“I do not wish you to speak without permission, Mira.”
Alarm traced through her. She swallowed hard. “I—”
Slap. Then, slap!
That one stung a bit. She gasped.
“Do you understand?”
She opened her mouth to reply, then thought better of it and nodded. She hoped he could see it under all her hair.
Slap.
“When I ask you a question, I expect a swift and ready answer, Mira.”
She blinked back the heat behind her eyes. Don’t speak! Speak! “I understand!”
“You enjoyed displaying yourself in the window while I took you from behind.”
It wasn’t a question, yet it made her uncomfortable. She tried to squirm, but he merely pressed his hand holding her wrists down against the small of her back and she was pinned completely still.
His hard hand came down upon her bottom again, much harder. She bit back a yelp of surprise at the force of it, not sure if she cared for this new direction much at all. Yet the deep rich tingle left behind by his palm was like the “training” of her nipples, and made her squirm slightly on his lap. He must have realized this, for he caressed her bottom with gentle circles of his hand, soothing away the sting.
“You’ve enjoyed the wicked things we’ve done, haven’t you, Mira?”
She bit her lip, not sure how he wished her to answer. The slap of his hand on her bottom brought the truth from her in a gasp. “Yes!” She buried her face in the coverlet.
“Say it out loud.”
She turned her face and spoke the truth through the fall of her hair. “Yes … I’ve liked the … the wicked things we’ve done.”
“Enough to want more, I should imagine. More and more.” He didn’t seem to require an answer. His fingertips trailed thoughtfully over her buttocks, outlining each globe, slipping down into the crease between, then up again.
“You’ll allow me to do anything to you, won’t you? Anything I wish?”
She held her breath as his hand circled and soothed. Anything? Would she truly?
“Mira? Answer the question.”
Still she hesitated.
Slap.
She gasped. “Yes! Yes, I’ll let you do anything you wish to me!”
“You’re a wicked wanton creature, aren’t you, Mira?” His palm, hot as flame on her sensitized bottom, circled around and around the most tender section of her skin. “Say it. Tell me what you are.”
When she hesitated again, even knowing what would come from her pause, she realized that she wanted this. She indeed liked it, thrilled to being pinioned there, naked and helpless on his lap, while he, still fully clothed, held her there.
Master and slave.
Owner and willing, eager object of his desire.
Slap. Slap! Harder than ever before.
She cried out loud this time, then gasped out, “Yes! Yes, I’m a wicked, wanton creature!” Then, more softly, “I’m your wicked wanton creature.”
“Mine.” His circling soothing hand slipped down, down between her thighs, touching her, sliding along her labia. “You’re wet for me. You want this, don’t you?”
He slid a long finger deep into her, penetrating her slowly while she squirmed on his lap. Miranda flushed hotly. Yes, she wanted it. She liked being pinned down, held safe while he stroked into her, while he took her down into herself, into her own darkness, allowing her to enjoy what she ought not to enjoy, what should be wrong to enjoy.
He’d warned her of the dangers of such a journey, yet she trusted him, especially after his confession to her. This was play—wicked, deviant play, but play nonetheless.
And it was the very wickedness of the game that made her all the wetter.
I think I may have a talent for being wicked.
He thrust that long finger in again, deeper. She panted, helpless in his grasp, helpless to do anything but allow the sweet invasion.
This time when he withdrew that slick finger, soaked with her arousal, he used it to wet her clitoris. It throbbed at his touch, already swollen, already sensitive. She wanted to roll her hips, to move into that touch but she could not move. His grip on her wrists was not painful, but it was without mercy or quarter. He was in control and he meant for her to stay pinned.
With a shuddering sigh, she released into her imprisonment. The training would continue. She wanted it to continue. She ached for it to continue. The wicked, wanton creature inside her was dying to see where her master/lover would take her next.
He touched her softly, making tiny circles now, stroking her clitoris until she began to gasp and tremble and moan. Fast and faster still, until she came close to that sweet height, that cliff that she longed to willingly fling herself from to fall so sweetly—
Abruptly, he stopped, slipping his wet fingers away from her clitoris.
The spanking commenced once more. She was not permitted to speak so she whimpered and moaned and gasped as he “trained” her until her lip ached for being bitten and her bottom burned like fire.
He stopped, just as she thought she might just break her silence and beg him to cease.
His hand, hot from striking her flesh, rubbed softly over her sore skin, soothing and stroking, circling wider and wider until his hand slipped between her thighs once more.
She nearly wept with relief as his fingers lingered at the slippery gate to her vagina.
Slowly he penetrated her again, thrusting his longest finger deep, again and again, taking her high once more. Then it was two fingers, thick and knobby, twisting within her, taking her breath away with the spin of sensation. Helplessly she could only toss her head on the coverlet, for he held her so firmly, she could not even buck into that wonderful, invading hand. She could not change its relentless pace as it forced her high again, higher, and yet higher—
He stopped, his hand slipping from her slowly.
“Nooo!”
He went very still. “What was that? Do you defy me, Mira?”
Oh no. Oh yes. She caught at her lip with her teeth, holding silent, waiting. The hand lifted. She began to shiver with anticipation and, yes, a tiny bit of fear. Her clitoris throbbed. Her labia swelled and pulsed hot with every beat of her heart. She wanted … wanted.…
He spanked her hard, so very hard, three times in quick succession.
She came.
Immediately that hand moved, his sure fingers reaching between her thighs for her clitoris, stroking swiftly. At once, her orgasm doubled in intensity, carrying her up in a hot relentless rise, no sweet release allowed. He forced her to the height again at once, his touch implacable and merciless. She cried out wordless protest, even as she came again and again.
At last, he stopped. She lay limply across his lap, gasping and, yes, even sobbing into the coverlet, her eyes wet.
Through the haze of jolting aftershocks, she was astonished at herself. Why did she weep? Pain? No, her body didn’t hurt, not really. Her bottom stung fiercely, her skin tight and hot, and her nipples were sore and aching, but these weren’t tears of pain or debasement either. She didn’t feel abused. She felt free. He freed her when he dominated her so. He freed her from doubt, from worry that she ought not to be doing what she was doing. When she handed him her will, she also handed him responsibility for what happened next.
It wasn’t a lifelong decision. It was a mere moment out of time—a brief moment when the decisions were his, where the intention was his, where she was could relax into being the simple sexual creature he required her to be.
Open.
What a beautiful relief.
He released his grasp about her wrists, and her arms slid down so that she dangled limply across him, sated, so sweetly calm deep down within her soul.
His large hands stroked gently down her naked back over her stinging bottom, down her damp, parted thighs. She allowed herself a moment to simply breathe, to simply be. A gift.
She wanted to return that gift. With trembling arms beneath her for support, she pus
hed herself upright. He aided her, strong arms lifting her to sit on his lap. She shivered at the sensation of his broadcloth trousers against the naked, throbbing sensitized skin of her bottom. He held her close, burying his face in her hair. She felt his rigid erection against her hip, trapped hard and tight inside his trousers. He shook as he held her, trembling with lust withheld. Withheld while he’d satisfied her over and over again.
She wanted him, too. The spike of sudden lust surprised her. Had she not been entirely satisfied just a few moments ago? She swarmed into him, enjoying the feel of his clothing on her skin, his surcoat that rubbed rough on her aching nipples and the still-fastened buttons of his weskit that felt cold against her skin. Naked against clothed. The contrast was delightful.
It gave her an idea.
Could she manage it? Miranda tested her limbs surreptitiously. Yes, she felt stronger already. Perhaps it was time for her to take charge after all. Wouldn’t he like a moment of sweet relief?
So she wrapped her arms about his neck and brought him in for a long, hot, wet kiss. She had never kissed as the aggressor before and she found she liked the power of driving her tongue between his lips, of pressing in close. She wrapped both arms around his neck, holding him in place.
Using his shoulders for leverage, she opened her legs and sat astride him, facing him. This had the added benefit of forcing her aching, rigid nipples into the silk of his weskit, and letting her labia press against the massive bulge in his trousers.
His arms came about her at once, gripping her bottom and pulling her in tight.
She lifted her mouth from his. “No,” she commanded in a whisper. “Don’t touch me. Not at all.”
He hesitated. Then with a last squeeze of her reddened buttocks that made her gasp, he put his hands on the bed, leaning back on them a little, giving her room.
She kissed him as she’d always longed to kiss him—fully, with abandon and lust, kissing as a man kissed, demanding and invading. She dug her fingers into his hair and tugged hard as she assaulted his mouth.
His erection swelled impossibly further.
She writhed on him, letting the buttons and wool and silk dig into her flesh, loving the hard bite of the metal on her skin.
“My God,” he gasped against her mouth. “Mira, I need you!”
She lifted her head, frowning down at him, their faces dim and secret behind the curtain of her hair. “Say it,” she demanded. “Beg.”
His eyes dark and burning, his jaw tight with strain, he gasped the words. “Please, Mira! Please, let me take you. I need you now!”
She kissed him once more, a hot slippery battle of tongues and nibbling teeth.
Then she lifted her head. “No.”
He gaped up at her in disbelief. She smiled, a wicked vixen’s smile that came from some place she’d never before explored. “I’m going to take you.”
He let out a long shuddering breath. “Oh, damn!”
Her questing fingers found the buttons of his trousers. Though she fumbled a bit in her lust, soon she had him freed, falling hot and thick and so very hard in her hands. She squeezed once, a little harder than she ought, just to let him understand that this time, he was her creature.
He moaned aloud, letting his head fall back in surrender. Good.
She moved in, holding his straining cock with one hand, the other braced on his wide shoulder. She was so wet, so very past ready. She pressed the thick blunt tip of him into her and stayed there a moment, rolling it slightly, wetting it. Using her own slippery desire, she slid her hand up and down the length of him, slicking the satin iron of him, making him ready. Then she drove herself down onto him, piercing herself deep with his thickness in a single rich beautiful slide of pleasure/pain. He cried out, a wordless growl. She felt his body shift as if he meant to reach for her. She pulled his head up with her fingers tight in the curls of his hair and gazed commandingly into his eyes.
“Stay,” she ordered. He stayed.
Rising upon him, she used her thighs gripped tight around his hips, used her hands on his muscled shoulders, used the arch of her back. She rode him, rising and falling in a sweet hot mimicry of a gallop. He was her stallion now.
She drove him onward until she could no longer fight her own orgasm. She wanted to wait, to make him come, but her desire to command faded and her desire to reach completion rose. She rode him on and on, galloping hard toward her own satisfaction until she convulsed, arching back, keening out her bliss in a high animal howl. She felt herself quiver around his thickness, throbbing even more tightly within her.
It was more than he could bear. With a roar he broke his willing chains of obedience. Wrapping his arms tight about her waist, he held her still as he thrust upward into her hard, once, twice, thrice. She felt him come inside her as she hung shivering in his grasp, each of his shuddering moans translated to the thick throbbing of him inside her, giving her further deep, sweet tremors of satisfaction.
Gasping, dizzy, trembling with exhaustion, she found herself pulled close. He tucked her hot face into his neck, leaning her limp body on the solid support of his wide chest.
Still impaled upon him, still naked against his clothed form, she shuddered rhythmically to his heartbeat, echoed in the throbbing of his thick cock inside her as her own tempest faded softly away.
Chapter Twenty-two
Cas brought a fresh cloth from the washing bowl, wetted with cool water, to the bed. He drew back the covers and cleansed her with tender hands. Roused, she rolled her head to smile at him, lifting one languid hand to push back her tousled hair.
“Thank you,” she murmured sleepily. “You always take such good care of me.”
Cas could only watch her as her lids fell once more and her smile relaxed into a pout of sleep. While she lay there on her side, partially curled, still naked, he looked upon his handiwork.
Her bottom glowed red. He could see the distinct imprint of his hand in at least two areas. Her nipples were still rigid and deep pink. He imagined her wincing slightly the next time she dressed, feeling him all over her sensitized body. His pulse quickened at the mere thought.
He was entirely astonished at himself. He’d never struck a woman in his life, yet he’d pinned her down and spanked her again and again. True, he’d meant it as play in the beginning, or perhaps a test, to discern the depth of her alleged willingness.
Or punishment, for her allowing Poll to touch her when she belonged to him.
He did not wish to believe that of himself but the notion would not fade—nor would the arousal it gave him.
He’d not supposed even for a moment that she would permit it, that she would allow matters to go so far—that she would trust him so much that she would allow him to enact his deepest, most private fantasy upon her willing flesh.
The actual experience had been everything he could have hoped it would be. The feel of her flesh quivering, the sound of his hand on her sweet round bottom, the noises she had made, whimpers of pain and pleasure and aching, wordless protest. She had liked it as much as he had. He’d made her so wet and hot inside, so ready.
He’d stolen her orgasms like a thief, forcing her to give them over and over again, savoring her submission, savoring her sweet helpless lust. He’d wanted to flip her over then and there, spread her legs and drive himself into her, but he’d still been fully clothed.
Clever, naughty Mira to have come up with such a wickedly satisfying solution to his dilemma.
He’d been so proud of her as she rode him. She’d been extraordinary, hot and glowing with power, taking him as he’d imagined taking her. She was so beautiful—and so very, very animal.
Perhaps as much of an animal as he had become.
* * *
Miranda did not sleep, although she let Cas tend her as if she did.
His touch was as careful and tender as it had previously been dominant and unyielding. Allowing him to perform such intimate cleansing was one of the easiest and hardest things she had ever done.
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Her trust was absolute. She knew him, knew with every drop of blood in her veins that he loved her, that he would never harm her.
What she didn’t understand was how she knew it.
Nor could she reconcile the arrogant, rude man whom she’d initially disliked with this fierce and tender lover.
At last he put away the cloth and lay down beside her, pulling her to his chest so that her head tucked beneath his chin. The sigh that came from him was the sigh of a man coming home.
Miranda was silent for a moment, tracing the circles of his waistcoat buttons with one finger. Then she could keep her curiosity at bay no longer. “May I ask you a question, Cas?”
He smiled. “Of course.”
She gave a tiny snort. “There is no ‘of course’ about it. The two of you almost always turn my questions aside with a jest or a fascinating tale of the Wild Worthingtons.”
Cas had no doubt that she was right, about both him and Poll. It was mostly habit, for two young bachelors with dubious means had to remain as entertaining as possible, if they wished to be invited back.
Habit for Poll and, for him, part of his mask.
A viper of uneasiness commenced to twine in his belly, but he only nodded. “Go on,” he teased.
She hesitated for a moment, then lifted her gaze to his. “There is something I wish to know and if you cannot answer, then don’t. I only want the truth.”
He went still at her seriousness. “I will answer, if I can.”
She ran light fingers down the buttons of his waistcoat. “What happened with that woman?”
She felt him smile against her hair. “She was almost blown up in an alleyway.”
She tugged assertively on his weskit. “Answer or don’t, but do not pretend that I am not asking what I am asking.”
“Ah.” He didn’t wish to tell her and yet, he longed to be as honest with her as she was with him. She had given him a gift with her beautiful, constant truth. He had taken it all without a single confession of his own.
“It is not a pretty story.”
She merely watched him, waiting. Those eyes were fathoms deep.
And Then Comes Marriage Page 19
