The Earl of Windermere Takes a Wife (Lords of the Matrix Club #1)

by Jen YatesNZ

  ‘God Jassie. You’re so hot! Do you like that? Do you?’

  ‘Ooohh! Oohhhh!’

  Rogan lifted his head and immediately she was dragging at his hair in an effort to get him to return to his ministrations. She was so sexy.

  ‘Answer me my darling. Do you like me suckling you?’

  ‘Yes! Rogan, I love it! Can’t you tell?’

  He couldn’t hold back a chuckle.

  ‘I just need for you to tell me what you like—and what you don’t. If I do something you don’t like, please tell me and I’ll stop—I hope.’

  ‘I like everything you do. I want you to do everything a man can do to a woman. I need to know how it feels, how everything feels, Rogan! Please show me.’

  ‘God, Jass, you’re so beautiful.’

  He lowered his head, circled each nipple with his tongue then suckled deeply one more time on each before licking and tasting his way down to her belly-button. Here he stopped and rimmed the indent repeatedly with his tongue until she was breathless with giggling. It was a beautiful sound. He wasn’t used to laughter during sex. Perhaps this could make the difference. He had to stay in the moment, stay conscious that this was Jassie—whom he loved more than life itself.

  ‘Rogan, that tickles!’

  Laughing, he kissed across her belly and then trailed moisture down and into the dark golden curls at the apex of her thighs. Her hands grasped his hair and he could feel her rising up to watch him.

  ‘R—Rogan, what are you doing?’ she whispered hoarsely.

  ‘I’m loving you, Jass,’ he said gently, looking up and pushing her back down onto the pillows. Her face was flushed and her hair a glorious tangle about her head and knowing he’d done that for her filled him with intense joy. ‘You want to know. I want to show you. Just as your touch on my cock excites me, so does my touch here in your quim excite you. Let me show you.’

  ‘But—but—you’re going to put your mouth—there?’

  ‘I am, my love.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Relax, Jassie. One day you might try putting your mouth on my cock. I guarantee we will both enjoy the experience. Just as I intend to enjoy the taste and texture of you and the glory of bringing you to a climax with my ministrations.’

  ‘Climax?’

  ‘Like on Neave Tor, when I made you feel good after—after.’

  ‘Oh! And you—you like doing that with your mouth?’

  ‘God, yes!’

  Jassie finally dropped her head back onto the pillows.

  ‘I really liked what you did on the Tor—after. I’d like to cl—climax again.’

  ‘Good. Then relax and open for me.’

  Gently he urged her heels up towards her buttocks and pressed her knees down to the mattress and kneeling before her he stopped to fully appreciate the picture she made, laid open for his delectation—at last. He bent his head to taste of her nectar. Opening her folds with his thumbs, he slid one into her moist channel and began swirling within her, relishing her moans and trembles, reveling in the vibration of her passion through his body. With his tongue he continued to stimulate the bud that would drive her over the edge to ecstasy, his own body poised in anticipation.

  She couldn’t lay still, she couldn’t be silent and she couldn’t stop her body from arching up towards his mouth, pleading, begging for more. She was everything he’d known she would be.

  ‘Rogan, Rogan please don’t stop! I feel—I feel—Oh God, I feel as if I’m going to blow apart! Rogan!’

  ‘Hush, my darling,’ he growled against her quim. ‘Relax and just let it happen. Enjoy.’

  Dear God! I want you—with me! Please—please Rogan, I need you—inside me—please—I need you to—’

  It was as if the blood stopped flowing in her veins—and his. His whole body stilled, shuddered, and he slowly raised his head to glare unseeingly at her. When her blood started pumping again it was pure panic. Oh God, his eyes. They were leached of all color, silvery mirrors of white fury. His mouth that but a moment before had visited such pleasure on her, had thinned and twisted in raging ugliness and he rose unsteadily to his feet, casting about, looking for something.

  Suddenly he reached down, gripped her arm and hauled her over to the ottoman where he’d tossed his clothes.

  ‘R—R—’

  She wanted to tell him she loved him; that it would be all right, even though she wasn’t sure it would be but her throat was closed with terror. No words would form. He whipped his neck cloth out from under the pile of clothing and swiftly and expertly bound her wrists together then wrapping the rest of the cloth round her head he tied off the ends so her hands were flattened against her mouth. What if she couldn’t breathe?

  She tried to yell his name against her hands but only a garbled high pitched moaning came out. Should she fight? Before she could decide one way or the other he’d tipped her across the edge of the bed again and landed the first heavy slap across her naked buttocks.

  It’s not me he’s punishing, she cried in her head. It’s not me. It’s nothing I did—at least—oh God! She’d begged. He’d stolen her sanity with his sensual onslaught on her body and she’d become pure instinct, pure ecstatic response—and she’d begged.

  The slaps on her skin were getting heavier, the sting unbearable, and tears spurted from her eyes. She tried to twist away from him but he grabbed her hair and held her in place and thrashed her until she wondered if she’d even be able to stand afterwards, let alone sit.

  ‘Fucking slut!’ he suddenly yelled. ‘I’ll teach you to respect a man’s decision. I will teach you respect if it’s the last thing I do! Fucking bitch!’

  Just when Jassie was fearing she might black out, the wild flailing of his hand stopped and he roughly spread her legs and thrust his cock deep. She thought she’d die of the ugliness of it, of the terrible grief that tore through her body for this man who, by his own words, would never make love to her again after this. The pain of that knowledge was far greater than any he’d inflicted. His body stiffened in orgasm, straining and spasming deep within her as he groaned out his release.

  For a moment the only sound was her own ugly deep sobbing, the only movement her convulsive gasps for breath. Rogan held himself deep within her, his body rigid and straining. Then slowly she felt him soften and sink away from her. She wanted to listen, to hear the moment he returned to himself but she couldn’t stop the moaning gasps that wracked her being. She wanted to tell him she loved him—loved him still—unconditionally—and she would the moment he released her.

  He didn’t yell as she’d thought he would. But he did swear. At least she presumed he was swearing. The string of words that left his mouth in a dreadful hiss, were words she’d never heard before. Then he was tearing at the cloth that bound her hands against her face and dropping to his backside on the bed he hauled her into his arms and rocked them both. Gradually she realized the tears that were running down her face were no longer just her own.

  ‘Dear God, Jassie. I should be hung for this. What manner of beast have I become? Oh Jassie, Jassie, Jassie.’

  His voice faded into a soft moan as his hands ran caressingly over her body, massaging her wrists, her hair, her backside.

  ‘Not ever again, Jass. Never.’

  Every word sank into her gut as if she swallowed balls of lead. Anything she might’ve said was swallowed in the devastation of it. How was she going to bear it? How could they ever show their love for one another? How would they ever have children? An heir for Windermere? Her sobs became silent shudders through her body and forming words was still nigh impossible. But she had to tell him, make him understand—

  Slowly she unfurled her body within his arms and reached up to clasp her hands about his neck and hold his cheek against hers.

  ‘It wasn’t your fault, Rogan.—You told me not to—not to beg but I did.—It wasn’t your fault! I love you. It changes nothing!—I love you!’

  She could hear the desperation in her voice, feel th
e rigidity of his body and the futility of it all sapped away the last of her energy.

  ‘Oh Rogan! Please don’t leave me.’

  ‘I must, my love. This can never happen again.’

  Gently he laid her back in the bed and covered her.

  ‘Wait here,’ he whispered.

  As if she could go anywhere! She was naked, so weak and hurt she didn’t think she could even walk. What in God’s name was she to do? She couldn’t let him go. How could the dream she’d cherished almost half her life have become such a horrendous reality?

  She tried to tell herself she wished she’d left things as they were but nothing could make her wish she could go back to being Miss Jassie Carlisle. She was now who she’d always been meant to be, Rogan Wyldefell’s wife. Nothing he could do would make her wish anything different.

  He was back, pulling the bedding away from her body.

  ‘Turn over,’ he murmured.

  When she did as he bid, he began rubbing lavender infused oil into her buttocks and every now and then she felt the hot splash of a tear falling on the backs of her legs. Perhaps even if she couldn’t have left things as they were for herself, she really should have for Rogan’s sake. She’d had no idea her willfulness and wantonness would cause him such suffering.

  ‘Sit up and drink this,’ he murmured. ‘It’s a very weak dose of laudanum. It’ll help you sleep. As I said at dinner this evening, I’ll return to London tomorrow.’

  ‘No!’ Jassie swung over to glare up at him. ‘Don’t leave me! There’s talk enough already. We need to be seen together, at least in public, Rogan. Please stay. I won’t tease you further. I begin to understand that by so doing I’ve hurt you unbearably. I love you. I love you, Rogan.’

  The tears spurted from her eyes again and her attempt at being stern or immovable dissolved in another woeful fit of weeping.

  ‘I need you.’

  He just shook his head at her, and began inching away until he was on his feet and covering her body with the blankets again.

  ‘No Jassie. I’m not what you need. I’m not what any woman needs and it is because I love you that I must stay away from you.’

  Rogan tapped lightly at his mother’s door and entered at her call. Closing the door at his back, he stood and allowed his gaze to lock with that of the frail woman framed by the jonquil silk pillow shams. Her hair, once as dark as his was almost white but her eyes still glowed as brightly blue as his own.

  ‘Rogan?’

  ‘Morning Mama,’ he murmured. ‘I hope I didn’t wake you?’

  ‘No, son. Carter has just gone to get my hot chocolate. Do you want a cup also?’

  ‘No thank you, Mama. I’ll have breakfast shortly and be on my way.’

  As she started to struggle to sit more upright, he strode across to help, plumping the pillows behind her. She smiled her thanks and patted the edge of the bed. He sat, hoping the tension that thrummed through his body was not transferring itself to her.

  ‘You’re still going to London? But you promised! And what about opening day and the ball? What about Jassie?’

  Feeling sweat beading his forehead, he swiped a hand across it and closed his eyes for a moment. Then knowing he couldn’t fool his mother even if he wanted to try, he said, ‘It’s because of Jassie, I’m going.’

  She reached out and urgently gripped his arm.

  ‘Windermere?’

  He squeezed his eyes closed against her piercing anxiety and dropped his head back, seeking relief from the constriction that bound his chest as he thought of Jassie.

  ‘It’s no good, Mama. I’ll only hurt her more if I stay. Go ahead and organize the opening day shoot and the ball. I know you don’t need me here for the organizing part. I’ll arrive back on the evening of the 11th with some friends. I’ll invite anyone I can think of and let you know the numbers. Will that be all right?’

  She nodded and continued to anxiously scan his countenance.

  ‘Is Jassie all right?’

  ‘I guess. But I hurt her again last night—and still she tells me she loves me. I can’t do this to her, Mama. It’s not right. It’s like I revert, become someone else entirely and I’ve no control over it—no control over him.’

  Her hand slid down his arm and her fragile fingers entwined with his.

  ‘There must be something you can do. Somewhere you can go for help?’

  ‘Where, Mama? Just tell me where and I’ll go there.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered and the hopelessness in her voice was almost his undoing.

  ‘I have to go. I—need to get away. I’ll send word, and I’ll see you on the 11th.’

  He stood, bent to briefly salute her forehead and left the room before he lost control and cried more of the helpless bloody tears that had flowed from him last night. It wasn’t right. None of it. And thinking to end his worthless life wasn’t right either. Surely he had more strength of character than that.

  Bart found him at the breakfast table pushing kippers round his plate trying to pretend he might eat them.

  ‘So we’re off then?’

  ‘I was thinking it might be best if you stayed and helped Jassie and Mama organize the house party. I think they’ll have more need of you than I, at this point.’

  ‘You think?’ Bart asked, loading his plate with kippers and potato hollandaise and adding a side of hot bread slices. ‘What are you planning to do in London?’

  ‘Stay away from Jassie. It’s easier if I’m there and she’s here.’

  ‘Nothing’s changed then?’

  Rogan’s fist suddenly slammed the table, making the cutlery and condiments dance and earning him a shocked frown from his secretary.

  In grim silence, Bart rounded the table and sat down beside Rogan.

  ‘There must be somebody who can help you,’ Bart muttered. ‘What about that new physician everyone’s talking about in the city. Dr. Pen—Penwarden, I think? Hasn’t he had some success?’

  ‘With women in a state of depression, I believe. Hardly the same situation,’ Rogan snarled. ‘Who can help a thirty-six-year-old man who reverts to a single night in time fifteen years before? It’s—sick! It’s crazy! It’s unheard of!—Damn it. I need to get going. I’ll be back on the evening of the 11th—with a party of shooters, I have no doubt. Can I leave everything else in your hands?’

  ‘That’s what you pay me for,’ Bart muttered, round a forkful of kippers.

  With a sigh, Rogan left the room and headed for the study. He’d ride to London where surely there would be some distraction that’d take his mind off the pain looking out of Jassie’s eyes through her tears last night—and her broken words, ‘I love you.’

  When Jassie didn’t go down for breakfast, Fran came up and knocked on her door.

  ‘Can I come in, Jass?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Fran entered, a worried frown creasing her brow as she crossed the room and peered at Jassie, still snuggling into her pillows.

  ‘Are you all right? It’s not like you to miss breakfast unless you’re out riding.’

  ‘The weather isn’t really conducive to riding this morning,’ Jassie defended her unusual sloth.

  ‘You’ve ridden in worse weather than this before,’ Fran commented almost acidly as she settled on the end of the bed. ‘Where’s Windermere?’

  ‘I—haven’t seen him this morning.’

  ‘So you saw him last night?’

  Jassie couldn’t help it. Her stupid weak eyes started leaking the moment she thought of last night—and Windermere. Never again. She nodded.

  Fran didn’t speak. Just waited, head a little to one side, like a blackbird listening for a worm. Even that quirky analogy couldn’t lift her spirits.

  ‘He said if he hurt me then he’d never make love to me again.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Never again.’

  ‘Sweet Jesus, Jassie! He’s right! He can’t go about abusing you like that. He knows it. Why don’t you see it?’ />
  Jassie swallowed, dragged herself upright with the sheet round her shoulders and raised watery eyes to Fran.

  ‘Because I love him. I’ve loved him and longed for his love since as long as I can remember. It was to be so perfect. But nothing could be less perfect than this.—I won’t give up, Fran!’

  ‘Are you—all right, Jass? He hasn’t hurt you really badly?’

  ‘No, Fran dear. Don’t fuss. I’ll survive. I just had to keep reminding myself it wasn’t me he was punishing—and in a way that helps. But what I can’t bear is for us to have a—a sexless marriage!’

  Jassie looked at her friend and gave thanks for her sanguinity, her experience and her willingness to discuss pretty much anything.

  ‘Warning! Forbidden discussion approaching.’

  Fran’s face broke into the silly grin those words always evoked and Jassie struggled to mirror it. She would smile and force herself to simulate happiness.

  ‘Did—did Abingdon ever give you—a ‘climax’?’

  Fran’s cheeks brightened and she looked as if it was only determination that was keeping her chin up.

  ‘Oh!’ Jassie whispered. ‘Don’t answer that if you’d rather not. It’s—’

  ‘No! It’s all right,’ Fran said firmly. ‘It’s just—you might have to explain what a ‘climax’ is. Which probably means Abingdon didn’t give me one!’

  Her cheeks were now a fiery red, and Jassie suspected it was as much from fury in thinking about her erstwhile husband, as from embarrassment.

  ‘Abingdon was usually in his cups when he—when he came to me. He would just—put it in—and buck and thrust a bit—and that was it. I hated it. But if I tried to deny him he would become violent. It was easier to—just—submit. From what I’ve been able to glean from Addy it can be much better than that but—I really wouldn’t know.’