She almost fidgeted. “This is only a demonstration, haan?”
His features softened. “Haan.” He smoothed her cheek and then dangled the rope between them. “The moment you seek to regain control, say Evan Oswald.” He held her gaze. “Now lean back and grip the bench.”
She swallowed, half-nodding. Gripping the edge of the bench behind her, which forced her to lean far enough to better see him, she slowly rolled her head back.
Locking his gaze to hers from where he still towered above, he knotted the hemp once, methodically ensuring it was pulled tight. He held the hemp rope on each end and pulled it tight, causing the large knot to compact. He snapped it until the knot held itself at no return. “Do you trust me?”
“Oh, haan. I trust every white man with a rope who holds my legs together.”
Amber eyes pinned her. “Humor hurts when it’s offered in the wrong moment. Do you trust me, mon chou?”
She softened her voice. “Yes. Of course.”
Holding her gaze, he dragged the section of rope across his tongue, wetting the hemp.
She felt her core tighten against her will with every rise and fall of soft breaths, watching.
He edged in closer, the solid muscle buried beneath his waistcoat shifting. Rolling the hemp slowly across his unfurled tongue, he lowered the knot down to her own lips, dragging its duality of rough smoothness against her own parted mouth. “Moisten it.”
Jemdanee felt her jaw slacken and her breaths go faint as the delicate grazing of rope that had been christened by his tongue now christened her own.
The rope tasted of salt and had the scent of charred wood.
He continued to drag it gently back and forth against her tongue. “This is the flavor of the kingdom I bring. I am the tale and you are the fairy. Your sweat is the salt and I char your skin with my rope whilst I knot your body and your mind into submission.”
Her thighs quivered.
The rope paused between her lips. “Bite the knot until your jaw aches,” he rumbled out.
Unable to think under the power of his voice and his presence, she sank her teeth against the knot until it squeaked between her teeth.
His mouth softened. “Hold it and look up at me, mon dévot. Breathe knowing I would never hurt you without your consent.”
Meeting his heated gaze, her jaw ached as she slowly breathed through teeth and nostrils, feeling an eerie sense of power for she could see she was giving him what he wanted.
“Even in this moment, though you feel powerless, we are equals,” he whispered down at her. “You can take away my power whenever it pleases you. That is your power. Release your teeth.”
Her jaw slackened.
He dragged the rope from her mouth to her chin and down her throat to the mounds of her breasts, grazing her exposed skin until a staggering shiver escaped her, turning her flesh to a prickling heat.
The quake of her arms made it almost impossible for her to hold herself up.
In that moment, between the uneven breaths and the roaring of her pulse which she felt within the rope itself, she would have begged him to wedge that hemp between her already moist-flooding thighs and slide the knot against her nub until she tremored to blindness.
“This I do not fear at all,” she managed up at him.
His voice warmed. “Fear only exists when you have no understanding or control. You will always have both.” His mouth lifted in a predatory acknowledgement. “The moment you become mine in this way, modesty is dead to us and unconstrained voluptuousness begins. That is when you learn to trust me to do things to your body you wouldn’t even do to yourself.”
She couldn’t breathe.
“Pleasure is a gift. One I wholeheartedly respect, which is why pain has to be respected even more. It reminds me to honor every nuance of pleasure lest it be reduced to insignificance. The world is too blind to ever see past its own need for pleasure and that is why they see harm in it. People only seek out self-gratification thinking it’s the path to fulfillment, and as a result, pain hurts them twice as much and they fall twice as hard. So imagine if you divide yourself between the two. You become so fucking powerful no one can touch you or your mind. It’s what I practice. It’s who I am.”
He snapped the rope beneath her nose, startling her.
Her over-ignited nerves made her half-breathe.
Widening his muscled stance as the defined bulk of his arms tensed against the coat and linen of his shifting muscles, his large hands stretched each end of the rope as far as it would go. “This is a demonstration. Nothing involved, nothing complicated. Simple. Say Evan Oswald and I will liberate you from whatever authority I impose.”
His voice turned to velvet. “Lift your sari to your navel.”
Why was she as intrigued as she was scared out of her mind. “Now?”
He tapped the rope gently against her lips in answer, seeking compliance.
Slowly releasing the bench as the hot wind blew between the swaying branches of the low hanging trees of the night, she swallowed and gave into the wet need he’d created, dragging up her sari. The fabric was too pleated to move up, resisting. She tugged and tugged again, but with him standing against her sari, she couldn’t—
“Jemdanee?” he rumbled down at her. “Lean back, hips up and lift.”
She almost shoved him, her face burning at how inexperienced she was coming across for not being able to even lift her own sari when it counted most. “This is not—”
“Shhhh.” Hooking the rope into his teeth, he quickly yanked up the sari past her thighs and setting his nose to her nose, guided each of her hands to her thighs. “I won’t look,” he said through the rope tucked between his teeth. “I honor thee.”
This. Him.
How she revered and adored him for always being more than what she expected.
His large warm fingers grazing her fingers, he slid her forefinger against the heat of her nub as he forced her other fingers to spread the lips of her quim open. Her body jolted then relaxed.
With the rope between his teeth, and still bent nose to nose with her, he slowly jostled her finger against the nub, making her gasp.
Releasing her hands, he removed the rope from his mouth and held each stretched end at her eye level. “Let me hear your breaths and see your lips tremble along with the rest of you.”
Her fingers brushed her wetness and the hardness of her nub. She shuddered knowing he was watching. Blinded by the rippling of pleasure penetrating her core in waves, she stared up at that rugged face as she increased the friction, determined to release.
It was glorious. He was glorious. She’d always known that.
Faster. Her breaths hitched. Almost. Almost.
“Three years I have imagined you kneeling to me like this,” he whispered.
Ridley wedged the rope beneath her chin, making the knot curve slowly into her skin as his amber eyes penetrated her gaze from above. He dragged it delicately back and forth, grazing the knot until her over-sensitized skin knew the gasping breaths of anguish and beauty of pleasure.
“Claim your need,” he whispered down at her, rolling his hips toward her face.
She gasped as wetness flooded her fingers and her body quaked in an attempt to control it through breaths. She sped toward it, the knot pressing her chin as she lowered her gaze to his flap to see the outline of his thick cock. Her fingers slowed and altogether stopped realizing...his cock was dormant.
With the grit of teeth, he snapped up the rope and dug the knot hard and up to a searing pinch.
She flinched as her skin and jaw burned against the entire curve of the rope, all pleasure snapping toward pain as she stilled.
The muscles in his linen shirt visibly tensed as his breathing became slow and intense. “Do you feel that?” His deep voice simmered. “This is a reminder that you do not control your pleasure. I do,” he intoned. “You lost focus on what you were tasked to do and as such, you will remove your hands. This demonstration is over.”
She swa
llowed. “But…”
“Distractions during sessions are not tolerated by me. Ever. I take this very seriously given the amount of power you are entrusting me with and I try to keep emotions separate from this or you’ll get hurt. Hands out.”
She swallowed again, her chin still hinged against the knot of the rope knowing if she moved forward it would choke her throat and if she moved back she would fall off the bench. “I will focus.”
“Hands out,” he warned.
She was too riled to let him do this to her! “Are we not going to…?”
He jerked the knot harder and tighter into her skin, her teeth clacking.
Her hands jumped away from her thighs as her skirts slid back down with a rustle against the weight of the gown. The knot dug harder into her chin and throat, searing her senses with pain and making her choke out, “Evan Oswald.”
Lessening the pressure completely, he leaned down toward her and slid his entire tongue across her lower lip, tingling her mouth into forgetting the burn and pinch. His heated breaths fanned over her wet lips. “Next time, stay focused.”
Blood pounded into her brain, leapt from her heart and made her very knees tremble.
He unhooked the hemp from her chin and edged back, searching her face. “Your pain tolerance is nonexistent. I was gentle.” He quickly wrapped the rope around his hand. “Are you all right?”
Torn between being fascinated and disturbed, she nodded.
“Good.” Holding her gaze, he leaned down and nudged up her chin. Inspecting it, he then kissed the skin, pressing the warmth of his lips against the fading sting. “Seeing you submit to the rope is beyond salacious.”
He grazed his lips against her cheek then her forehead, curving his hand down her breast, flicking her nipple that was hidden beneath the fabric. “What did you think?”
Silence lengthened between them as a jackal cackled in the night beyond.
Jemdanee swallowed hard, the burn beneath her chin hinting she had lost her mind thinking she could handle this man. “While it had its moment, I find your interest in its nuances baffling. I do not understand it.”
“Spoken with Jemdanee flare.” He stepped back and tucked the rope back into his pocket. “If you were to ask a dog why it has a tail, do you think it would be able to answer? And do you think because of its inability to answer, that tail holds no meaning or value to that dog and therefore the tail ought to be removed?”
She eyed him. “As always, your mind overthinks everything.”
“I know. It is what it is.” Turning, he seated himself beside her. “Come.” Guiding her head to his shoulder, he wrapped his muscled arms around her tight.
His tenderness toward her was unbearable and went against what his rope represented.
In that moment, his duality of hero and demon was all too real.
She could feel his steadying breaths against her forehead as he held her closer. She adoringly circled her arms around his waist and relaxed, sinking into his muscled embrace. “When will you make love to me?”
Tilting her chin upward, he caressed his masculine lips against hers. “Tomorrow night.”
It sweetly drained what little was left of her. “Evan Oswald, I fear over time, we will erase each other with a need to prove ourselves to each other.”
“There are worse things,” he murmured against her mouth, his tongue sliding around her lips.
She faintly nodded knowing he was right.
Smoothing her hair, he said, “Not to spoil the mood, but I have to get up in the morning. Are you ready to ride back?”
She heaved out a breath.
It would seem the British government was impeding on their relationship.
Chapter 8
The following afternoon
Eastern Barracks
5:47 p.m.
Yet another report.
Ridley scanned the documents, almost numb.
Hundreds of sepoys of the Native Infantry grabbed their swords and rifles and rode through bazaars, burning and slashing at every white face, including countless women and children. British officers in Meerut, a town forty miles north of Delhi, were too stunned to contain the outbreak given the sepoys had been part of the Third Cavalry for eight years, annually paid for by the British government. Gutted bungalows, slaughtered livestock and the estimated corpses have yet to be determined, but all were shot, mutilated, stabbed, and burned beyond skeletal recognition making it impossible for magistrates to issue any death certificates. Orders by Meerut’s British Commander-in-Chief were sent to bury all bodies and any other evidence relating to the incident lest panic over widespread revolts overtake all units.
It was only the beginning.
This was the India Britain had created.
Too many more were going to die.
Too many more were going to be erased.
And for what? Spices, jewels and textiles? Fuck.
A knock on the main door of the map room made him pause.
“Mr. Ridley?” a youthful male British voice inquired through the closed door.
Grabbing his cane, Ridley walked over to the door and unlatched it, pulling it open. He towered over the youth standing on the other side. “Yes?”
A lanky cadet with a freckled face snapped to attention with the thud of leather boots, setting a rigid hand to his cap in formal greeting. He veered his gaze upward. “Cadet Dunning, sir. I was tasked to deliver this parcel into your hands.” Retrieving a wax sealed parcel from his oversized, undecorated uniform pocket, he held it out. “It arrived through courier twenty minutes ago and was marked as being of unmitigated importance out of London. To be read at once.”
Big brown eyes, freckles and barely shaving with a fading bruise curving below his throat.
In his opinion, the boy was too young to be involved with the military.
Ridley tugged the parcel out of the youth’s hand and set the parcel onto the side table beside the door. “Cadet Dunning.” He squinted. “You look familiar. Have I seen you before?”
The cadet fidgeted. “Uh…yes, sir. That night you— Captain Thorbur. I…I was there.”
“Ah.” He eyed him. “I was a bit rough with him, wasn’t I?”
The cadet cringed. “A bit? He had an inch of thread pulled through the skin of his forehead by the time you were done. Everyone knows you…” He fidgeted. “I’m not saying he didn’t deserve it, sir. I….I would never judge you or…” His features flickered as if readying for a blow.
Ridley heaved out a breath. His reputation proceeded him. “Given my line of work and everything I have seen, overcompensation is necessary. Do you understand?”
Dunning over-nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Stepping back, Ridley skimmed the youth’s appearance, noting there were fresh dirt marks on the arms and knees of that beige uniform. The belt was crooked and the mark on one of the knees hinted at a tear. All done today. “Are you all right? What happened?”
Dunning averted his gaze. “A scuffle, sir. Nothing I’m not used to.”
These military compounds and their idea of manning up a boy annoyed him. “How often does it occur?”
“Every day.”
Ridley lowered his chin. “Every day? And you’ve been on the compound for how long?”
“Three months, sir.”
Not good. Ridley tucked the sealed parchment into his waistcoat, pointing at the youth’s bruised face with his cane. “Once in a while is understandable and will happen given pricks abound, but every day hints you’ve become a favorite pastime. Why is that?”
Dunning averted his gaze.
There it was.
The boy was overly submissive in nature. “You and I are going to ensure these officers and cadets respect you. What are your hours off?”
Brown eyes veered up in dread. “I would rather you not complicate my life, Mr. Ridley.”
Jesus Christ. Why did everyone always think he was complicated everything? Merely because he had a mind to help? “You appear to be c
omplicating your own life, Dunning. Set aside what you think you know about me. If you never address this problem, it will always be a problem.”
Stepping toward the young man, Ridley leaned down against the stiffness of his own leg and dusted off that uniform with hard, solid brushes, ensuring the boy felt every thud against his flesh as he removed the dirt and dust from it. “Take pride in your appearance. Even after a scuffle. You should have cleaned up. Why didn’t you?”
“I…”
Adjusting the boy’s belt on those hips with a firm tug, Ridley used the head of the cane to prop that chin up and up. “Why do you think these men treat you with such disrespect?”
Dunning miserably held his gaze. “Because I let them.”
“Applaudissements. Here is some advice from a man who has seen it all. Men overuse one organ: their cock. But one organ too many never master: the mind.” Ridley drifted Chaucer’s beak to the boy’s forehead and tapped it. “It’s as powerful as it is dangerous. It’s a weapon that can make a man either run into the fire to save others or dart the other way. Your superiors will insist upon the mastery of weaponry and that its mastery will enable you to survive. That isn’t true. Weaponry will ensure you don’t die, yes, but it won’t keep you from holding onto your weapon once you realize you’re going to die. Without this—” He gently tapped Dunning’s head. “You’re useless to yourself and the world. So don’t let these pricks rule over you. Rule over them by letting them know they can’t touch your mind. The moment they see you have no fear, it becomes their fear. For they are unable to hold anything over you.”
The cadet blinked rapidly.
Lowering the cane, Ridley stepped back. “What are your hours every afternoon?”
“Gate duty ends for me at two. I don’t return again until five.”
“Do you play tennis?”
Dunning eyed him. “I…on occasion. Yes, sir. Though I’m not very good at it.” He fidgeted.
“Meet me at the tennis courts tomorrow afternoon at three. Bring a racket and a basket of good leather balls filled with wool.” Ridley pointed. “Your first assignment is to stop fidgeting.”
The Devil is French: A Whipping Society Novel Page 16
