Diamond in the Rogue

by Wendy Lacapra

  She smiled on the inside. “Impractical, however.”

  “I’m not interested in being practical. I’m interested in my visual gratification. In this case, the palatable presentation of my wife’s breasts.” He lifted his gaze. “I’m also interested in you, on your knees, with my cock in your mouth…” His lip curled. “And then, I expect I’ll be interested in dessert—namely, you, bent over and secured to the table.”

  She forgot how to breathe. She had him, now—all of him.

  He gripped her by the hips, rubbing his fingers in small circles just above her posterior and below her waist. His touch wasn’t soft but deep, almost painful. And yet, her tension melted into his hands.

  “I’ll leave the choice to you, however. Shall I carry you upstairs and take you like a proper wife between proper sheets? Or…are you going to kneel?”

  The ache in her breasts wasn’t proper, nor was her watering mouth. Together, they wouldn’t ever be proper…only perfectly imperfect as one.

  She sank to her knees, intensely aware of everything—his muscled thighs against her shoulders, the ripped stays, the feel of her stockings, the presence of the table at her back, and the hard wood now beneath her knees.

  He made no move to help her with his falls. Instead he leaned back and again draped his hand across his lips, an undulated, positively feudal pose.

  Her hands trembled as she undid the buttons—three on each side. She slid her fingers beneath the slit in his drawers.

  He hummed low as she exposed him.

  Acutely aware of the indecency not only of pleasing him this way—but in the dining hall, no less, she took him into her mouth. His musky, male scent brimmed her senses, leaving awkwardness and hesitation behind.

  …

  His bane? The way her limbs had quivered as she kneeled. The only way he’d been able to continue his performance was to draw his still-wet knuckle against his mouth and inhale the scent of her desire. Proof she wanted this.

  Proof she loved every depraved thought that sprung into his mind.

  He’d spoken true—making a home had been his aim, but he stayed away longer than he needed, struggling with his baser desires.

  How could he be a gentleman when he wanted to treat his wife as a wanton mistress?

  He didn’t deserve her.

  And he certainly didn’t deserve the ecstatic feel of her mouth on his cock.

  As she struggled with his buttons, he thought she would give up, retreat—relieve them both by demanding a proper bed. But in an act of sublime, audacious submission, she’d continued on.

  Obedience, absolutely.

  Meekness, never.

  Just as he was performing—she was performing, too. His banshee hadn’t a servile bone in her body. Her erotic hunger flowered in the expectation of a very specific end.

  His heart, stripped bare.

  She wished to blunt his edges, bleed away the protective armor that kept him whole. He doubted she could succeed, but, oh, how he wanted her to try.

  She only knew the half of what she faced. She hadn’t fully seen the inky substance that pumped through his veins in place of blood. Still, he’d twisted the spigot and let the shadows she demanded flow.

  He held her cheeks in place and jerked his hips so his cock touched the roof of her mouth. Perfection—until she nearly gagged. He yanked out and bent down, keeping hold of her face as he rocked his forehead against hers.

  “I wasn’t finished,” she panted.

  “I decide.” She truly wanted all he could give. “Don’t speak unless I ask.”

  She nodded.

  He caressed her dusk-hued cheek and softened his voice. “If you get too scared—if it’s too much…” He really shouldn’t be doing this. “Just make a fist and bang three times on the table.” He pulled the hair back from her face. “I’ll stop—no questions, no disappointment, no anger. Do you understand?”

  She nodded a second time.

  “Show me.”

  She made a fist and rapped three times against the floor.

  “You have it.”

  He hung his head, breathing heavy, all his coiled need snaking into his limbs, jaws fully bared. He lifted her to standing, turned her wobbling legs around, and draped her, facedown, over the table.

  He’d never liked this tablecloth, but her? He squeezed the tip of his cock and winced until the pain passed.

  Now, for the trussing. He crouched on the floor and rolled down the right stocking. Her leg shook as he tied it securely to the table. He listened. No rap. He proceeded to secure her other leg in the same manner. Then he stood back.

  Nice. Very nice. But not thoroughly satisfying. Yet.

  He drew one arm above her head, then the other. When she was fully stretched, he gathered both napkins and shook them out. Linked together, they were ample enough. He loosely secured her wrists. She had to be able to make a fist, if she must.

  He lowered down onto his haunches and searched her gaze—no distress. Only vigilance. Alert anticipation. She had the heart of an angel, soul of a wanton, and she’d chosen him. Astounding good fortune on his part.

  But his power was borrowed, meant to be returned, repaid—with interest—as devotion.

  Slowly he rounded the table, then flipped up her chemise.

  She whimpered.

  “Remember the signal?”

  She nodded, bunching the tablecloth beneath her turned chin.

  He reclaimed the master’s seat, doubting that of all the ruthless bastards that had sat in this very chair, any had ever been served anything so mouthwateringly exquisite.

  He inched the chair forward, admiring at his leisure.

  Patience was part of the game. Deliberate, studied, occasional pained restraint on his part—and on hers, calibrated attention, curbed impulse, delayed—but ultimately convulsing—gratification.

  None of which would come, for Julia in particular, without struggle.

  He watched her make minor adjustments as she found her comfort—she lifted her depressed hips, rose to her toes, braced her knees against the table legs.

  Her slight wiggle—and the moan that followed—pulsed achingly in his balls.

  Her rocked torso confirmed what he suspected…she’d discovered the pleasurable sensation of a silky tablecloth against her nipples.

  Enough of Julia wasn’t ever a state he expected to experience.

  “Are you just going to look?” she demanded.

  The side of his lip lifted—she’d given him the perfect excuse to test the receptivity of those delightfully curved cheeks.

  “I said not to speak.” He flattened his palm and lightly whacked.

  Ah, the noise she made—a small gasp that melted into a wanton moan.

  She fisted her hand. He held his breath. He’d taken a risk in order to feel that tingle in his fingers and see the bright pink stain across her posterior cheek.

  She lowered her splayed hands flat against the table with no other sound but a wrenching belly sigh.

  “Shall I give you another?”

  She nodded.

  He cupped his hand to ease the sting and wacked again, harder.

  She bunched the tablecloth in her hands, tucked down her chin, and lifted her ass—all the encouragement he required. He met her unspoken request, alternating short, swift swats with caresses that ended with his prickling fingers dipped into her wet.

  When both cheeks were pleasantly warmed, he settled his thumbs into the indentations in her lower back—a touch he knew from experience would quiet her mind. He manipulated her muscle in slow, hard circles until her shoulders visibly relaxed and she turned her face back to the side.

  He’d planned to bring her to satisfaction with his tongue—but he couldn’t wait.

  “I’m going to penetrate you now.” A warning, not a question.<
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  He grasped her hips and slid inside.

  He bent over her body, content, for the moment, to be fully gloved in smooth heat. He kissed her spine, her neck, her shoulder. He braced his palm at the side of her face, startled when she licked and then lightly bit his thumb.

  Reflexively, he bucked; her inner muscles clenched.

  He wedged his other hand beneath her breast, kneading and pumping as she panted.

  The last sounds he recalled were the rattling cutlery, her cries, and his deep-throated wail of shattering surrender.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Rayne withdrew, blinking. Slowly, the red haze cleared, and he became aware of the candles burning in their sconces and then the empty bowls on the sideboard. The toppled glasses of champagne, by some miracle, hadn’t broken, though they’d both rolled dangerously close to opposite edges of the table.

  He combed the fingers of both his hands through his hair, staring down in shock as if the handprints on his wife’s rear had been made by someone else. Then, he uttered her favorite oath.

  She rapped against the table.

  Devil take him now.

  “Speak”—good God—“say anything you like.” His hands remained on either side of his head.

  “Um…maybe you could untie my legs?”

  Fuck. “Yes! Yes of course.”

  He went to his knee and worked at one far-too-intricate knot and gave up. Just how desperate had he been that she not escape? He hunted around the floor until he found a knife. Then, he cut her right leg free.

  “Rayne! Those were my best stockings!”

  He didn’t even bother to save the other. “I’ll buy you more. Any number.” He helped her up. “I’m sorry.”

  “Whatever for? That was…perfect.” She turned, presenting her bound wrists. “I’m not sorry at all.”

  He glanced up in disbelief and then went back to working the knot.

  She hummed thoughtfully. “I’ve never been spanked before.”

  Of course she hadn’t. The one child in all of England. He freed her hands.

  “Interesting at the time.” She rubbed her rear. “Still stings, though. Will it sting for long?”

  “Fuck,” he repeated.

  She giggled. “I believe we just did. Inspired idea, darling. Rather changed the atmosphere in here, don’t you think?”

  He was about to open his mouth to say God-knows-what when the outside door in the kitchen jerked loudly against the jamb.

  “I know you are in there!”

  “That’s Markham!” Julia exclaimed. “Hades, Zeus, and Poseidon! I didn’t hear a carriage. Did you?

  He hadn’t heard anything at all but her moans.

  “Lapin!”

  “And Clarissa.” Rayne could just make out the voice. “She knows where I hide the key.”

  Julia winced. “Then you had better get down there fast.”

  “Right.” He headed toward the stairs.

  “Rayne!”

  He glanced over his shoulder, gripping the doorway.

  She gazed pointedly at his cock. “Your falls?”

  “Fuck.” He turned away, buttoning as he slipped down the stairs.

  The door flew open. His sister and new brother-in-law—twice over—staggered in from the cold air.

  “Markham!” Rayne blocked the stair. “We…ah…weren’t expecting guests.”

  Clarissa placed a hand on her seething husband’s shoulder. By some miracle, Markham froze.

  Rayne planted a swift kiss on his sister’s cheek. “Hello, Clarissa.”

  “Hello.” Her lips twitched. “You missed a button,” she added more softly.

  “Let me do as I mean to do,” Markham said to his wife. “I told you I was going to kill him.”

  “If you kill him, how will we find Julia?” Clarissa asked.

  “I’ve no doubt my death is your aim,” Rayne added. “However, consider the mischief Julia could unleash on the unsuspecting ton if she were a widow.”

  “So it’s true,” Clarissa said.

  “We wed,” Rayne explained. “In Scotland.”

  “I knew you would do the right thing,” Clarissa continued. “I had hoped you’d plan a proper wedding, of course, but married is married. Just think, Markham, our children will be double cousins.”

  Markham glanced askance. “I welcomed him back into my home—”

  “Our home,” Clarissa corrected.

  “And invited him to our wedding.”

  Clarissa nodded. “Much better, my dear.”

  “And all the while”—Markham’s voice ramped up again—“he was planning to abduct my sister!”

  “Well, you did marry mine,” Rayne pointed out.

  Markham shoved him. His back hit the baluster, and then he braced himself against the stair as Markham advanced for another blow.

  “Markham, stop! Please.” Clarissa again.

  “I’d listen to your wife,” Rayne suggested.

  “Not helpful, Rayne.” Clarissa turned her gaze on him. “I’m sure you can appreciate that Markham has concerns for his sister’s well-being.”

  Rayne glanced up the stairwell. “Please take my word, my wife is in good health, but this isn’t a good time for a visit. As for my abducting Julia, it was, I assure you, quite the other way around.”

  “Impossible!” Markham barked.

  Clarissa squinted. “Are you sure? If I had to pick a lady who I thought could manage to abduct an earl, my money would be on Julia.”

  “I’m sure he made her think all of this was her idea.” Markham narrowed his eyes on Rayne. “As for Julia being your wife, I’ll have it annulled. Just after I have you arrested.”

  “You will do no such thing, Percy Stanley!” Julia called down the stair.

  Rayne closed his eyes at the sound of his wife’s voice.

  “I like being Lady Rayne…most of the time.”

  With a feral growl, Markham shoved Rayne aside and bounded up the stairs.

  Clarissa lifted a brow. “This is about to get worse, no?”

  “We’ll soon see.” He stepped aside. “After you.”

  “My, my…how chivalrous.” Her lips twitched as she passed. “What other new leaves have you turned over?”

  “Too many at once, I think.”

  Together, they reached the landing. Just inside the door, Markham held Julia, repeatedly mumbling, “Thank God!”

  “See now?” Clarissa called out to her husband. “I told you that you needn’t worry. Julia is healthy and sound.” Her gaze slid to Rayne. “And—no doubt—perfectly capable of taking care of my brother.”

  “Just what had he expected to find?” Rayne asked under his breath.

  Clarissa surveyed the room and then quirked a brow in his direction. “Exactly this scene, I suspect. Minus the nuptials, of course. Good go, there. But really, Rayne, the bedchamber is only one floor up.”

  He grunted. “At least she managed to get dressed.”

  “I think I’ll busy myself while Markham is otherwise occupied.” Clarissa sidled over to the table, gently adjusting the tablecloth, righting the glasses, and then moving the chairs back into place. She lifted the pair of still-knotted napkins and raised her brows.

  Rayne glared.

  The cutlery, she mouthed.

  Rayne dropped to the floor, searching for the knives.

  “How could you?” Markham said to Julia. “You’ve broken Katherine’s heart, you know. She gave up everything so you could have a respectable marriage.”

  “Markham, I do have a respectable marriage.”

  “An anvil wedding”—Markham’s voice rose—“is hardly respectable.”

  “I’ll have you know, Rayne paid handsomely for a perfectly pleasant parlor, in a hall with a proper parson—Bible and all.”r />
  “Gretna Hall? Proper?” Markham made a dismissive noise. “Everyone knows that Laing fellow was impressed into John Paul Jones’s crew!”

  “Was he?” Julia laughed. “How marvelous! Well, Rayne, seems I delivered you to a pirate after all.”

  Rayne hit his head on the table. Clarissa snickered.

  “Pardon?” Markham frowned.

  “Never mind.” Julia waved her hand. “Colorful past or no, none of Mr. Laing’s marriages has ever been declared invalid.”

  “There’s always a first,” Markham said through his teeth.

  “Markham, I love my husband. I never stopped.”

  Rayne dropped his head and the spoon.

  Damn everything, his hand still tingled from smacking her bare buttocks. While she was tied…to his dining table.

  “You don’t love him.” Markham echoed Rayne’s own thoughts. “You love some idea you created.”

  Rayne slipped out from beneath the table and stood. “As I’ve tried to make her see.”

  “He’s a rake, Julia. A ruin. You’ll be humiliated. And for all his wealth, he’s done nothing to ensure his estate or tenants thrive. How can you begin to respect a man like that?”

  There, too, Rayne had no point to argue. No alternative truth to provide.

  “He’s right,” Rayne said roughly. “I am inherently cruel. And I never put an ounce of effort into this estate.”

  “You aren’t cruel!” Julia insisted. “And you’re putting in effort now. That’s all that matters.”

  Was it?

  Julia whacked Markham’s arm. “And I did abduct him, by the way.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Markham insisted.

  “You,” Rayne replied, “have always underestimated your sister.”

  “How dare you tell me anything about Julia.” Markham bared his teeth. “What could you possibly have learned in a fortnight? I’ve cared for her since she was a babe. I know you forced her into that carriage. She never would have gone willingly.” He snorted in disgust. “She hates the confines of a carriage.”

  Julia’s eyes went wide. “Markham, stop!”

  Pictures of Julia pale and shaking flipped through Rayne’s mind. “Why?”

  “Long rides make her usual nightmares even more vicious. They embody her worst fear—being trapped…unable to move.”