The Devil is French: A Whipping Society Novel
Page 25
Their gazes locked between heavy breaths.
With the grit of teeth and savage jerk of his hips, he penetrated her so fast and so deep, the pulsing thick length of his cock hit her core hard, blurring her reality with agony.
Fully buried to the hilt in her womb, he wrapped her legs around his waist and dug in rougher.
She bit past pain, gasping to take in air against the weight of his body and the ache of her thighs.
Tucking the remaining half of the mango from his own mouth into hers with the push of his tongue, he stilled. “Now you know how I feel when I’m with you,” he whispered. “In pain. Always.”
The stretching of his deeply buried cock pinched her too deep.
He tongued her. “You’re not fucking me.” He kissed her deeply. “Move more.”
She couldn’t breathe. Everything about him blurred her reality and her heart.
He dragged his lips across hers. “I’m waiting.”
She tried to roll her hips up against him, quivering to find the pleasure he was denying her.
“Harder. So our bodies remember it.”
“It hurts.”
“I know. Take it. For me.”
A tear rolled down her cheek and mixed with the juice of the mango streaming from her lips as the root of his cock repositioned in her cunt and hit and rubbed, hit and rubbed her nub. She moaned and gave into the ecstasy of extreme pleasure that was now piercing past the extreme discomfort.
He dragged his tongue across her mouth in an attempt to soothe her, thrusting faster until he thudded into her tightness without restraint.
She panted to keep up with the demand of pleasure that smeared her mind. She swallowed hard and was rewarded with the tingling sweetness of fruit that was almost gone.
“I love you,” he rasped against her throat, between heavy breaths, still fucking her.
“I love you.” She gasped and pushed up and into him, nearing her peak. There. There!
His heated breaths fanned her mouth faster and faster as he thudded into her with his prick.
She flinched, clinging to him as her core unraveled in gloried agony. She trembled, her body erasing everything she had ever known until finally…she spiraled into the climax she didn’t think she would touch against the pain.
Ridley dragged himself out to the tip, then rammed it back in and in an anguished groan against her throat, let seed wash into her in warm jets she could feel. “Take it.” He pumped and pumped and rammed and rammed through it, groaning. “Take it.” He eventually stilled.
Forehead to forehead, they breathed their way back to a chest heaving calm as sweat trickled against their pressed bodies.
The world swayed and fell into the silence of night as the sway of the banyan tree branches rustled overhead.
Dragging his lips across her cheek, he rasped into her ear, “Never forget me, ma femme dorée.”
Tears overwhelmed her as she dug her fingers into him and kissed and kissed his face and his throat and his lips and his chest, refusing to let him go. “Do not speak as if you are already dead to me.”
“Be prepared for the worst and be surprised by the best.” He pulled out, buttoning his flap and covered her nudity with her sari, dragging her pallu from her shoulder and draping it downward and over the ripped slit he had made. Kissing her lips hard, he whispered, “The satchel has all the money you need.”
She swallowed.
He skimmed her braid from its beginning to end, his features growing anguished and tapped at his ring. “Wait for it to find you.” His husky voice cracked. “I love you.”
She tried to grab for his face but he already jumped to his booted feet, tossing up one of his books.
“Let me walk away or I never will.” He turned and quickly strode off into the silence of the vast garden, gripping the book as if he had no need for anything else to keep him company.
Jemdanee laid her cheek against the ground and eased out shaky breaths, listening to the call of nightjars. The same nightjars that had sang the night she had first arrived to the Government House.
She wasn’t staying.
Scrambling up, she winced against the soreness of her own body. “Ow.”
How did women walk straight in the world?
None of it had even been with his rope. Uff.
Knowing she didn’t have much time, she frantically grabbed up the satchel and shoved his books into it. Leaving the bowl, she folded and tucked her pallu better around herself to cover the exposed section of her thighs and jogged after the far distant shadowy figure of Ridley that was almost at the gate.
She sprinted against the now cool wind, refusing to let the heaviness of the satchel or the soreness of her body slow her down. Stumbling past the gates, she swung out and upon seeing Ridley, scrambled back.
She set herself against the stone arch of the gate, her heart pounding and waited, her angst making it impossible for her to breathe. Listening to his heavy steps fading, she edged back out and watched as Ridley hoisted himself into a lantern-lit military coach.
He paused, glancing toward her.
She remained in the shadows and counted out each breath, tears streaming down her face.
He stood on the step of the military coach, still looking toward her.
She knew he knew.
She pressed her fingers to her trembling lips and held them up.
He pressed his fingers to his lips and held them up.
It was good-bye. For now.
But not forever.
Ridley ducked inside.
A sob escaped her.
Once he was in the vehicle and the thudding of hooves penetrated the dirt road with the swaying of lantern lights that went in the opposite direction of where she stood at the gate, she dashed across the nearly empty shadow-strewn street.
Running faster and faster, until plumes of dust surrounded her as if she were rising from hell to be with Ridley, she found the strength to finally shout in Hindi to her waiting coachman, “Challo! Follow the military coach!”
She jerked to a halt, between heaving breaths, realizing the Indian driver was not in the box.
She frantically ran past the shadows toward the lanterns of the coach.
A figure stepped out from behind the coach. “Miss Kumar.”
She froze.
The Field Marshal whirled a wooden baton, tapping it against shackles he held, and pointed at her head. “It appears you are attempting to leave the city. Are you?”
She hissed out a disbelieving breath. “No. I was only…”
“You are coming with me. Satchel down, please.”
She decided to play the part of a memsahib. “It will get dirty if I set it down.”
He glared. “You and Kalpita might as well be the same woman. Satchel down and hands up.”
Jemdanee gripped the satchel tighter, her knuckles whitening. “You cannot permit Ridley to face this alone. What if tonight is the last I ever see of him? Are you that unfeeling?”
The Field Marshal’s tone hardened. “I wouldn’t recommend using female tears. I’ve seen enough to be immune to everything.” He veered in, the iron shackles clanging as he stood over her with the grip of the baton he lifted. “Satchel down and hands up or a haversack will go over your head. You will be reduced to confinement until you can be trusted again.”
She knew the man well enough to know that the baton would hit her head if she resisted.
Numb, Jemdanee dropped the satchel with a thud and set both of her hands against her head.
This is what loving a man led to. This.
Being humiliated.
Being helpless.
Being shackled.
Being fucked.
She paused.
The towering, muscled figure of a man emerged from the shadows and with the grit of teeth, used the back of his rosewood musket to dash the Field Marshal’s skull.
Eyes rolling to the back of his head, the Field Marshall collapsed, limp.
She choke
d, scrambling back as the Field Marshal’s hands were each latched with shackles.
Finished with bolting the shackles, Lieutenant Bradley thudded a large leather boot onto the back of the Field Marshal and inclined his head, never once breaking her gaze. “Ridley placed you on a military list of passengers who aren’t allowed to board any ship in any port. That means London is out of the question unless you and I come to some sort of agreement. Name your price, cherub, and I’ll name mine. Be forewarned, it’s hefty.”
The unwelcome tension stretched between them.
There were worse things than bargaining with a fallen angel.
Ridley needed her and whatever price she had to pay to ensure he lived, was the face of the coin she would hold up.
Thank you!
Thank you for reading, THE DEVIL IS FRENCH! Please consider leaving a review on all digital platforms, including GoodReads. It enables other readers to discover this book.
Thank you for being a reader!
Much love,
Delilah Marvelle
The Whipping Society Saga
FEATURING MR. RIDLEY & JEMDANEE KUMAR
throughout all three books
* * *
Book 1, Mr. Ridley
* * *
Book 2, The Devil is French
* * *
Book 3, Reborn
Copyright © 2017 by Delilah Marvelle
All rights reserved.
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