by Shirl Anders
Wyndham well remembered returning home that evening. He’d not pretended, not eluded or sidestepped the fact that he had a new mission he would be going on soon. And the fact that Orelan would not be involved. He had known immediately by her reaction that something was amiss. She had demurred to him like a timid flower, when he’d proclaimed, “You will not be going with me. Do not even consider it!”
He’d known the moment his spirited and vivacious wife had accepted that without argument that he was in trouble. Yet, he had been quite clear. Glaringly so! There was no room for any false misunderstanding that she could fall back upon to defy his command. That was a favorite method of hers, and he predicated with a smile, more to find her turned over his knee for a sound spanking as punishment, than any other reason she had to defy him.
But he was the master of his domain! Correction, their domain, and he had one hell of a time convincing his wife of that. Which, not adversely, led them into urgent passion, still burning like a tempest bonfire after all this time married. Considering it, Wyndham realized it had been a while since he had spanked his wife’s sassy bottom, which turned his wife from purring into a wildcat spitfire.
Arriving at his study, Wyndham went straight to the daily posts. He was not a retired spy for nothing. Wyndham immediately noticed the top card left open, with the note only partially back inside the envelope. It was an invitation to an international dinner with accompanying musical soirées. Wyndham saw the implications at once. There would be ambassadors and other officials from varied countries attending. It just happened that his wife was the surviving daughter of a well renowned ambassador.
“Hell!” he cursed as he turned from within his study back to the foyer. He would wager his prize stallion that either the French ambassador or other French officials were expected to attend the gathering. Further, he would ante up the title to his baronage that his lovely and precocious wife, knew of this and was there at this moment trying to play wife-of-a-spy-proves-she-is-needed-to-help-on-a-new-mission. Thereby, directly defying his clear command and putting herself into danger, and more than likely mudding up the entire venture by not following proper plans and time lines . . . and what about stealth!
“Dios!” Orelan squealed as Wyndham bodily whirled, tugged, and pressured her quite forcibly into a ... Orelan glanced around through her hair, fallen and flying about her, in the midst of her struggles with her husband. A bedchamber! Wyndham had herded her into a small bedchamber in the Austrian Ambassador’s residence.
Wyndham was in high and feverish form, wholly commanding and thoroughly masculine. Her golden puma was pure male and therefore completely vexing to her, even as he was magnetizing. So, the desires to slap him or to urgently kiss him were both very ardent in her churning thoughts. The slapping came more quickly to the forefront. This time it was not her palm against his face, but the threat of his palm spanked against her derriere that she thought of, as Wyndham halted their moving struggle by the bed.
“Dios, Wyndham, you would leave all those influential nobles believing you are a barbaro to drag me from their company this way. And they will think I am...”
“The barbaro’s woman,” Wyndham supplied with a suppressed voice of anger as he lifted his good leg and planted his boot with his knee bent upon the bed. Then, Wyndham turned her swiftly with a hand pressed to her back, until she found her belly over the bridge of his knee.
“Oh, you cannot intend to spank me here!” she exclaimed. “How could you think to do this to begin with? I have done nothing wrong!”
“Have you not asked one foreign official downstairs about The Order of the Satyr?” Wyndham’s voice rumbled with accusation, as Orelan felt his hand hauling her voluminous skirts upward. She merely sputtered, thrashing across his thigh. It was the better part of rightful valor, not to admit to one’s angry husband that he could be right. “You did not bat your lovely eyelashes at any Ambassador’s, while flirting and inserting Hellion’s name with seeming innocence?”
Oh! Oh! This was too much. Did her Wyndham seriously believe her a complete idiot? “I will never speak to you again, Wyndham! This is too much! Let me go!”
Orelan felt cold air flash across her now bare and exposed buttocks, as Wyndham muttered to her accusations of never speaking to him again, “I should be so lucky.”
Oh, Wyndham was impossible, when all she tried to do was to help. To show the stubborn man that he needed her. He would feel so badly when he found out what she’d learned, he would kneel at her feet to beg her for forgiveness.
Smack!
Orelan yelped, catching the further sound in her throat as Wyndham’s bare hand slapped across her bottom. “I will scream so that everyone hears!” she exclaimed, wriggling her bare buttocks to and fro, trying to evade any more spanking from Wyndham’s hand.
Smack! Smack! “Go right ahead, Spitfire. I can spank you in front of an audience as not!”
Oh! Ouch! Ouch, Orelan thought, wincing at the sharp stinging Wyndham’s hand left. And, he called her Spitfire, which foretold his high passions of the moment.
Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! “Wyndham!” she yelped, feeling her body flush as the burn stripped her buttocks, and she had nowhere to escape it. The force of Wyndham’s hand rocked her mound over his hard thigh and with each sharp smacking she felt pain, then pleasure flare, as though the sting on her buttocks was connected to her pussy.
It was always like this, spanking becoming a sexual thing between them. This time Wyndham’s smacks were as hurtful, as the first time he’d ever spanked her, when he’d risk his life to save her from Alexei Tropov and he’d taken her as his woman and his wife.
She could not live not to be near him, if he were in that kind of danger again. To wait and wonder would be worse than death. Could he not see this? Did he not know that she could not survive if anything happened to him and she was left thinking she might have done something to prevent it?
Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!
“You will obey me, Spitfire. I will not stop until you swear it.” Smack! Smack!
“Ow! Never! Not in this,” Orelan cried feverishly between pain, arousal, and her heart in agony. She knew she had to do something to turn their anger and fear back from the abyss as she clutched the bed linens in her fists with her long hair falling down around her hands.
Smack! Smack!
“Ow!” she howled, but then she also moaned in the same exhaling of breath, “Oh mm.” Rising on her toes with her thighs separating.
“Damn you!” Wyndham expelled, with his palm falling onto Orelan’s upper buttocks. The smack sounded, but then his hand stopped its motion, coming to rest over his wife’s plush ass. Both cheeks were rosy red, but not as dark crimson as the wet lips of her cunt peeking out.
His nostrils flared with the heated scent of her arousal and his hard dick, imprisoned in his riding britches, palpated against the bareness of her upper right thigh. He watched Orelan use her toes to lift up and down, grinding her mound on the top of his thigh, as she moaned sounds that he knew intimately.
“Oh mm, Wyndham,” she pleaded with sexual intentions husky in her tone.
“No!” His strong body tensed with his effort to control his lustful urges. “This is too important. I must have your word!”
“Later,” Orelan quipped, grinding her cunt on his thigh, while moving her legs open wider until the sticky wetness of the lips split open. His balls grew tight as his fingers crimped on her buttocks. His fingers only urges, their only desire, was to touch hot cunt lips.
“Please, I need you now, mi amor,” she moaned, rotating her ass with carnal avarice.
“You will not dissuade me with sex,” he challenged, his voice tight with tension-filled lust.
“You will think more clearly after,” she offered, then she actually shook her luscious ass at him.
Damn her! He could not tally how much he loved her. The need clouded his brain and transmitted into unreasonable action, driving him to think that he could fuck her into com
pliance. It was idiotic, however, his dick held no higher intelligence, only urgency.
Therefore, despite his better intentions he accepted Orelan’s logic readily. His illogical dick applauding with a clamor in his britches as he dropped his knee, and then with a slight push of his hand to Orelan’s spine he sent her belly down over the end of the bed. The bed height was perfection to his eyes. It left Orelan bending over with her knees unable to reach the floor so that she wobbled awkwardly for purchase on the toes of her slippered feet.
He wanted to be her purchase as he went to his knees between her thighs, before the sumptuous offering she willingly or not presented. He captured her knees and guided them to his upper thighs as he knelt, settling his ass on his heels. The feast of licentiousness was before him.
What was her husband doing? Orelan wondered as she began to push up onto her elbows. Was he setting her into another prime position to spank her poor defenseless hurting bottom, just when she thought that she had turned his attention to sex? But no, then she felt him grasp her knees, giving her leverage on top of what? The large amount of orange and blossom colored silk skirts she wore to attend the elaborate gathering downstairs were billowing in huge piles about her waist and on either side. She could not see over them as she used the purchase Wyndham had offered to her knees to try to raise her upper body by her elbows.
Was Wyndham kneeling behind her?
“O’Dios!” she exclaimed, when she felt Wyndham’s warm hands grasp her upper thighs, and then he tugged them open. “Ah! Ah!” That was her husband’s tongue! He was licking right into her pussy, then around, then through the lips from behind. “Oh! Yes!” Orelan felt Wyndham’s scorching breath, she felt his big hands holding her thighs open, separating the crease of her bottom and her pussy lips. “Dios, mm mm.” She wiggled her pussy spiritedly on his tongue, humping back. Her husband had never quite licked her pussy in this behind position before. It was so sexy and hot!
He adored this sassy pussy, Wyndham’s mind shouted in a litany, as he lusted and loved on his wife’s hot cunt. The ripe folds clung to his tongue and when he stroked inside, Orelan cooed sounds of ardent passion. The feel of fucking his wife’s inner cunt on his tongue matched the pounding in his cock. Her aroused juices smeared his lower face as his nose bumped in between the crease of her ass. Christ, it was carnal and raw. It was ecstasy, and her cries of ardor became higher and tighter.
That is when he went for his wife’s clitoris.
“Oh!Oh!Oh! My Wyndham!” Orelan squealed.
Orelan felt the tight repeating suction on the bud of her sex as bright lights burst behind her clenched eyelids. A roar of pleasure lashed through her mind, through her body, through her quaking pussy. Her bottom lifted higher with each rapid pang of rapture as her breath held, and her climax reverberated. Wyndham sucked her bud, making her buttocks quaked, while she clenched her fists and moaned over and over.
Wyndham’s sucking lips left her bud. “God, I love your hot cunt,” he rumbled, and the flat of his tongue lapped around and around, and all over her pussy as the quivers of her climax lingered. “You gushed hot cunt juices all over my face, baby love.”
“Oh mm,” she purred
“Such a pretty cunt.”
“Mm Mm.”
Orelan felt Wyndham’s fingertip touching her entrance, then the thickness stroked inside her. “Oh, mm.”
“Christ, you are a volcano. A wet volcano.”
“My pussy wants your cock, my strong puma,” she purred as she squeezed her inner sheath around Wyndham’s stroking finger.
“Wicked, little Spitfire,” he rasped. “So deliciously naughty.”
“Oh! Does your big shaft want my hot little pussy, husband?”
“Aye, Orelan, I want to fuck you hard. Crawl up on the bed and lay on your belly.”
Slap!
Orelan felt the slap on her bottom. It was not a smack, but a love slap, as she eagerly crawled up on the bed. She wondered excitedly about the unusual position of lying flat on her belly and not up on her hands and knees. She felt the muscular length of Wyndham’s tall body hovering over her like a blanket. His mouth kissed her ear, as she felt the searing heat of his bare shaft burrowing between her closed thighs. Instincts made her push, trying to open her thighs, but Wyndham’s strong thighs, braced on the outside of hers held them closed.
“You want my cock,” he whispered with a husky burr, as he licked her ear.
“Yes,” she moaned, trying to raise her bottom, but his weight held her down.
“No mercy,” he said, making her aroused mind confused and wondering what he meant, but at the same moment she felt the head of his shaft thrust between her closed thighs, up the center, then deep within.
“Oh! Oh! Wyndham!”
Sweat rolled down Wyndham’s back beneath his shirt. He only had his britches pulled down past his ass as he teased his wife with shallow, then deep thrust of his cock. He might be teasing her, but he tormented himself. The grip of her closed thighs and tensed buttocks, closed like a luxurious vise around his cock with every thrust and returning gasp from his wife.
He had a plan somewhere in the burning lava of his lust. He tried to remember it, but all his existence flowed to his engorged cock, plunging into a tight, hot, and receptive cunt. Then, the memory flashed before his lust-gutted gaze. With a tremendous will of love and protection, he managed to stop his thrusting with the head of his cock just inside Orelan’s searing haven.
“Wyndham!” she wailed, begging him on.
“You must swear to me, baby love. You must swear,” he heaved, raw and heavily.
“No, not now, Puma. Fuck me! Fuck, your pretty Spitfire,” Orelan whimpered, trying to gyrate her ass beneath the unyielding weight of his belly.
“You want my cock. You want me to fuck you?”
“Yes! Yes! Dios!”
Wyndham stroked his cock once hard, then pulled back, amazing himself at his determination. “Oh!” Orelan squealed with the pleasure of the thrust.
“Promise me!” he charged.
“Wyndham, do not do this to us!”
“Swear!” He thrust again.
“Oh! Oh!” Orelan cried. Wyndham held her in a position that was unexpectedly stimulating and beyond her control. Each thrust sent shock waves to her pussy and sex bud, but as overwrought with arousal as she was she rebelled, panting with tears falling. “No! No! Never! I love you! This means we are one!” Orelan bucked her hips. “Get off me! Get off now! You cannot make me swear this way!”
“Damnation!” Wyndham swore violently. His body collapsed on top of hers, pinning her to the bed as his thick shaft throbbed deeply inside her. “I have to protect you, Orelan. I love you and cannot put you into danger! You are too precious to me.”
“Oh Wyndham,” Orelan whispered. “You know I think all these things about you.”
“Men are stronger! Men are ... damn, that is a stupid argument,” he muttered.
“I agree,” she returned, at the same moment she squeezed the muscles in her inner sheath.
“Christ, woman!” he groaned.
“You have only to pull out,” she said, as she did it again, only this time concentrating to squeeze in a ripple from the head of Wyndham’s shaft to its root. Wyndham groaned with his large body tensing above her. “But I intend not argue, but have sex with my attractive, strong, and very wise husband.”
“Christ, strong, attractive, and wise ... Ah!”
“Oh!” Orelan mewled as she continued the rapid clenching and unclenching of her inner pussy. She had never tried this before, but she was building herself to a climax with it. Now if she could just get Wyndham to come too. “Very wise,” she panted.
“Where did you learn to do this,” he asked with a groan? Then, he lost the battle as he rose upward and began thrusting rapidly.
Christ, his wife was a vexing and sassy minx. She never stopped astounding him, and he fucked her hard, bouncing her buttocks with each thrust. He took them both over the edge w
ith Orelan’s cries of ecstasy loudly echoing throughout the room, and surely carrying down into the ballroom below.
Chapter Eight
Kit felt incompetent. She realized that she had accomplished nothing, only wasted time. Clay could have little time left. The Paris police, for all their patronizing words, were uninterested in missing people. They had more important matters to attend to ... thefts, assaults, murders, and the list went on. Her father would have known that. Blast, Kit thought, even her condescending husband would know that. They would have realized immediately this was a cause to be taken on personally or to hire an expert to investigate. It stung twice as badly that she’d been unable to persuade the records keeper to let her see the records as that Scot’s charmer had been able to do. She hated feeling useless. Somewhere in her mind, she knew that she really was not. However, that was not the way it felt. She was Clay’s only hope. She had to be better than this.
“I will be,” she said with determination, as she stared, unseeing out the hired carriage that was taking her from the Commissionaire de Police building to the address for Marco Remior. She would hire someone. Paris must have someone like the Bow Street Runners of London that her father talked about. Perhaps, if she started with a lawyer, they could recommend someone. She needed to contact a lawyer about severing her marriage to Nick, but her marriage felt like such a trivial concern at the moment. Everything seemed wrong except moving forward to find Clay. Yes, it would be wiser to take the time to hire help.
Then, with the thought of help, her mind turned to Duneagan and she wondered why? Just as easily though, she passed it off as a silly woman’s reaction to needing a strong man. She could do this on her own. Besides, she had no clue as to Duneagan’s allegiance. She would do well to have the investigator that she hired tomorrow, also look into the Scotsman, instead of having fanciful notions, wishing he was some miracle champion sent to help her find her brother.
The carriage came to a halt, and thankfully changed her contemplations to action. Once she paid the driver and stood before the entrance to Marco Remior’s presumed home, she saw that the entrance was not too dissimilar in appearance from Clay’s own apartment across town. However, Marco Remior’s address appeared much wealthier than Clay’s, with a doorman instead of an iron bell pull.
