by Nia Farrell
Damn William.
And damn Lord Leighton.
She would see him. She was certain of it. He was the King’s confidant, his bosom friend. The King kept him on a tight leash, allowing him only brief sojourns elsewhere.
Hertfordshire had been one.
Despite herself, she felt her body quicken at the memory of how he had looked, bound and at her mercy. And how he had felt, when she slid down on that magnificent cock of his, rampant against the hair-dusted plane of his belly. She’d ached for days.
She still ached for it. Perhaps they could…?
No! No!
She must do her best to avoid Lord Leighton. Her very life might well depend on it.
The thought had scarcely been formed when he came into view, looking resplendent in his pale blue embroidered coat, matching vest, and closed knee breeches. Stockings hugged the sculpted muscles of his legs, and the heels on his shoes added another two inches to his already formidable height.
She had forgotten how tall he was.
Of course, the last time she had seen him, he’d been tied to a tree with his own wood bobbing in the midnight air.
The announcement of her name snapped her from her reverie back to the present. She entered the assembly, escorted by her only surviving sibling, her fifteen-year-old half-brother Lawrence. Three years her junior, it was his first time in London. His first time at Court. His nerves were enough to set hers on edge.
Like everyone else, they were presented to the King in turn. Made to stand and wait. Obliged to dance and drink. She had no lack of partners. Neither did Lawrence, wearing a rakish half-mask. One pretty girl who played the kitten seemed to especially capture his interest. Catherine did not know whether to be discomfited or amused that Lawrence might well leave here a man.
“He’s in good hands.”
A familiar voice rumbled in her ear, causing a riot of gooseflesh to dimple Catherine’s skin. She shivered from the chill on her soul, vestiges of the guilt she bore for what she had done that night. Desperation had driven her, but the cost had been her soul.
“Lord Leighton,” she acknowledged him, then said no more. Shades of the masked ball where they had met.
“You need not worry about your brother. He is in good hands. Mistress Mary is young, experienced, free of pox, and possesses the knowledge to see his time well spent. Unlike myself on a recent trip to Hertfordshire. While conducting the King’s business, my coach was stopped. I was robbed and accosted. Tied to a tree and left to perish, for all the bandit knew. It took the better part of an hour to work myself free.”
He leaned to whisper in her ear. “Tell me. Was the pistol even loaded?”
Oh, God.
Catherine’s knees threatened to buckle. A violent tremor shook her frame.
“No,” she croaked. “I am sorry.” She did not know what else to say.
One large hand closed over her shoulder and squeezed it menacingly. “If you are not, you shall be. Come, Wicked Lady. It is time to pay the piper.”
Chapter Four
Lady Donnelly did not protest when James took her arm and bade her accompany him to somewhere more private where they could…talk.
Both of them knew there would be little of that—at least in the near future.
Alone in his private chamber, he took an inordinate amount of pleasure in the way she trembled before him. She should be frightened. Her fate was in his hands.
“Nice mask,” James remarked. “Much nicer than the plain one you wore in Hertfordshire. Purchased with my coin, no doubt. Take it off.”
Her hands shook as she did so, revealing a pert nose and smooth cheeks. Her pale complexion contrasted sharply with her ebony hair and emerald eyes. Framed with a thick brush of absurdly long lashes, they were stunning to behold.
“And the dress.”
She blinked, hard. “What?”
James’s smile held no humor. “You heard me. The dress. I know damned well it was purchased with my coin, too. Be glad I do not choose to strip your brother, or make him privy to your shame. Test me, and you will not be the only one who pays the price for treason.”
“Treason?! But—”
“When you accost an officer of the King, you attack your sovereign. Did you think that there would be no repercussion for your crimes against me? Fortunately for you, Charles has agreed to let me handle this myself. Now, I can order a hanging, but I have much more appealing uses for rope. Your choice,” he said simply. “Be taken, naked, to the Tower or submit freely to me. Tell me, which is it to be?”
“I have no choice,” she whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears. He’d remedy that soon enough.
“Nor did I,” he reminded her curtly. “Your dress is still on.”
“I am sorry. I need help, Sir. Without a maid, I am afraid that I must beg your assistance.”
James used his considerable experience to dispense with her dress and underpinnings, leaving her clad only in her shoes and stockings, corset and chemise. He circled her, judging her attributes with a critical eye and finding himself well pleased. She was healthy, at least, with a soft curve to her belly, enough hips to hold onto, and creamy breasts that swelled above her stays. With her height a good foot shorter than his, it would make for some interesting dynamics when he took her to bed.
He went to sit upon it. “You shall lie across my lap with your head here and your arse here.” He pointed to each in turn. “I am going to spank you, blister that bottom of yours. You will keep count, and thank me for each blow. Lose track, and we begin again. You are not to speak otherwise. When you are allowed to do so, in private, you will call me Master. Nod if you understand.”
Mortification stained her cheeks. She jerked her head and wrung her hands.
“Good. You are intelligent, if unwise. We shall see how biddable you are. Now come.”
She approached him with as much eagerness as a convict did a hanging tree. Stopping by his knee, she bent over it, settled herself, and waited for him to begin.
James grabbed a handful of soft, fine linen and pulled up the back of her chemise, not stopping until the fabric was bunched above her waist and her bottom was bared. And what a lovely bottom it was. He palmed each cheek in turn, squeezing, molding, warming the tissue, preparing her for what was to come. She stifled a moan and clenched her thighs. He could smell her arousal.
His Wicked Lady was proving a lusty wench.
Smack!
“One,” she gasped. “Thank you, Master.”
Smack! A matching strike on the other side.
“Two. Thank you, Master.”
He kept going, alternating sides, keeping his strikes on the fleshy globes of her buttocks. The flesh pinkened, then reddened, as she counted the cost. He did not stop until she had dissolved into tears, gulping breaths between her choked responses, and her nether lips were swollen and slick with dew.
James thrust two fingers into her breach, pumped his hand, and pulled it out, licking his fingers and tasting her essence. Delicious. She moaned, no doubt feeling the emptiness and aching to be filled.
Not yet.
He pushed her off his lap and let her crumple on the floor. “Kneel,” he rumbled, reaching to open his breeches. “I am going to fuck your mouth. If you know what’s best, you shall keep your teeth away and your claws sheathed—and you shall swallow anything that I choose to give you. Nod if you understand.”
The dark head bobbed.
“Have you done this before? Taken a man in your mouth?” He had discovered too little on her late husband to know his true measure as a man, let alone a sexual partner. “You may answer me.”
She pushed herself up, keeping her eyes down, never raising her gaze above his chest. “No, Master.”
For some reason, that pleased him, to learn he would be her first. “I shall teach you,” he said, taking out his cock and stroking it fully erect. “Show you how to give the greatest pleasure. There are sensitive spots here, here, and here.” He pointed to the base
of his shaft, the whole of the crown, and the place underneath that could bring a man to his knees. “The rim and the first few inches are the most sensitive. You shall learn to take me down your throat—oh, yes, you shall do that, too. Use your tongue to tempt and tease, the suction of your mouth to bring me to a satisfying end. Swallow my seed, and I shall reward you. Fail in any of this, and you shall suffer the consequences. Now, begin.”
James fisted her hair and guided her to him, pushing his way between her lips and relishing the feel of her mouth and tongue. He forged deeper, his glans rubbing against the ridges of her palate, pushing against the back of her throat. She fought not to gag.
He drew back a little. “Suck,” he ordered. She obeyed, cheeks hollowing with her efforts. He grabbed his sac and squeezed his testes, jacked his hips and deepened his strokes. He fucked her face, pleased with her first efforts. Feeling his balls draw up and his cock swell, he growled a warning. “Get ready. Here it comes.”
James exploded, pouring himself into the warmth of her mouth as she fought to swallow the volume. When he had finished using her, he let go of her hair and let her sit back on her heels. Her green eyes were tear-smacked, her nose red, and her lips swollen.
Beautiful.
Her eyes widened when he grabbed her biceps, hauled her to her feet, and tossed her onto the bed. He stripped her, bound her, spread her wide and secured her wrists and ankles to the four corners of his world. Here, in this room, he was king. He was her sovereign. Lady Donnelly was here to serve his will and be the receptacle for his lust. His to do with as he pleased. To discard or to keep.
Power was intoxicating. More so, when he could see her fear and smell her arousal. He thrust two fingers into her slit and pumped until she climaxed.
Shedding his clothes, he climbed onto the end of the bed and crawled up her body, dragging his chest on her front, letting his thatch of hair abrade that incredible skin of hers, sensitizing her breasts, and teasing her nipples into tight, hard buds. He took one in his teeth and plucked it, making her body arch and writhe beneath him.
Taking himself in hand, he parted her folds and found her opening, notched his head, and thrust inside, a primal claiming that tore a cry from her throat from the sheer force of it. He pulled back and thrust again, just as hard, just as deep, hips flexing, finding his rhythm and maintaining it. She was as perfect as he remembered. Tight. Wet. Responsive to his touch and willing to do anything he wished.
Nothing was sacrosanct. Everything was within his grasp. The only limits were his imagination and the whim of mercy that would eventually surface, when she reached her breaking point, if not before.
He took her like a beast, driving deep, claiming her body inside and out, marking it with his teeth. He forced orgasm after orgasm from her, craving the way her body tightened around him, gripping his length and milking it. Sweat poured from his flesh, dripping onto her and running down her sides. He was close, so close.
He wrapped his fingers around her throat, smiling darkly when she looked at him, wide eyed and innocent compared to his degenerate self. “Do you trust me?” he asked, tightening his hold. Panic flashed, then faded. A strange calm came over her as she accepted her fate and released the last of her resistance, submitting herself fully to his will.
“Yes, Master.”
Pounding into her, he felt her body’s response and squeezed her throat. Her body seized beneath him, locked in the throes of ecstasy while he climaxed, pouring himself into her while the waves crashed around him, her orgasm intensified by the lack of air. As soon as she lost consciousness, he released his hold but continued to fuck her, eventually bringing her back to full awareness with their coupling.
“Ah, pet,” he murmured, raising himself on his fists so that they were joined only at one point. “You’ve done well. Just one more place to claim, and then you shall be mine.”
She didn’t understand. No matter. She would know soon enough.
Chapter Five
James left her with great reluctance, pulling out and returning with a vial of his favorite oil. He untied her ankles and scooted her up, until there was enough slack in the rope to turn her onto her stomach. She was lovely, with her bound wrists crossed above her head and a crimson blush on her bottom.
James slickened his length, then reached for her star, lubricating the path he would blaze. He teased her with one finger, stretched her out with two, then three, making certain that she could handle what he was about to give.
She moaned, whimpered, inhaled sharply, then forgot to breathe altogether. He tapped her anus with his cock, then pressed against it. “Push back against me to open your door and let me in,” he instructed. “Whatever you do, do not resist. Tightening up will make this less than pleasant. Relax, and you shall find pleasure, I swear it.”
And there it was, Mercy rearing its ugly head. Ignoring it, he pushed his way inside, making her gasp, then grunt between clenched teeth as he forced his way past the first ring and the second. Once he’d gained her passage, he was free to dig in deep.
He tunneled into her, warm walls clinging to him like potter’s clay. Uncertain of her role, she yielded to his mastery and let him use her thusly, the object of his dark passion, feeding his hunger with each muffled cry and panting breath. He picked up the pace, driving into her, relentless as the storm-driven sea, feeling the tide rise within her, and his body’s answering swell. He crashed against her like waves against rocks, battering her. Thrusting one hand beneath her, he shoved two fingers into her cunny and pressed against her clitoris, demanding her response. She gave it, crying out with the force of her climax, which was almost as intense as when he’d denied her breath.
He freed her wrists and turned with her, still joined, his manhood slow to shrink. Only when he was flaccid did he pull free of her body. Even then, he did not let her go.
She fell asleep, poor thing, exhausted from his demands. The quietude allowed him needed time to think, to review what he had learned, and decide what was to be done with her. He understood what had driven her to robbery—not that he excused it, but she had used his coin to pay the taxes on the estate that she had inherited, an attempt to save it for generations yet to come…except she had no husband, no suitor, not much of a life, really. Just a brother and servants who depended upon her to provide for them. Tenants whose livelihood had suffered with her own. She was not frivolous. True, she had parted with some money to come to Court, but had spent no more than was required.
In her dealings with her household and estate, she had demonstrated bravery, loyalty, compassion, and intelligence. Her wisdom was yet up for debate, but he supposed he could do worse for a wife.
James went still, wondering where the hell that thought came from. It was insidious, taking hold, making him argue with himself, why it was the worst possible thing he could do. And yet…
He looked at the raven-haired beauty in his arms. Noble born with all the passion of a seasoned courtesan and willing to submit to his every dark, decadent desire. Try as he might, he could not name another who had pleased him so well.
Charles would laugh and try to dissuade. His friends would claim that he’d gone mad. But this woman had rejected him, robbed him, ridden him, and driven him to discover who was behind the mask.
Now that he knew Catherine Fanshawe was indeed the Wicked Lady, he planned to give her every opportunity to live up to her name.
Author’s Biography
Nia Farrell is the author of one of The 50 Best Indie Books of 2016, a 2016 Golden Flogger Finalist, and a founding member of the Wicked Pens. A multi-genre writer published in nonfiction, poetry, music, articles, and children’s books, with one documentary screenplay under her literary belt, she’s an old soul and a period reenactor who’s been into corsets for centuries, although she wears them more to Civil War events these days.
Nia has been involved in the metaphysical community for over twenty-five years. She is a Reiki Master and crystal healer whose work encompasses this and other
lifetimes. In her book Something More, BDSM and submission are tools for healing post-rape PTSD, earning a nomination for Best BDSM Book of the Year, Ménage Category, in the 2016 Golden Flogger Awards.
Her debut books from The Three Graces series, Something Else, Something Different, and Something More, are kink with a paranormal twist. Soul mates, reincarnation, karmic fallout, shamanism, and psychic abilities come into play. Personal experience and extensive research go into crafting her characters, but it’s her sense of whimsy that has made fictional Posey, Minnesota, the ménage capital of the United States, with a Monty-Python-inspired diner that’s central to the plotlines.
Nia was fortunate enough to meet her soul mate early on. She married her high school sweetheart, raised two children, and began writing at her husband’s suggestion. She has been published in erotic romance since 2015.
AUTHOR LINKS
Nia Farrell & Erinn Ellender Quinn’s webpage
http://bit.ly/NiaErinnWP
Nia Farrell’s Facebook author page
http://bit.ly/NiaFarrellFB
Farrell’s Foxes, Nia Farrell’s Street Team page
https://www.facebook.com/farrellsfoxes
Nia Farrell’s Amazon author page
http://viewauthor.at/NiaFarrell
Nia Farrell’s Goodreads author page
http://goodreads.com/Nia_Farrell
Nia Farrell’s author page at Kinky Literature
http://bit.ly/NiaFarrellKL
Nia Farrell’s Wicked Pens author page
http://bit.ly/WPenNia
Nia Farrell on Tumblr
http://authorniafarrell.tumblr.com/
Nia Farrell on Twitter
https://twitter.com/AuthrNiaFarrell
Nia Farrell on Pinterest
http://bit.ly/NiaFarrellPins
Nia Farrell on Google+
