His mother, in a cluster of gaily clad ladies near the windows, shot a pointed stare in his direction. He executed a gracious bow in her direction. As the musicians brought the current song to an end, he addressed the assembly as a whole.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I am delighted to welcome you all to Wavecrest. Please enjoy yourselves—and if I can do anything to make your evening more pleasant, do not hesitate to ask.”
He nodded to the orchestra leader, who struck up a new waltz. As though waking from a dream, the guests resumed their drinking, dancing and conversation.
“Miss Alcott, may I have the pleasure?” He held out his hand to his companion. In the brilliant light of the massive electric chandeliers, Olivia looked more enchanting than ever.
“It would be an honour, sir.”
She was light as a breeze, sure-footed and graceful, following his lead without the slightest misstep. His hand settled on her waist, where he could feel her warm flesh shifting under the silk. Her fingers enlaced with his, she focused on his face as he swept her around the floor. In her eyes he read desire, need and a raw devotion that humbled even him. They were silent as they danced, but their eyes and their bodies spoke volumes.
The waltz ended. Another began, then another. Olivia’s lush form moved in perfect synchrony with his own, dipping and twirling, responding to his slightest cues. Andrew fell into a sort of lustful dream. He wanted the dancing to never end. He’d keep Olivia in his arms forever.
“Andrew, dear.”
Catherine MacIntyre tapped him on the shoulder. Reluctantly, he and Olivia separated. The young woman looked as dazed and shaken as he felt himself.
“Ah—yes, Mother?”
“Good evening, Miss Alcott. I’m glad you could join us.” His mother actually sounded sincere. She turned back to confront her son. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I fear you’re monopolising Miss Alcott’s attention. There are several young men who are eager to have her as their partner.”
“What? Who…?” He glanced around the room, glaring at all the other male guests.
“Meanwhile, it’s your duty as host to dance with some of the other ladies. Miss Linton and Miss Harper are both pining for a bit of your attention.”
He was on the verge of refusing. Wavecrest was his house. It was his money that had paid for the music, the champagne, the delicacies the guests would consume later at supper. If he wanted to spend his evening with the one woman here who interested him, who could stop him?
Olivia’s hand on his arm forestalled him. “Andrew, your mother’s right. You should devote some time to your other guests. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
His mother’s smile evidenced her relief. She laid a bejewelled hand upon Olivia’s bare arm. “Thank you, Miss Alcott. I appreciate your understanding. Come, let me to introduce you to Mr Frank Ormsted. His father owns the Ormsted department store chain…”
Just like that, Olivia was gone, carried off towards a knot of guests in the far corner of the room.
Andrew gritted his teeth as Mary Beth Linton descended upon him like a satin-clad vulture. As he led the chattering girl into a foxtrot, he sought out Olivia’s elegant form. She appeared to be completely comfortable, smiling at a skinny red-haired gentleman, laughing at his jokes. Selena Larimer claimed him next—and didn’t say a word throughout the dance—then the much-celebrated Charlotte Harper, who turned out to be both clumsy and loud. He was grateful to hand her over to one of the Vanpatten cousins.
The parade of partners slowed. Mary Beth wanted another round, but Andrew excused himself. He snagged a flute of champagne from a waiter and glanced around the room, seeking his partner of choice.
The Grand Hall of Wavecrest was fifty feet long and two storeys high. At the moment it held perhaps forty people, scarcely a crowd in such an enormous room.
Olivia Alcott was not among them.
Chapter Eight
What were you thinking, silly girl? That you and Andrew had a future?
Lifting her gown to keep from tripping, Olivia hastened down the terrace stairs and out onto the lawn. She stepped beyond the brightness streaming from the ballroom windows, into the welcome shadows. The strains of the violins faded. Instead, she heard the call of the night birds and the susurration of the waves against the cliff.
Without any particular plan, she made her way towards the absurdly ornate Chinese tea house that perched at the far edge of the property, overlooking the sea. Dew soaked through her satin slippers. She removed them and continued barefoot, damp grass squishing between her toes.
The muggy summer night felt cool after the crowded ballroom. A breeze slaked the fire in her cheeks. She’d made such a fool of herself. Whirling about in Andrew’s arms, gazing up at his face, she’d allowed herself to believe… The ball, the guests, everything had disappeared during that magic waltz. Andrew—her lover—her master—had become her only reality. Even now she could summon the strength in his grip, the confidence with which he’d guided her steps, the sharp scent of his cologne and the challenge in his eyes. She nearly swooned at the recollection—or perhaps that effect could be attributed the champagne she’d consumed so recklessly after his mother had separated them.
He’d been ready to refuse the order. Olivia had recognised the struggle in his eyes. Then he’d acquiesced, yielding to his fate, stepping effortlessly into the role to which he’d been born. She wanted to hate him for his lack of courage, but how could she, this man who’d opened her, taught her again who she was and what she needed? He was not to blame. He belonged to a different world than she, one as remote and strange as darkest Africa.
Their connection, which had seemed so right and true and inevitable, was transient. She gave what was natural. He took what he needed. A simple transaction, obedience traded for pleasure.
Tomorrow evening, he’d send her home, marked by his belt and his kisses, and the interlude would be over. She was a practical woman, not prone to crazy dreams. Why should she have expected more?
She’d press him, though, about the factory. She would not allow him to take advantage of her perversity without providing something in return. If he did not fulfil his part of the bargain, she’d expand the strike, state-wide, across the northeast, across the nation, until he rued the day he’d met Olivia Alcott.
Righteous anger could not banish her sorrow. She leaned on the tea house railing, the varnished wood floor smooth under her bare soles, and fought her sobs, drawing the salt-laced night air into her lungs in great gasps. I won’t cry, she swore. Not over a shallow, selfish popinjay like Andrew MacIntyre.
“Olivia! There you are! I was afraid you were gone…”
He came up behind her, encircling her waist and pulling her body against his. All her resolutions crumbled.
“I’m so very sorry to have left you on your own in that nest of vipers.” Andrew nuzzled her neck, then tugged with his teeth at her diamond eardrop. A delicious thrill skittered down her spine.
“No matter. Everyone was perfectly civil. In any case, I completely understand. You’re the host—you’re required take care of all your guests.” Olivia marvelled at the calm in her voice, even as he cupped her breasts through her finery and thumbed her nipples.
“You’re the only guest who interests me. I don’t care a fig for the rest of them.”
He turned her around, pressing her buttocks against the rail, and stroked her cheek. “Olivia—” It was too dark for her to read his expression, but his voice held an uncharacteristic note of uncertainty. His lips found hers, in a soft, tentative kiss that ended too soon and made her ache for more.
She searched his face in the gloom. “Yes? What can I do for you, sir?”
His whole body stiffened at the title, as though electricity coursed through him. At the same time, the act of voicing her surrender melted the last remnants of her anger.
He tightened his grip on her bare upper arms—she’d have bruises tomorrow—and released a low chuckle, full of lust and menace. W
et heat bloomed between Olivia’s thighs.
“You’re still willing to serve me, then?” His fingers were at her throat now, testing her pulse before sliding down to trace her collarbone.
“Of course, sir.” His touch kindled almost unbearable arousal. She wanted to sink to her knees, to kiss his feet, to breathe his scent and rub her cheek against the glorious hardness at his crotch. “I am yours to command.”
“Ah, that’s my slut talking. Come here then, girl.” He hustled her back towards the entry to the pavilion. The building resembled a normal gazebo, but dragons perched on the tiled, upswept eaves and were carved into the red lacquered pillars supporting it. He arranged her between the gateposts, facing the great house, which glowed like a Chinese lantern. “Raise your arms and put your palms against the posts. Yes, that’s right. Don’t move. Now, how to bind you…”
Olivia followed his instructions, eager for whatever he had planned. If someone had looked from one of Wavecrest’s many windows towards the sea, they might have detected some motion at the tea house, but darkness and distance would hide the details. She found herself wishing that the moon would rise, and was horrified by her own depravity.
Andrew stood before her, pondering the situation. He clenched and unclenched his fists. Energy fairly crackled through his powerful frame.
“I know!” He seized one of the ribbons that draped her skirt and yanked.
“Andrew, no! You’ll ruin it!”
“I paid for it. It’s mine to ruin—just like you.”
She shivered at the thought.
The satin resisted his considerable strength. Pulling a penknife from his tuxedo pocket—to Olivia’s surprise—he sawed at the ribbon until it gave way. “T’will be strong at least.” He wrapped the strip of fabric around her wrist several times, then tied the other end to the post. The satin caressed her skin, but held her tight against the pillar. “Now for the other…”
In a trice he had her suspended between the gateposts, helpless to resist whatever came next. “Now, to make you more accessible…” He slashed again and again at the elegant gown, tearing through overskirt, underskirt and petticoats. A sea breeze stirred the shredded silk, tickling her bare thighs. Moisture trickled from her cleft. She strained against her bonds, wanting nothing more than to touch him, but with an evil giggle, he stepped out of range.
“Ah, sweet, you do look wicked! What would your Russian think, hey?” He leant forward to pinch her nipple, triggering a shock of pleasure, but backed away before she could make contact. “Did your precious poet ever bind you outdoors, in full view of polite society?”
“No, sir…” Dmitri had confined their deviant games to the garret they’d shared. She’d sometimes wished otherwise.
“Ah—a first then! And do you like being exposed, Miss Alcott? Does it arouse you?” He still wouldn’t come closer. Olivia caught a whiff of her own ocean aroma. Her pussy clenched on emptiness.
“You know it does, sir.” Heat climbed into her cheeks. Heat pulsed in her core.
“Yes, yes, I do know. I know you, Olivia. I know what you need.”
As he gloated before her, he was unbuttoning his trousers. His cock sprang free, arching up towards his white cummerbund. She whimpered, overwhelmed, incoherent with desire.
“Ah—poor Olivia! Do you want something?”
“Ah—yes, yes, sir…”
“Ask me then. Tell me what you want.”
Olivia hung in her bonds, silent and needy.
“Ask, my sweet. Be brave.”
The bravado in his voice was gone, replaced by tenderness. He caught her chin in his fingers and raised her face to his.
Olivia swallowed her fear. “Sir—please—your cock in my cunny…”
“You want me to fuck you?” Not waiting for an answer, he stepped between her spread thighs and rubbed the swollen tip of his organ over her slick folds. A premonition of climax shuddered through her.
“Yes…oh, yes…”
He sank into her depths. She moaned as he filled her—hot, hard, perfect. Crushing her to his chest, he worked his hips, grinding against her sheathed clit.
The friction undid her. She flew into orgasm, jerking in her bonds as he pounded her without mercy.
“All you needed to do, darling,” he murmured, as she came back to earth, quivering in his arms, “was ask.”
Chapter Nine
“Another strawberry, Mrs MacIntyre?” Andrew dangled the scarlet fruit an inch above her open lips, letting the cream that coated it dribble onto her tongue. Bound hand and foot to the four corner posts of the Louis XVI bed, Olivia could do little more than wriggle.
“If it pleases you, sir…”
He allowed the berry to drop. Sweetness exploded in her mouth as she bit into its firm flesh.
“It does please me. You please me, my little crusader, more and more every day.” He stretched his naked body over hers and mingled his coffee and tobacco taste with the fruit flavour in a luscious, lazy kiss. He was hard again, though fresh jism from their latest coupling still leaked from her cleft. His pubic hair scratched and stung against the welts he’d painted on her thighs with the new martinet. They’d found the toy yesterday at one of the city’s many flea markets, along with some iron manacles Andrew claimed dated from the Revolution. The lingering soreness in her pussy transmuted into an ache of need. She wanted him again, deep inside—as surely as he wanted her.
“We have an appointment this afternoon with Monsieur Fronchet at Van Cleef and Arpels on Place Vendôme. I plan to buy you a proper wedding ring.” The plain gold circlet he’d acquired so hurriedly in Newport gleamed in the morning sunlight. After they’d been discovered in flagrante, his trousers unbuttoned and her gown in tatters, Andrew’s mother had insisted on a rapid, private marriage and a long trip abroad. Andrew had been eager, for once, to obey his mother’s dictates.
Olivia had been mortified when Gannet had strolled up to the tea house. Now, though, the recollection of his knowing smile thrilled her. Andrew had vowed he’d share her with his devoted and discreet friend after they returned to America…
Her husband licked at the corners of her mouth, gathering powdered sugar and residual cream. “And then, later, I’ve booked us a cruise on the Seine. A private cruise.”
Warmth surged through her as he applied his deft fingers to her soaked quim. A premonition of climax scattered her fantasies of what he might do to her on the boat. But he snatched his hand away just as she teetered on the brink, then chuckled at her moan of frustration.
“You’re insatiable, my darling slut.” He leaned in for another kiss.
“And you love that fact, don’t you, sir?” Olivia countered when they broke for breath.
“I do. I love you—your body, your mind, your eagerness to serve me…”
“Even my liberal social philosophies?”
“I raised the millworkers’ wages, didn’t I? And the steel men’s, too.” He twisted one engorged nipple to the point of pain. She swallowed her cry, determined to endure whatever delicious tortures he saw fit to bestow. “You drive a hard bargain, Mrs MacIntyre.”
His rampant cock slipped easily between her sprawled thighs and into her slick folds—where it belonged. Olivia gasped. “Ah—oh, sir…” A new crisis shimmered on the horizon as he stroked in and out. She gazed up into the mischief-filled eyes of her lover, her lord, her master.
“But it’s worth it. You’re mine now, tied to me by law and lust. And no matter what anyone says, I’m never letting you go.”
Also available from Total-E-Bound Publishing:
Mastering Maya
Lisabet Sarai
Excerpt
Chapter One
“Who the hell is she?”
The crack of the Domme’s single-tail whip punctuated Stephen’s question. Raven hair cascaded to her waist, swinging in time with the steady strokes she layered on her bound victim’s naked back. She danced around the flogging bench like a ballerina, bringing the leather thong
down on the still-unmarked areas of skin with astonishing grace and precision. The brawny blond man stretched lengthwise along the padded trestle jerked each time the whip found its mark. The sub’s gag effectively muffled any vocal reaction, but Stephen had a clear view of his engorged cock poking through the hole in the bench. Pre-cum slicked the shaft. Meanwhile, the blond’s buttocks clenched around the plug embedded in his anus each time the Domme’s lash struck. Obviously, the sub was enjoying the woman’s expert beating.
It was the woman who held Stephen’s attention, though. Her simple, severe outfit—a white crêpe blouse, narrow navy skirt and broad belt—highlighted her lush curves. The half-buttoned top revealed the shadowed valley between her breasts. As she travelled from one side of the bench to the other, seeking the optimal angle for her next stroke, he noticed the slit in her skirt, facilitating her movements but also offering glimpses of creamy thigh.
His own cock swelled in his tight leather trousers, but not because of her extraordinary body. Stephen—Master Shark, as he was called by others in the lifestyle—had known many beautiful women, in the most intimate of senses. No, her face—her expression—was what transfixed him, making his balls ache and his palms itch to stroke and slap that ripe flesh. She wore a look of utter calm and total concentration, even as she brought the lash down with increasing ferocity. Only her eyes betrayed her excitement. As she applied the whip to the submissive’s reddening backside, she did not smile. He saw none of the manic glee he felt when administering a flogging. Her self-control was absolute.
“The Ice Queen,” his friend Tom—Master Thomas—replied to his almost-forgotten question. “Amazing, isn’t she?”
“The Ice Queen? That’s her scene name?”
The woman paused to murmur in the sub’s ear and gently knead his crimson butt. The blond shook his head, clearly indicating that he wanted more. For the first time, her lovely mouth curved into the ghost of a smile. Stationing herself where the sub could see her, she unfastened her blouse one slow button at a time and slipped it off her shoulders. Now Stephen could see the rise and fall of her breathing—so her exertion had taken some toll, at least—and the dark nipples peeking through her white lace bra. The Domme was aroused after all, despite her impassive demeanour.
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