottom.
“How original,” she quips. “A riding crop?”
“You know what this is?” I ask her, dragging it from her shoulder down her side, the leather traveling over her skin leaving goosebumps in its wake.
“A crop,” she says. “Thought we established that.”
“A crop designed for impact and sensation play,” I tell her. I quickly unfasten the cuffs, lift her up, and place her chest-down on the bed. Positioning her hands on the headboard, I cuff her to the rings I have there. The bed bounces a little with the force, and I step back to admire how gorgeous she is. Her beautiful breasts swing free, her ass barely covered by thin panties and pushed prominently in the air, the quick movement making her full hair bounce in fragrant waves. Over her shoulder she shoots me a look that dares me to let the crop fly.
Swish. The leather strikes her, making a small splotch of faint pink bloom against her pale skin and eliciting the most beautiful little cry. I lash her again and again, each flick a little harder than the last. At first, she actually growls at me, cursing under her breath but unable to get away. She whimpers, squirming, when the crop lands with more intensity. When I’ve painted her a fetching shade of pink, I flip the wand around and tickle her abused flesh with the feather.
“Ohh!” she gasps in protest, squirming, likely surprised by the different sensation. I take the delicate feather-tipped crop and trace it up her back and to her neck, tickling her just there, before I flip the crop again and give her another sharp spank.
“Beg.”
“No.”
I continue the same torturous teasing, alternating flicks of the crop and tickling feathers until she’s moaning, her hips rising, and I know that if I touch her secret folds she’ll be sopping.
Another swishing swing of the crop, “Beg me.”
“No.”
I’m growing impatient.
“It’s unfortunate you’ve chosen to be so stubborn,” I say. “You’ll need something more serious, then?”
Clenching her jaw, she refuses to give in.
I shake my head and cluck my tongue, walk to the bedside table and open it again. She watches every move. I take out a leather flogger and tap it against my palm. Tame, but would work if we had more time. I place it back in the drawer and take out a stout cane. Too harsh. Then I eye a lightweight but sturdy wooden paddle. I nod to myself. That will do well.
“You’re crazy,” she says with a scowl, staring at the solid wood. “Insane!”
“And you’re stubborn as fuck,” I say with admiration. “I like it.”
Without another word, I place my hand on her lower back and slam the wood against her full ass cheeks.
“Ow!” she screams and bucks, but I’ve got her tightly secured. I do want to subdue her, but I also want to take her to a place where pain and pleasure blend. I don’t strike her again yet but rather run my hand along her heated skin, massaging. She freezes, unsure of what I’m doing next. I drag my fingers along her inner thighs, so silky and warm to the touch.
“Beg.”
This time there’s a slight pause, and her refusal is tamer when she whispers, “No.”
I shake my head with mock regret. I’m not at all disappointed I need to continue to punish her. I hold her in place with my hand on the small of her back and bring the paddle down a second time, but lower so it catches the edge of her upper thighs.
“I will not have a disobedient wife,” I scold. “You will do as I say and learn your place.”
Smack.
A third swat with the paddle has her whimpering. Again, I stroke her inner thighs, but this time I go higher, just to the very edge of her sweet spot. Leaning down, I brace myself on the bed and blow out a breath, letting the warm air ghost over her skin. She shivers and ever so slightly parts her knees. With slow, deliberate moves, I graze her clit, just enough to arouse but not enough to really stimulate.
“Pl—” she freezes when she realizes she almost did what I asked. Again, I tease her, one gentle stroke of my fingers touching her most sensitive parts before I draw back.
“Beg.”
She doesn’t obey, but she doesn’t defy me, either. I lift the paddle and push it between her thighs, parting them, drunk on the scent of her arousal, the way she’s fully at my mercy. I glide the paddle to her clit and gently push, making her moan so beautifully my cock aches with the need to fuck her.
“Caroline,” I say sternly. A warning.
I move the paddle from side to side, working her clit with the hard edge. She’s grinding on the pressure, her breathing labored, her fists clenching the sheets white-knuckled. I remove the paddle and graze it along her reddened backside, lift it back, and slam it again, but this time not quite as hard. She doesn’t even flinch but moans when I spank her with firm, deliberate, sensual strokes.
“Beg.” The command is sharp, demanding, and she bites her lip in response, her eyes closed so tightly I know she’s warring within herself. I don’t care how long this takes. I don’t care how long I torture and punish her. The longer it g
oes, the harder I get.
Another tap of the paddle.
“Beg.”
Smack.
“Me.”
She won’t.
Chapter 10
Caroline
I will not beg.
I. Will. Not.
I don’t care if he keeps me on the very edge of arousal or if he beats me with that goddamn frat paddle all night long, he will not make me cave.
“You are my husband,” I hiss, as if somehow reminding him of this will get him to stop assaulting me. Husbands aren’t supposed to treat their wives poorly. Doesn’t he get that?
“I’m well aware of who I am,” he says to me, and I swear the bastard chuckles. “But I think perhaps you’ve forgotten who I am.”
I open my mouth to respond when I feel something wet and sensual slip between my legs and I clamp my mouth shut. There’s nothing he won’t stop at, apparently, because the next thing I know there’s something… vibrating in me. Oh my God. He’s stuck some kind of sex toy in me.
“Beg,” he reminds me as the toy hums, sending bolts of electricity shooting through my limbs, my clit pulsing.
“My God,” I say without even realizing I’ve spoken.
“Not him,” he quips. “Beg me. Your husband. The man you took your vows to. The one who owns you.”
As he speaks, he expertly teases me, making me grind against his hand. I’ve never felt anything like this before. The pain he inflicted somehow heightened my senses, making me even more aroused than ever when he teases and tortures me.
Another stroke, then another, and I’m right on the edge of coming, so close I can taste it, rainbow color already exploding behind my closed eyes, I can taste the sweet, delectable taste of bliss right there on the very edge.
But I won’t cave. There is no way I will let this man own me the way he says he will. I won’t be the little fuck toy he wants. I won’t obey his every whim as if he’s majesty of this castle, no matter who else bows to him under his authority and command. I won’t.
He can’t have me that easily.
If I don’t beg him, he won’t let me come and I need to.
