A Measured Risk

by Natasha Blackthorne

  His hand shot up and captured hers. She gasped and tried to pull it back.

  “It’s really hard for you to admit, isn’t it?” His deep voice resonated directly in her lower stomach. The very pit of her womb. God, she was aching for him.

  “What?” She feigned a light tone.

  Under the covers, he touched her thigh and stroked sensually. “That you missed me every bit as much as I missed you. That you burned for me each night as I did for you.”

  Mortification burnt through her. “I-I thought you were asleep.”

  He moved closer to her and cupped her buttocks, pulling her close. “How could I possibly sleep with your lovely body so near mine?”

  His erection pulsed against her hip, hard and hot, and her traitorous cunt contracted and grew wet. She couldn’t help wondering what it would feel like to have him inside her. Would it be different than with William?

  Of course it would. Everything had been different so far. Different and dark and delicious.

  He caressed her hair. “I know it’s frightens you, Anne. You have lived in such isolation from other people, even while living amongst them. However, you must be brave. I can’t help you if you won’t stay open and trusting with me.”

  “This is easy for you.”

  He chuckled softly. “Is it?”

  “Yes, you’ve had heaps of love affaires.”

  “Have I?” His voice was rich with humour.

  “Do not insult my intelligence, you’ve had scores of women.”

  “Bedding many women doesn’t equate to having had heaps of love affaires.”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  “No, I don’t let just anyone into my life, Nan.”

  His answer put curious warmth into her chest. How pathetic. She bristled all over at herself.

  He lifted her hair and placed his lips to her nape. “I didn’t visit my mistress.”

  Another burst of warmth blossomed in her chest. She hadn’t believed he’d be faithful a moment past Russell Square.

  “You didn’t?” she asked, barely breathing now. The idea that he wanted her badly enough to have endured two weeks of celibacy was the most arousing thing she’d ever known. Hope beat at her without mercy.

  Don’t be a bird-wit over this.

  “I wasn’t even tempted.”

  She laughed but the sound came out weak and uneven. “Now you’re shamming it.”

  “That settles it,” he said, his voice suddenly gone firm. He jack-knifed up and leapt from the bed.

  Her heart leapt into her throat and she gaped at him. Had he suddenly taken leave of his senses? “Jon?”

  “I shall have to prove it to you.” He bent down and put his arms about her and lifted her, sweeping her into his arms.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jon carried Anne into the other chamber, moving with such speed that everything flew by her in a dizzying array of light and shadow.

  She screamed. Not because she was afraid—even though she was a little afraid. But mostly because the excitement and emotion overwhelmed her; demanded a release. He laid a slap on her buttocks, none too gently. “Hush, now wench.”

  She squealed loudly.

  He chuckled and smacked her even harder. The cracking sound echoed in the chamber. When he spanked her again, the sensation of his hand on her arse sent thrills through her pelvis. Sharp pain blossomed into pleasure and she laughed—no, she giggled just like a girl. She never giggled. Never. Now she was doing so all the time. However, there was something about being here with him that made it seem safe to be girlish.

  He was so tall, so strong, so utterly masculine in his manner—how could any woman feel anything but feminine and yes, delicate even, in his arms? It was dim here, for the fire had died to embers and the cheerful checked curtains were partially closed. He set her on her feet and immediately found the buttons on her nightgown. Soon it fell, a dark silk puddle at her feet. She stood there staring up at him, trying not to shuffle her feet in her uncertainty. Would she ever become accustomed to being naked in front of him?

  He pressed on her shoulders, gently but firmly. “Kneel for me, you ill-mannered little hoyden.”

  Electrical thrills shot through her and her knees went weak, making it easier to obey than to argue or run or do anything else. She knelt, feeling oddly restive yet languid as she did so. As she clasped her hands behind her back, she was aware of how it made her breasts jut out. She’d never been all together comfortable with them. In Mayfair during her seasons, at Mama’s urging, she’d kept them bound, for they were too large—not fashionable in an age when perky little teacups were so highly prized.

  But even in the dim light, she could see his eyes riveting on them. Her nipples came instantly erect and he cupped their softness, grazing the stiff peaks. He moved closer to her, his cock brushing her cheek, all velvet over steel. She tilted her head, pressing against its hardness.

  He gently squeezed her breasts together, sliding his cock between them. It was shocking, wicked. He thrust his hips back and forth several times. Then he paused, breathing heavily. “You have the most beautiful breasts I have ever seen. I’ve wanted to push my cock between them, just like this, from the first time I saw you in a low-cut bodice.”

  His words heated her blood. She arched her back, unable to get enough of his large, slightly roughened hands as he handled her to suit his fancy. He took her hand and wrapped it about his erection. “I am going to come all over you, like this. Do you want that?”

  A most ardent desire overcame her and she moaned her assent loudly, not capable of modulating her need. She could feel his cock surge, a pumping sensation. The first jet of seed hit her under her chin, hot and fierce, full of vitality. She cried out with the shock. He pulled himself from between her globes and took hold of himself, stroking his cock as further jets of thick, creamy seed erupted from him and poured warm rain over her bosom. His groans were like harsh music in her ears.

  When his climax ebbed, he took several deep breaths. He was staring at her as she knelt there, drenched in his seed.

  His gaze was strangely soft and under it, she felt beautiful and filled with a strange sort of power she had never felt before.

  “My Lady Cranfield,” he said breathily.

  He backed away, returned and wiped her off with a linen towel. The rhythmic strokes of the cloth over her skin lulled her. Filled her with warmth. She wanted to crawl into his embrace and curl into him.

  Then he touched her head, dropped something over her eyes.

  All her shimmering elation vanished. “Oh, don’t…”

  He touched his finger to the tip of her nose and made a sibilant sound. Then he continued securing the cloth at the back. He let her go.

  She touched the cloth, her fingers gliding over the pure silk.

  “Don’t touch that,” he growled low.

  She let it go as if it were afire.

  “Good girl,” he said and her stomach turned over in that pathetic, flippy-floppy way it seemed to do every time he praised her like that. “Open for me.”

  She complied, leaving herself exposed and vulnerable, a fact that both unsettled her and caused a fresh surge from her channel.

  He inserted his leg between hers, his hairs tickling her as he parted her thighs even further. “Don’t close them even an inch.”

  She could hear him moving about, building up the fire in the large stone hearth. From the warmth, the popping and cracking sounds, there would be firelight now. He would be able to see her, yet she was still in darkness. From the quiet, she suspected he was observing her. Gooseflesh rose over her at the thought.

  “Why must I be blindfolded?”

  “Because I will it.” His voice, firm and commanding, set her channel clenching. After a few more moments, he took her hands and placed them in front of her. “Clasp them.”

  He looped something several times around her wrists. Then he was tugging. She tried to pull her hands apart.

  “They’re bound, Nan.”
r />   He touched her shoulders. “Move backwards.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I will it.” He moved, pushing her shoulders, forcing her to walk backwards, on her knees. Blindfolded. Bound at the wrists. Why was he insisting on this?

  They moved in a complete circle. Once, twice, three times. She lost her sense of direction. Then he was behind her, pulling her back slowly. The blindfold made everything so dark. The sensation was like free-falling. Her heart pounded in alarm. It was silly but she couldn’t help feeling a little afraid. Instinctively, her hands jerked, trying to free themselves and reach for the floor.

  “Easy now, I’ve got you,” he said softly.

  “I don’t like this,” she said.

  “I know.”

  Her back touched something soft and slightly scratchy. She arched up and her whole body went stiff.

  “I’ve got you,” he repeated.

  He let go of her shoulders and held her head in his palms, still lowering her. Then he slipped his hand away. Her head landed and sank into something soft and seemingly groundless.

  Her heart beat jarringly for several moments as she seemed to float and spin on the air. Then she realised she was on the floor, her head on an extremely fluffy feather pillow. She laughed in both relief and release.

  He brushed her ear with his lips. “Do you see? It is not so unpleasant to trust in me completely, is it?”

  He untied her wrists and she immediately reached out to her sides, feeling the soft flannel blanket. His hands touched her stomach, gliding with warm, silky sensation. Sweet coconut oil permeated the air. Slowly, rhythmically, he massaged every part of her. She went limp and her eyes grew heavy.

  At the touch of two of his long, oiled fingers sliding deep into the softness between her legs, she bolted awake. She was already wet, already swollen and aching with desire. A moan forced its way from her throat, long and low.

  His fingers moved slowly and steadily, back and forth in her channel. She’d never known arousal like this before. Needed to come immediately.

  “Please, please,” she begged.

  He withdrew his fingers and his large hand cupped her whole quim. “This belongs to me now. Do you realise that?”

  “Wh-what?” she asked, barely able to comprehend his words, much less decipher what he wished to hear in return.

  “I want to hear you say it, Nan. Say my cunt belongs to Jonathon Lloyd.”

  Beneath her excitement, her hackles rose. After last night, all the stakes had been raised. Such comments were no longer a game. “I can’t possibly say something like that.”

  “You will,” he said with perfect assurance.

  His hands touched the insides of her thighs and, automatically, her legs parted wider and her hips writhed uncontrollably. His finger traced the outer edge of her cunt. “Damn, you get so wet. I knew you’d be a little hussy. I knew it on the first day we met. From the first time you gave me one of your deep and penetrating glances. You wanted me then, didn’t you? You wanted me to touch you like this.” His tongue snaked, warm and moist, along her inner folds. “And like this.” He flicked her straining nub. “Didn’t you?”

  She moaned in frustration at the brevity of the contact. “I didn’t… Heavens, I didn’t think of you like that…” He licked her nub again and she gasped. “Certainly not like this, back then.”

  “Little liar. You can lie to yourself but you cannot lie to me. Before all is said and done, we’re going to have some truth between us.”

  “What truth do you imagine that to be?”

  “That you wanted me to claim you”—he cupped her mons and lips—“this part of you, as my own.”

  Her heart raced beneath her breast. God, she could never admit such thing. Even if it were true. Which it wasn’t—surely it wasn’t. She’d been attracted to him for the strength of his character. That innate raw power and vitality that emanated from him. She’d wanted to learn how she could acquire such strength for herself.

  It had been only her treacherous body, reacting to his, out of natural drives. She, Anne—the person aside from the weakness of her flesh—did not want to be owned.

  His lips touched her stomach and she quivered all over. “Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow, but soon—very soon—you’re going to cede ownership of this precious part of yourself to me. You’re going to tell me exactly what I want to hear and you’re going to do it of your own free will.”

  She began to fear that the stakes here were higher than mere temporary games between lovers. Her throat went dry and her heart gave a little string of erratic beats. But his mouth touched her again, closing over her aching, intimate flesh, alternately sucking and flicking and circling with his tongue. And every other thought fled from her mind except the pleasure he gave her. Good lord, he was a virtuoso. He brought her right up to the edge of golden, shimmering orgasmic perfection.

  Then he stopped.

  “Jon.” She moaned his name and twisted in the bonds.

  His mouth closed on her again, slowly building her back up, pushing her higher this time. And when he stopped, the crash was all the more devastating.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked in panting tones.

  “Because it’s my will. My whim. I told you I’d treat you like a plaything.”

  Pure desire pulsed through her cunt at his words. Logically, she still didn’t understand her own reactions, but that didn’t seem to matter. She was helpless to do anything but feel.

  He inserted two fingers into her depths and her hips danced furiously. She had to bite down on her lip to keep from crying out.

  “See, already your cunt recognises its owner. It remains only for you to admit it.”

  He moved up level with her, the fine hairs on his body brushing along her stomach. He kissed her deeply, slowly, forcing her to taste herself on his lips and tongue. The intimacy shocked her, seared her.

  He ran his hand over her breast, slowing as he grazed her hardened nipple.

  “Your skin glows like amber in the firelight. You must surely know I am quite taken with it.” He pressed a trail of kisses over her breasts. “But not half as taken with that as I am with the idea that every inch should belong to me.”

  He took her hand and wrapped it around something—a soft braid.

  “This is silk rope, the most expensive I could find in Paris.”

  She caught her breath and her heart beat a fierce tattoo. Cunt clenching, savage hunger set her trembling.

  “I have been saving it for someone worthy.” He looped the rope loosely around her arm several times and slid it up and down on her skin. The texture was velvety, refined, like a caress.

  “What colour is it?” she asked, needing to know for some reason she didn’t even understand.

  “I had it dyed into your favourite colour.” Something serpentine dropped on the soft curve of her tummy. The thick coil of rope. There was so much. His hand gripped her hip. “I am going to wrap you in it.”

  Fear shivered through her—the most delectable kind. She forced herself to think of something safer to her self-protection. “What is my favourite colour?”

  “Deep, dark crimson.”

  She could picture it now. God. She swallowed hard, her breath hitching with exhilaration. She tried to ignore it. “You really think you know me that well from merely observing me a few times?”

  “I don’t know all about you, no. But I know that’s your favourite colour.” He lifted her, his hands caressing her as tenderly as if she’d been spun from glass. Slowly, deliberately, he wound the rope beneath her breasts, his hands brushing her now and then. He traced his finger along where her skin and the rope met, sliding in between as if testing the tightness. “And I know that the colour suits you best.”

  He wrapped the rope twice above her breasts. The silk cord caressed the sides of her neck and he pulled her arms high over her head and looped them together much as he’d done earlier.

  She struggled against the bonds and found hers
elf quite thoroughly tied. A thrill chased through her. “Why must you do this, tying me up?”

  His mouth encompassed a straining nipple and his tongue ran lazy circles around it. “You seemed to like it before.”

  “It seems rather silly now. I don’t understand why you want it so much.”

  “Haven’t you guessed, love? I am binding you to me.”

  His words and the possibility of their truth frightened her. She was unable to keep herself from struggling against the bonds. All she managed to do was reinforce the initial helplessness and each tug and strain of the rope sent new thrills racing through her. Soon she was panting and her nipples were so erect they hurt.

  She became aware of the time that had passed. Other than the occasional popping logs in the hearth, it was silent. Sudden panic seized her. “Jon?”

  “I am right here, love. I would not leave you alone like this.”

  “But what are you doing?”

  “I am watching you.” He caressed her stomach. “You are so beautiful in your excitement.”

  He touched her cunt, his fingers tracing through the wetness. All the pounding, painful arousal of earlier re-surged. Her hips arched upwards before she could stop them and she bit her lip to keep from pleading for him.

  “Don’t be embarrassed by your reactions, they are beautiful. We shall be very honest with each other about our sexual feelings.” His thighs brushed the insides of hers and his hands slipped under her buttocks and lifted her hips.

  He impaled her, suddenly, driving all the way inside. Discomfort flashed like lightning from her core up to her throat and down her legs to her feet, quickly followed by a stronger, longer-lasting blast of pleasure.

  Oh God, Oh God.

  She hadn’t expected him to—to…not without some kind of warning.

  But it had been so exciting and now her heart pounded in the wake. His hands tightened on her hips and he held himself still for a moment. His breathing sounded heavy and hard in the quiet. He filled her, stretched her and consumed her, and her cunt clenched around him frantically, as if for fear he’d withdraw.

  He did.

  She cried out at the loss, fighting the bindings on her arms, wanting to pull him back. Her hips tried to lift, seeking him. He held them with ruthless firmness, forcing her to be still.