The Devil is French: A Whipping Society Novel

by Delilah Marvelle

  Walking over to the sideboard, he tossed up a tin and removing its lid, brought it over to her. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he held out the open jar of the thick scarlet substance.

  Bloodroot. London.

  She swallowed. “To have carried that from London insinuates you expected to be burned.”

  He rattled the tin. “No jargon. I knew you would end up burning me in one form or another. I therefore brought this as a peace offering and am asking you tend to my lip in the way I once tended to your wrists. Or did you forget all that I have done for you?”

  May a thousand peacocks peck him in the penis for attempting to lay on the guilt.

  Grudgingly sitting up and leaning toward him, their gazes locked. She dipped some of the cool substance onto her finger and slowly and gently streaked the salve on his upper lip.

  Leaning away, he thudded the lid back onto the tin and tossed it onto the bed. His amber eyes clung to hers. “If you don’t want what is about to happen next, leave. Go. Now.”

  She held his gaze, her skin on fire. “I thought you wanted me alive.”

  He leaned in. “You changed this game the moment you didn’t show up at Larkin’s Lane. So how about we become what you reduced us to and fuck?”

  It was obvious he was miffed.

  That made two of them.

  She glared, pushing past him and off the bed. “You will not end what we share by reducing it to what you men always do: your ego.”

  Ridley stepped in front of her, bumping her to a halt. “My ego never got stabbed. Try again. It lays beneath the fucking sternum, has four chambers and two ventricles. Name it.”

  Jemdanee angled in. “Ego. E-G-O.”

  He tugged her loosened braid down hard, forcing her face and chin to jerk up to his. “You appear to have a lot more of it than I do.” He hovered over her mouth with his own. “This is where you admit that your greatest fear is losing the only man you will ever love. But guess what? He wants you to live no matter what happens. And you will. I’ve lived my life. You haven’t.”

  She swallowed.

  He still hovered over her mouth. “Don’t think you fucking understand the game you’re playing. You don’t.”

  Her heart fluttered.

  Tilting toward her ear, he breathed hotly, “Are we doing this?”

  She grabbed his arm hard to keep herself from falling, a quaking breath escaping her as she drifted her hands down the smoothness of his taut velvet skin, to his waist. “You cannot make love to me and then leave,” she choked out.

  “Why not?” His voice broke with huskiness. “It will give us both something to live for.”

  Unable to breathe, her hands frantically jumped to his shaven face in an effort to capture what was so close yet so far away. No longer thinking but feeling, she jerked his head down toward her lips, wanting to show him that he was all that mattered.

  He resisted, holding her gaze.

  She dug her fingers into him. “I will follow you.”

  “I’m fourteen steps ahead of you and those bare feet. Try to remember that.”

  “No. Nothing will keep me from—”

  “I will.” He seized her lips and forcefully worked his tongue against hers, the acrid taste of the bloodroot tinting their tongues. “I’m erasing that you broke my heart,” he said against her mouth.

  She staggered as she gripped his thick hair hard in an effort to keep him bent down toward herself, their mouths working against each other faster and harder, tongues biting, needing.

  Her chest heaved in an effort to keep up with the storm that was him.

  Ridley rigidly swept her up into the muscled bulk of his arms and turned them back to the bed. He draped them both onto the mattress. He ground his erection into her while tonguing her deep and deeper.

  She melted, wanting this moment to last beyond a lifetime.

  Ridley broke their kiss and hovered above her, his flexing heat penetrating every inch of her skin through the silk of her sari. His hair fell into his eyes, making him look like the wilderness he was daring them both to enter.

  He rolled off to the side and stretched out, tucking his large hands behind his head. “How often do you masturbate?”

  She sat up, her breaths uneven. “You cannot be serious. You interrupted our lovemaking to ask about lovemaking?”

  “I’m trying to get to know you.”

  She eyed him. “Not to disappoint you, but masturbation is a very small part of who I am.”

  “Yet a very big part of what defines your pleasure. Answer. How often?”

  She flopped back onto the pillow beside him. “Once a week.”

  He paused. “Is that all?”

  Ouch. “Not all of us are interested in entertaining ourselves on the hour.”

  “You appear to be repressed.”

  She gasped. “How am I…” She shoved him. “If I am so repressed, why are you the one on this bed wanting to talk about it instead of actually doing it?”

  He shifted his jaw. “There is more to sex than actually doing it. Fucking creates bonds and I want this bond created properly.”

  She blinked, trying to understand him. “You overthink everything.”

  “It’s better than not thinking at all.” He shifted toward her. “Where do you usually masturbate?”

  It was going to be a long night. “Where else? In my bed.”

  “Never anywhere else?”

  “Nahin.”

  He eyed her as if disappointed. “What do you usually think about when you do it?”

  This was… “You,” she admitted out of the corner of her mouth.

  “How nice. Am I doing anything to you?”

  Her face was hot. “Why are we…?”

  “It’s my hope you’ll disclose enough for me to give you what you want.”

  Oh.

  “Am I doing anything to you?” he repeated.

  “Haan. Penetrating me.”

  He heaved out a breath. “That will be happening regardless. How? Am I above, below, behind…”

  He certainly made everything entertaining. “Above.”

  “Why above?”

  She gave him a withering look. “I never really thought about why. You simply are.”

  “Am I always above?”

  She snorted. “Yes. Always.”

  He nudged her. “You need to start putting more effort into your fantasies.”

  She couldn’t believe she was getting lectured over how poorly she masturbated! “What about you, o Hades? When do the flames take you and how hot do they burn?”

  “Sometimes as much as four times a day. Never planned. Never the same fantasy. Ever. In my mind, you and I have more or less fucked creatively enough times for me to know exactly what I want out of you once your body is less virginal.”

  She choked. “Four times a day? How do you make time for that?”

  His voice grew husky. “It’s never about time. It about leveling one’s body and one’s mood and one’s mind to be what it needs to be: calm.” He unbuttoned his trousers, drawing attention to a visible and sizable erection buried beneath the fabric. He shifted his hips and rubbed it, but left the flap fastened. “Have you ever touched a prick before?”

  Jemdanee veered her gaze to his from where she lay on the pillow, her face hot. He was certainly making her first time memorable. “No.”

  He grazed her arm. “Unwrap your sari for a moment.”

  If he thought he could make her writhe due to his level of experience, she could double it.

  Unwrapping her sari, she shoved it down to her waist, exposing her breasts. She felt stupid.

  He veered his gaze to the expanse of her breasts. He shifted toward her, his hand drifting and curving around each one, his thumb hardening each nipple. “I want you to be comfortable around me. No matter what I’m doing to you or how I’m looking at you.”

  She swallowed, her breaths uneven. “That may be a bit difficult. In truth, I am beginning to believe I am in anatomy class not
in bed with a lover.”

  He smirked and took back his hand, propping himself on his elbow so he could keep looking at her breasts. “I admire your honesty and your breasts are gorgeous.”

  Her nipples tingled without even being touched. The cooling breeze of the night from beyond the green net tightened her skin. “These are coming with you to London.”

  “Your rear is about to hurt. Turn around. I’ll fuck it.”

  She quickly yanked her sari back over herself, self-conscious. As always, he was a bit too casual about everything. She shifted toward him. “Might I ask how many women you have entertained in this manner throughout your life?”

  He squinted. “Nineteen.”

  She gasped. “Are you including the furniture you took them on?” She sat up and shoved him to inform him it was excessive. “No wonder you appear to be so casual about…sexual congress.”

  He tugged her down and against the mattress. “No need to get huffy. Only one of them ever meant anything to me and that was my first wife. Everything else was me being stupid.”

  “At least you admit to being stupid.” She squinted up at him. “Are you even clean?”

  He pinched her. “Ey. Insult the cock if you must, but not my level of intelligence. I invested in the best condoms Paris and London had to offer.”

  “Because, naturally, why stop at Paris?”

  “Someone is jealous,” he burred. “That hints at emotional attachment which would have been nice to have seen at eleven this morning.” He turned toward her, searching her face. “Are you in love with me?”

  To admit it would give him too much power. “Why do you want to know?”

  He settled back onto the pillow beside her. “I already know. It would simply be nice to hear it.” He buttoned his trousers and adjusted them against his erection. “Why not say it?”

  “That would be like telling a dog where the bone is at. I prefer not to disclose its location.”

  He quickly rolled onto her and pinned her to the mattress with his size and weight. “This dog already knows where to dig.” He slid down her length and lowered his mouth to her thighs, grazing his hot tongue and his open mouth to them.

  A shaky breath escaped her.

  Rising, he held her gaze and tugged and pulled back her sari, exposing her breasts. Lifting her hips, he unraveled the rest, whipped it off to the side, leaving her completely naked.

  She gripped the linen, wanting more than this night.

  He leaned down and laved his hot tongue across each dark nipple, until they hardened and pointed. “We could have been doing this legally.” He outlined the curves of her breasts with his fingers and then spread her thighs. He slid his whole palm on the lips of her cunt, using his entire wrist to methodically rub her clitoris and his middle finger to curve up into her vagina.

  Her eyes almost rolled to the back of her head in an effort to remain sane. “Since when do you…care about…legalities? Justice, yes. The law? Only when…it suits you.”

  Ridley skimmed his hands down her legs, folding them upward so he could curve his palms around her toes and then skimmed his hands back up to her thighs, before curving up her belly, breasts and her throat. “Touching you suits me. This and you and your skin reminds me of everything I am sworn to protect.” He leaned down and sucked her throat hard.

  Gasping, she slid her hands down between them, trying to undo his trousers, but unable to.

  His feral gaze held hers. “Allow me.” He tugged the linen flap of his trousers hard, ripping the buttons and presented his heavy thick length. He knelt, towering above her and brought her hands to it. “Get to know my body,” he murmured.

  He waited, kneeling with towering, tense muscles.

  In disbelieving breaths, she slowly dragged her quaking hands up his toned, muscled thighs to his jutting, thick length that rested below a beautifully defined abdomen. She slid her fingers over the long velvet hardness of his cock, her hands appearing small in an attempt to round it from root to tip. Swallowing, she slid one hand beneath his sac and the other she slid back and forth over the tip of his cock, her face on fire and her body aching.

  He slowly wet his lips but otherwise only watched her from above.

  He spread her legs wider with his knees and lowering his gaze to her opening, watched his own thumb slide from her clitoris down her slit. “Remember us like this.”

  A shuddering jolt of pleasure made her frig his cock.

  His nostrils flared. He lowered himself onto her. “We’ll erase one of your longstanding fantasies. I’ll stay on top. Afterward…you’ll be forced to get more creative. Agreed?”

  “Y-hes.” She dragged him down and gripped his waist, waiting.

  His heated breaths fanned her cheek as he slowly gripped her hair with both hands, cradling her. He set his forehead to hers. “It will hurt,” he rasped.

  She swallowed. “I know.”

  His mouth grazed her earlobe. “Breathe.” His hands skimmed her body as his tone grew strained. “Take control of your pain. Guide it in.”

  She yielded to her own riled need. Gripping his thick length, she guided it between her moist thighs, nudging the head of him into the opening of her womb. The pressure of that sizable tip hinted of the amount of stretching needed.

  He shifted his jaw. “Look at me.”

  She held his gaze and gripped his waist harder, bracing herself for loving him.

  Edging it into her, he mounted and pushed down and in.

  The searing pain made her stiffen, but she refused to show it. Out of pride. Out of need.

  She gripped his back harder, determined to prove that in his name she would take on everything.

  Watching her face, he fisted her hair and slowly rode his cock into her, stretching her orifice with a steady, patient pressure. “Breathe.”

  “I am…trying.”

  He captured her mouth, working his hot tongue deep against hers. Slowly, his cock pumped into her, increasing in its steady need, but still gentle and not overly deep.

  She clung to him, writhing close to bone-clenching tears knowing he was being gentle, while letting him take what the world refused to give him: pleasure. For this was love. Being able to take and hold pain for another. Especially when needed most.

  He buried his head into her hair, edging in and out of her with deep strokes. “Jemdanee,” he rasped, his hot breath brushing her cheek. “Everything I do is for you. Always. Remember that.” He gently stroked in and out of her, the weight and massive width of his muscled body burying her in his heat, his dampening skin and heavy breaths mingling with hers.

  Her entire body burned as she forced her mind to drift but his warm mouth against hers and his tongue between her lips, grazing her own tongue, dragged her back to him and that he needed her.

  Her heartbeat throbbed in her ears as she sank into the sliver of pleasure she took from the tip of his hot tongue tracing her upper lip, then her lower lip. His entire mouth was soon molded against hers, his tongue delving deeper, toward the back of her mouth, twining and flicking.

  Pressing his lips harder into hers, his mouth widened, forcing her tongue further into the wetness of his mouth. She feverishly pushed her mouth, her lips, her tongue against him, determined to fight through fire to get to him.

  His hot hands gripped each of her wrists, dragging both of her arms above her head. He shifted against her, still buried deep within her womb. “Now we can fuck.” His hands gripped her as he dug his prick more fiercely and harder into hers. Deep push. Then circle.

  The searing heat of his body became her own.

  Her body writhed, arched and trembled.

  His mouth pressed against hers, his tongue roaming. His broad muscled chest expanded in a deep tremble. The fabric of his trousers slid down his thighs, exposing more of him to her as his large hands trailed up her spread thighs. “You’re so beautiful.” He stroked into her, each stroke emphasizing each word. “So…fucking…beautiful.”

  Exploding sensations posse
ssed every nerve ending of her body.

  He slowed his pace and rolled. Upward. Against her nub.

  Roll. Upward. Into her nub.

  She panted, the heightened sensations of pleasure making it worth the earlier grit of pain.

  His thick length dug deeper making her gasp. Roll. Upward. Into her nub. Again. Again. Again.

  Pressure welled.

  She moaned, drawing in disbelieving shaky breaths as his sun-bronzed, broad shoulders shifted against her body, his tongue tracing in and out of her mouth. His fingers trailed downward and pushed into her thighs as he spread her legs farther apart and pumped into her rhythmically.

  Rapture rose in the pit of her stomach with each pulsing push—push—push.

  Her breaths hitched as her fingers slid up his throat and grabbed hold of his thick hair. She held him against herself more savagely, wanting and needing to remember the beauty of knowing he was hers.

  She climaxed and cried out. Tensing, she spiraled in and out of bliss to a skin-moistened calm.

  Ridley smoothed her hair, trailing his hands down to her throat. “I’m taking you two more times tonight.”

  She swallowed against his trailing fingers in exasperation. “You are not even done.”

  “I warned you about opening the door,” he rasped, hovering over her mouth. “In this moment, you’re only seeing a sliver of me. As I told you before, my way is the rope.”

  Her lips parted.

  He dragged her hand to the rope binding his arm. “Hold it.”

  She swallowed and gripped it.

  No longer meeting her gaze, he stroked into her. “Tighter.”

  She tightened her grip.

  “Nails. Harder. Make me feel it. Make me believe we can erase every divide between us.”

  To prove that she could and would take on anything in his name, she dug her nails into the rope and him and his skin, feeling a piece of leather bending out from beneath it.

  Withdrawing, he knelt and grabbed her wrist, bringing the peacock bone to the swollen and stiff thickness of his veined cock. Holding her gaze, he gritted his straight white teeth, his muscled broad chest quaking as he pumped his hand over his cock, jerking his hips into forced pleasure.

  He shuddered, groaning, spilling the warmth of his seed onto the gold-dipped bone on her wrist. He seethed through his nostrils and masculine mouth, letting more and more spurt down over his knuckles until the last of his seed dripped, which he rolled with his thumb to push from the tip of his cock. He spread the entire pooled semen into the expanse of the bone from one end to the other, holding her gaze. “Is this what you wanted? To have complete control over me and my soul?”