Her Lord & Master [Taken by Surprise Anthology]

by Thea Devine

  wanted, even though she had removed the last vestige of what he wished to conceal from her. No longer. Every part of his body was hers, now that he had declared her his choice.

  But he still wanted the mystery of her intact. He wanted her just as she was, submissive at his feet, but with a hot, creaming desire for his penis. And that was all he wanted from Chaste.

  She looked up at him. Still, he couldn't tell anything about what she was thinking. Her hands told him what she was thinking as she grasped him again with the surety of one who knows what she wants.

  She wanted his penis. And that was all he wanted her to want.

  A match made in heaven, he thought a little derisively, as he toppled her, spread her legs, and mounted her on the floor.

  ******************

  Done. Oh Lord, done. He had chosen her. She could barely breathe thinking about it. She could barely hold still for want of doing something that might make him change his mind.

  It was early hours yet, even though he had fucked her ferociously on the floor, against the wall, and subsequently on the bed. And now they lay entwined once again, his arm around her, his one hand cradling one breast, the other slipping subtly down her belly between her legs, and working to part her labia.

  Her body heated up instantly. The feel of his questing fingers was the most arousing thing. No. His thumbing her taut nipple was. No—both—oh ... as he fingered the tight, hot nub of her desire deep between her legs.

  Inside her now, his long expert fingers, sliding, feeling, making her wet; his thumb back and forth on her nipple, tweaking it, pressing it, feeling its contour ... sweet moans of encouragement—his penis rock hard against the pillow of her buttocks ... streaming pleasure—anything he wanted, anything—

  She came—hot, succulent, thick against his shaft, she came ... and as she melted into the throes of her pleasure, he pushed

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  into her from behind, humping her between her legs with his penis and his fingers, and his thumb incessantly at her nipple.

  It took nothing but a couple of thrusts to catapult him into a long, slow, effusion of unspeakable sensation that he discharged deep into her throbbing core.

  "The hot, naked, sex-hungry Chaste is endlessly fascinating to me," he murmured in her ear. "What does she think?"

  "That my lord's penis is endlessly fascinating to me," she whispered back.

  "Good, because it wants to plow you again."

  "Just what I was thinking ..."

  And in he came, endlessly hard, with that legendary stamina and the bottomless well of his cream spurting into her yet again.

  ******************

  He wanted to watch her in the mirror. He cradled her against his hips, his penis plowed deep and tight in her cunt from behind, and he watched himself as he played with her nipples.

  She watched the unimaginable tableau of her body so erotically connected to him, writhing and undulating against him, her one leg angled over his and the tiny thin heel of her bootie digging into his.

  She could just see a bare, hard, muscular inch of his penis embedded in her under the spread of her leg and it made her catch her breath. And those insistent fingers tugging at her nipples, tweaking, pulling... she felt so erotically charged, she might explode. And she didn't want him to stop. She wanted to float on the sensation of his possession and his expert fingers manipulating the rock hard tips of her nipples.

  Just that, just there—

  I love this too much ...

  Dear heaven... I would subjugate myself to his will forever for this pleasure—

  I can't... I shouldn't—

  I want to ...

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  Women have done this for centuries—given themselves up to this naked carnality.... I could do it—it's all mine, already. He chose me. He's given it to me....

  I can't, I can't, I can't...

  What is the victory in submitting to him? What will he have learned?

  What have you learned?

  She made a deep guttural sound of approval. Whatever he was doing, she didn't want him to stop. Even watching him could not explain the mystery of how his fondling her nipples produced this cataclysmic jolt of pleasure. How his delicate circling of her aureolae made her want to melt.

  "Promise you will always be naked for me," he whispered in her ear.

  "Promise you'll always play with my nipples like this ..." she breathed. It was a spell, she thought. Her response to him was contrary to everything she'd vowed to accomplish by undertaking this subjugation in the first place.

  Never could she have imagined she would be so enthralled by him, by his touch, his sex, his ability to give her pleasure. Never had she dreamed she would be talking to him like this, begging him to take her naked nipples whenever he wanted, craving, pleading for the incessant penetration of his rock of a penis.

  It was so deeply rooted in her now, she didn't want to move, and she couldn't help moving as his fingers teased and tantalized her nipples.

  And then suddenly he rolled onto his back, taking her with him so that she lay sprawled on his body, with his penis still hard, thick, and connecting them deep in her core.

  He worked her breasts, cupping them, palming them, rubbing his hands over her nipples and then immediately seeking the hard tips once more to just hold them.

  Softly, delicately, he held each of her nipples in between two fingers so that she could just feel the pressure. Just feel the voluptuous sensation of him possessing them like that.

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  Watching him in the mirror as he positioned his fingers just so around her nipples. Seeing them move as one as he undulated himself deeper inside her, her legs draped widely over his thighs, and he still holding those hard tips, breathless, soft, gentle, meaningfully there...

  And then he squeezed, and it was like hot gold roaring through her veins, slow, thick, bright wave after overlapping wave of sensation, cascading down to her very core and drowning in the backwash of his explosive climax.

  She was awash again in his cream. She felt him shift her onto her side again so that they were facing the mirror. Felt him rock hard inside her, not nearly depleted by that galvanic orgasm. Felt his insatiable possession of her undiminished.

  She closed her eyes. How could she give this up? She didn't have to give this up. Of course she had to give this up. The point of the exercise was to induce him to choose her.

  And then reject him as he had rejected a hundred others be

  fore her.

  How could she reject this unspeakable carnality between them? Men died for it; women destroyed their lives for it, and here she had it, given to her on his will and whim just because she had been that little bit different, that much more responsive.

  And he would make it legal; he would call her his wife.

  She hadn't counted at all on this dilemma. She had supposed she would hate everything about succumbing to him. She had thought she would be pretending, that everything he would want to do to her would be utter anathema to her.

  She hadn't even supposed she would get as far as his bedroom, in truth, given the two other candidates' greater experience with men.

  And yet here she was, and she must revile the thing she most desired in the name of all the women he had ever compromised. That was her vow and her promise, and his seductive eroticism was totally beside the point.

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  She felt a shudder of regret. She almost couldn't bear looking at them in the mirror, and yet, what memories would she have after but those reflected back to her in these lone, carnal moments.

  And there she was, connected to him, cosseted by him, drenched with his come, cradled in his hands.

  Or was she there? She still wore the veil. He still referred to her as Chaste. There was no kissing or petting, or a moment when she was not naked to him or he to her.

  In the raw light of the room, she was just a body, a cunt, and one that was p
articularly susceptible to him.

  He knew her not other than as a vessel, a repository of his seed.

  This was the end, then, for every woman he had ever known. This was what she must remember, not the shattering pleasure, or the ache to be possessed by his stallion of a penis.

  No, the thing about Wick was his careless, heartless obliteration of a woman's identity in subjugation to his carnal needs. And if her desire was in concert with his, why then, he would praise her to the sky and pay her more than an hour's worth of attention.

  So long as she kept him occupied.

  Yes, that was the thing. That was Wick. And did she stay and truly become his wife, it would be one thing after another just like that when he became tired of her.

  She had to go.

  She absolutely had to go, because women did not leave Wick—he abandoned them. Carelessly. Heartlessly. With thousands of pounds of jewels to console them. But still, he abandoned them.

  So it could not hurt that she would reject him. It would do wonders for her pride if nothing else, and then Innocenta could have another shot at him, once it was revealed, in an underground way, that her union with him was not to be.

  Oh—the torrent of regret threatened to drown her.

  But a man like Wick would never come to heel, never be-

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  have, never believe that there was honor in family and marriage and staying a faithful course.

  And she must, by her leaving him, honor every woman of whom he had taken advantage who had believed he might be changed.

  Chapter Eight

  "Where is she?"

  Wick bolted to the door, his roar echoing down the hallway. The empty hallway. Somewhere a clock struck five in the dead silence. The empty silence.

  "Wilton!" He did not stand on ceremony with her, or try to dress before she entered the room. Nor did he even try to hide his convulsive anger. "Where is the woman?"

  "Sir?" He didn't intimidate her. She'd had years of coping with his whims and wants and tantrums. "And how would I know?"

  "How wouldn't you?" he growled. "You know everything that goes on in this house. Where is she?"

  "I don't know."

  "Find out," he bit out succinctly, and reached for his trousers, shirt, and boots. He didn't even stop to wash or bathe, he was in such a fury; he wanted the scent of that bitch all over him, and her betrayal to seep into his very pores.

  Now for Ellingham, that son of a bitch.

  "My dear Wick," Ellingham said conciliatingly as he was unconscionably routed out of bed. "This is no way to treat a guest, especially your best friend and prime procurer." He shook his head as he began to comprehend Wick's agitation. "What do you mean, where is she? Where is who?"

  "The pristine piece you vetted as pure and pink with pussy

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  to please. She's gone, do you hear me? Left my bed, my house, and my heft—mine—and who knows where she's gone, or what lies she's spreading besides her legs. Damn it to hell and Haliburton ... get out of bed, Ellingham! It's your head, literally and figuratively. I'll lop it off if you don't tell me who she is and where she's gone."

  "Now, now, Wick, don't jump your fences. You don't yet know she's not in the house—in the kitchen, perhaps, or the library ..."

  Wick threw him a baleful glance, but Ellingham wasn't even looking; he was too busy pulling on his clothes and fussing. "At five in the morning, you dolt? I think not. Who is she, Ellingham?"

  "Dear God, you chose the chit to be your wife—you mean to say you never asked her name?" Ellingham was appalled. This was behavior over and beyond, even for Wick. To fuck the girl day and night, and never even want to know who she was? Even as he was conceivably planting his seed?

  Too distasteful. He didn't want to think of it. The girl was in the house, she had to be. "Did you never even remove that damned veil?"

  "Why would I want to?" Wick answered insolently. "She was beautiful, pliable, and her cunt was hot and eager to please. What else did I need to know?"

  "Her goddamned name, you jack shit. You're going to marry her, for God's sake. This is too much, even for you, Wick."

  "I want her back ..." Wick bit out, and then amended, "in my bed."

  "You want a hot blowhole," Ellingham muttered. "And for that, either of the two flat-backs you sent home would do."

  "I—want—her."

  "Ah ..." Ellingham breathed. "Her."

  "Who is she?"

  "She is Chaste, she is Diana, and she's gone to the sun."

  "Ellingham ..." His tone brooked no argument, his hands

  Her Lord and Master / 219

  flexed as if he wanted to crunch Ellingham against the nearest wall. "Who—is—she?"

  "Violence will get you nowhere," Ellingham chided. "Remember, there are great sums of money at stake here, and the honor of queen and country."

  “Who is she?"

  "Someone, perhaps, too good for you."

  "I—will—kill you...."

  "It will kill me to tell you—I rather enjoy seeing you sweat for a change."

  "I will rather enjoy sweating the life out of you, my dear friend. That woman will be back in my bed within the day, and will be my wife within the month. Whether she wills it or not. That was the agreement, and I do not want to think this has been an elaborate practical joke on your part because the consequences would be beyond your comprehension."

  Now there was a threat that made him just a little afraid. Wick's consequence in society was above the angels no matter what his behavior. It was the money, the title, the lineage, the connections. It was any number of intangible things, among them the glitter that rubbed off on anyone associated with him.

  It was the most potent of threats, as far as Ellingham was concerned. He'd had too much fun being Wick's acolyte and factotum, and he wouldn't defend Chaste as far as it would take for Wick to rescind his friendship.

  There were limits, after all.

  But to see Wick in such an uproar was highly entertaining, and something that would be forever for his delectation alone. And something with which he could blackmail him anytime he needed the upper hand.

  "Hold easy, my dear Wick. It is too early to storm the barricades in any event. You truly don't yet know she's gone. Let us look first, take some breakfast, calm down, and then, if necessary, we'll confront the lioness in her den."

  * * *

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  "Did he kiss you?"

  Now it was Jenise's turn to wallow in the blue room. And blue didn't adequately describe what she was feeling the morning after she came reeling home, half dressed and half sunk in remorse.

  God, what it had taken to get out of the environs of Wick's domain, and even then, all her luck had depended on a moonstruck stable boy who thought the whole runaway adventure was romantic and never gave a thought to Wick's wrath should he discover the boy's complicity.

  She had slept, had some breakfast, slept some more, and now, in the early evening hour of the day she left Wick, she felt as if a month had passed.

  And then there was Julia, ever solicitous, knowing Wick, and wanting to know all the gory details.

  Well, she could spare her that, at least. "No, he didn't. Kiss me." Liar—he had, but could you call licking a dollop of cream off his tongue a kiss—really... ?

  And then his fingers, probing, feeling... don't think about it—don't let yourself remember...

  "Did he touch you?" There was a tremor in Julia's voice as she asked that question.

  Damn. But she should have expected that question too, Jenise thought futilely. The trick was—no details. Less was more, especially in Julia's case.

  "I liked it not," she answered, her voice carefully neutral. Not a hint of how much she had craved his touch after... with? .. . dessert. "It was not worth the hoops he put us through to discover that fifty thousand a year would be no compensation for a bartered marriage."

  "He touched you." Julia's voice was wispy now
, like a candle that had been snuffed.

  "What did you expect?" Jenise demanded, suddenly out of patience. "He is seeking a wife. Someone he will surely make demands of. Someone he will touch and kiss and ..."

  ... will not care who she is as long as she spreads her legs for him willingly, endlessly . . .

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  ... I am that woman—

  And I can never tell...

  But he hadn't removed the veil either. And he hadn't wanted anything more than complete and total access to her most intimate naked parts. Even now, the day after her return, her body reeked with the scent of him because she would not wash it off. She wanted it to soak into her skin, her very vitals.

  She never wanted to forget, but what it was she didn't want to forget, she did not want to define.

  "Oh," Julia said faintly. "Oh."

  "You did say ..." Jenise began simultaneously.

  "Yes, I did. I'm sorry. I just—I want..."

  "... to know," Jenise finished for her. "Of course you do, having come so close yourself to being annihilated by him. He is lethal, he is dangerous, he is seductive, and spoiled and evil beyond repair. And I am just as happy to have escaped the vile fate of possibly having been chosen as the one he would take to wife."

  "Who was, then?" Julia demanded, brightening. Here was news, here was gossip, and she might even be the first to know.

  Oh Lord. The traps ... There was no answer for this question; it was a quagmire, pure and simple, and she must skim the surface in order to reach the other side.

  "He kept us sequestered. We didn't know each other's names. He interacted with us individually. It was the wisest course because whoever was not chosen must be able to return to society with her reputation intact. It was the one commendable thing about the whole process ..." Jenise trailed off.

  Such lies. Even now, her body pulsated with need. This time last night, in the mirror, she had been naked in his bed, slave to his magic hands, and that was all, in the aftermath, she was going to remember.

  That was the curse: her body craved his hands and the possessive ram of his penis, and no reality about him would ever touch that.