by Lily Harlem
“I have to do this,” he said. “If I could bear this pain for you I promise on my life I would. I would take it ten times, a hundred times over to save you the torment.” He pushed in further still.
A whip of fire was released inside me, scorching my most tender female flesh. “No,” I said. “It hurts too much.” My eyes were moistening.
“We’re nearly there,” he said, grabbing my chin with his thumb and fingers and forcing me to face him. “Just… a… little… bit…” As he spoke he pressed his weight harder onto me, keeping me secured on the slippery bed sheets as he impaled me relentlessly. “Just… a… little… bit… more.” Something inside of me was like a taut elastic band, waiting to snap. I couldn’t stretch any further. He didn’t seem to care that I couldn’t accommodate his enormous penis and he kept on pressing upwards into my trapped body.
I stared up into his eyes, panic and pain mixing inside me, but what I saw in his unblinking depths calmed and soothed me. He was determined on his mission but I also saw love and tenderness pouring from him like a reassuring caress. I believed he would have borne my pain if he could.
A single tear, filled with hurt and emotion, escaped the outer corner of my left eye and trickled towards my ear. Out of all the thoughts I had entertained about my wedding night hurting like this had not been one of them. He ducked his head and caught the salty drip on the tip of his tongue, murmured something soothing that I didn’t quite catch and hitched his hips higher still.
Then suddenly I could house him. Whatever was stopping us fitting together gave way, broke, flesh parted and he was sliding in easily.
I jerked in reflex and cried out with the scissor-like pain.
His lips captured mine, hungry and firm. He swallowed my subsequent cries in a passionate kiss, drowning them out with his own lusty groans.
He rode to the hilt on a long, wet slide. Our private hairs meshed and I could feel my internal walls clenching around him. I didn’t know what had happened, and although I was smarting a wave of relief washed through me. We did fit, it was tight, and an effort, but he was inside me, for the very first time.
“The pain is over,” he said, pushing up onto straight arms and looking down at our joined bodies. “It’s only like that the first time, I promise.”
I dragged in a breath and tasted sweat in the air between us. I followed his line of sight and looked down over his tense, glistening chest and his taut stomach. My knees were bent and my legs fastened to his hips as we connected like a key in a lock. He was buried deep inside me and I couldn’t see any of his manhood. Only our hairs had tangled together. It was the most erotic sight I had ever seen and a bubble of lust popped in my stomach. The sharpness of moments ago was easing, and as he withdrew a little and smoothed back in I felt as though he was stroking a hurt.
He looked back up at my face. “Am I still paining you?” he asked, concern washing over his features.
I shook my head.
He dropped back onto his elbows and buried his face in my neck. He began to rock in long graceful movements, our bodies settling into a natural rhythm. I gasped and shot my arms down to his waist, pressed my hands into the dips of his lean buttocks. The hardness of his pelvic bone had connected with the place he’d expertly worked on earlier and the demanding buzz had returned. Like a craving, an addiction, I needed more. I curled my legs over his thighs, flexed my feet and trapped him in position.
He appeared encouraged by my response, withdrew then pushed in again exerting even more pressure on my sensitive bud.
“It’s back…” I gasped.
“What is?” he breathed into my hair.
“That… that hungry feeling.” I shifted my hips a fraction and the sensation intensified.
He lifted his head and leant his damp forehead against mine. “That was the plan,” he whispered in a strained voice. “Now just enjoy… I know I will be.”
I didn’t need that instruction. I tightened my hold on him and braided us in a knot of flesh. He kissed me again, hard and urgent, his tongue frantic as his earthy flavour filled my mouth. I moaned in a way I never had before; in a way that would have deeply embarrassed me in the light of day.
The pressure was mounting as he continued his ride into my depths. A maddening yearning took hold of my entire lower body. I couldn’t bear the thought of him stopping the way he had before. I needed a conclusion, a release. I felt crazy inside, I was melting. Darcy was consuming every one of my thoughts and senses. A crescendo of emotion and physical abandonment was about to unravel in the most glorious way.
I clenched my internal muscles around him. He groaned and picked up the pace, thrusting and pounding to a wild new beat. The gentle edge of his actions had deserted him. He was as intent on the climax of our volatile union as I was.
I gave myself up to it. “Don’t stop,” I cried, dragging my hand through his hair, down his neck and over his shoulder. “I beg you, don’t stop.” I wanted to touch every bit of him at once.
He didn’t answer, instead he ground all the harder, his tongue probing my mouth in time with his invasion down below. This frantic new speed brought me as high as I could possibly go and suddenly the newly discovered point between my legs burst into a bloom of throbbing ecstasy, toppling me over the edge of the wall I had been climbing so frenetically. My internal flesh began to pulsate, dragging every muscle upwards, downwards, left and right. My breathing turned ragged around Darcy’s tongue and it was difficult to catch enough air to sustain myself.
He stopped his energetic kissing, trapped my face between his hands and stared into my eyes. In the pinnacle of my physical pleasure I had no control of my expression. Nothing else existed in my world except the joining of our bodies and my delicious response to his. I must have looked reckless, wild, out of control. I didn’t care.
He continued to rock hard against me, studying my face. He smoothed my messy hair back with his hands. I was vibrating around him, clenching and gripping his hot, hard length. I lifted my legs and crossed my ankles in the small of his back. I was panting hard. My breasts were squashed up against his chest, my fingernails digging into him.
I tilted my hips, sent him deeper still and something inside him seemed to snap, give way. He pulled out of me and then pounded back in, shifting me right up the bed as he let out a primitive grunt. Then he stilled with his neck arched and his face lifted.
Still pulsating with my own pleasure, I watched as his eyes screwed tight shut, his lips pulled back and the cords on his neck stood out like straining ropes holding a ship in a storm.
“Yes, Lord above, yes, yes,” he hissed between clenched teeth.
Under my hands his muscles turned to marble.
“Oh, dear, sweet, Lizzie.”
He pulled out and then shoved back in, hard and fast. Then he was throbbing within me and his head dropped heavily into my neck as if no longer able to support itself.
I was aware of a hot, flooding sensation as he let out a long tremble that shook his entire being and vibrated into mine. I nibbled his ear lobe and tasted the saltiness of his sweat as he gave another long, profound shudder.
Our hearts were pounding against one another, our breaths rapid and noisy. “How are you?” he gasped, not bothering to lift his head from where it had slipped into a stack of haphazardly piled pillows.
“Perfect,” I said, equally breathless and absorbing every quiver his body produced.
“That makes me very happy to hear.” He finally stilled though he was still breathing hard.
I pulled at my lip with my teeth and turned my head to a darkened corner of the room. “Did I please you?” I asked.
“Elizabeth…” He raised his head and searched out my eyes. “You could not have been more responsive nor more exquisite. Every tiny detail about you is utterly perfect.” He paused to kiss me. “You more than pleased me, you made me soar through the sky like an eagle.”
I smiled up at him. I could not have dared hope for a more pleasing answer to my que
stion.
He eased out of me creating a slippery, sliding sensation which left me hollow and stretched. I was aware of hot dampness trickling from my body onto the bed sheets and I pressed my thighs together.
He flopped down heavily and scooped me into his arms. I nestled my head into the crook of his shoulder and rested my palm on his rising and falling chest. “How did you know?” I asked quietly and running my fingers through his damp chest hairs and around his nipple.
“I don’t understand,” he said, pulling in a deep drag of air and then returning his breathing to a more sensible pace.
“How did you know where I needed to be touched?” I paused. “When I didn’t even know it myself.”
“Elizabeth.” He crooked my chin up so I was looking into his face. “You know enough of my nature to know any challenge I set upon myself will be carried out to the very best of my abilities.” He dropped a tender kiss to my lips. “And making our wedding night beautiful for you was possibly the most determined plan I had ever set upon myself.”
My heart swelled with love and admiration for the gentleman I had married.
“And I do hope you want lots of children, my dear,” he said in a sincere voice as he traced a spiral pattern with his fingertip down my neck to my breast.
“Why do you hope for that?”
“Because, Elizabeth, we are going to indulge in the act of lovemaking every single night for the rest of our mortal lives.”
“Why, Mr Darcy you shock me.” I feigned wide-eyed surprise and tipped my head back to look directly into his eyes. He started to speak but I silenced him by sliding my finger to his lips and exerting a gentle pressure. “You shock me so because you insinuate we are only going to join once a night for the rest of our mortal lives… that surely cannot be adequate for a man such as you.”
His black eyes softened to thick, lustrous velvet and the corners of his mouth tilted into the most radiant smile I had ever seen him produce. I captured his delight on my lips and thanked the Heavens above, right there in bed, because I knew that I, Elizabeth Darcy, was the most fortunate creature to have ever lived.
Stable Manners
Six Sundays in a row his brooding gaze has scorched from the twilight shadows of the ménage. Black eyes narrowed, expression sulky, he’s visually devoured my body with a fierce intensity as I’ve struggled to maintain my cool, professional image.
Standing alone as he was, away from the more sociable parents, I initially assumed he was concentrating on his daughter’s dressage skills, but before long I realized it was me, her tutor, he was fixating on each week for a full hour and a half.
Now, as I turn my back to watch the trotting ride, I can feel his greedy gaze devouring my jodhpur-encased rear. This knowledge thrills me and I roll my hips for his enjoyment. I sashay—just a little—as I move through the barky mulch explaining the fineries of smooth transitions. I appreciate his attention, really I do.
I have a spare riding crop stuck into my left boot. It leaves my hands free for adjusting stirrups, tightening girths and gesturing to the letters around the school and is a quirky habit I’ve always had. As I’m stepping toward his daughter the slightly pliable rod slaps against my thigh. It flicks backward and forward in time with my pace like a musician’s metronome. “Here you go, Emily,” I say, whipping it out and handing it up to her. “You need to get used to holding a crop even if you’re not going to use it.” I smile at the pretty ten-year-old as she nods and adjusts it into the grip of her reins.
I throw a glance at her father. His attention hits me full on, steady and unwavering and drinking me up like a man dying of thirst. My knees weaken, my ears buzz and my chest tightens. In my otherwise formal, asexual world of dressage he’s a refreshing dose of pure, unadulterated testosterone. He looks positively wild. A barely contained stallion cooperating with his tamer—just.
I wish I’d brought a crate to sit on. Each week he affects my blood flow more and more, reduces my concentration and sends my highly regarded teaching skills into a scatter of nerves. He’s so tall, so broad and so damn handsome.
Today he’s wrapped in a dense, black winter coat, one gloved hand shoved deep into his pockets whilst the other circles a mug of steaming liquid. Maybe I just imagine him watching me each week. I’ve never even heard him speak. I only know he breathes because of the plume of cold air steaming around his head like a bad boy’s halo. Excitement churns through me at the thought of just how bad someone like him could be. What would happen if the hunger pouring from his eyes demanded to be satisfied? What would happen if I were the one to satisfy it? I clear my dry throat and return to explaining the next exercise, try my hardest to focus whilst wrapped in thoughts of sating his appetite.
The final lesson of the day draws to an end and I instruct my six riders to dismount. They lead their horses into the chill of the winter evening, past the dark hay barn and into the long row of amber-lit stalls. As forecast it’s starting to snow and big, determined flakes float through the weak lights of the yard and settle on the straw-littered cobbles.
It will take thirty minutes for the juniors to untack their ponies, buckle New Zealand rugs and give the saddles a soaping. It’s a clever ploy to add stable management to the end of the last lesson. The youngsters do what’s essentially my job and their waiting parents pay for the privilege. I’ve added a free coffee machine in the viewing area and no one seems to have cottoned on to my devious, but never the less, entrepreneurial idea.
I decide to make the most of this free time and head into the cavernous barn to load nets for the liveries. The sweet scent of hay fills my nose like a wave of incense and I pause at the entrance to let my eyes adjust to the inky darkness. Kids have been playing in here again, mounds of bales have been arranged to form a staggered wall and what looks like a tall castle turret. I smile. It’s what they should be doing, who cares if it’s not the neatest barn in the world.
My feet are silent as I move to a half-used bale and bend to unhook its tight orange string. It’s awkward and with my butt in the air I fumble in the darkness, struggling to release the sharp cord of knots.
Suddenly I’m aware of a long, thin pressure on my left buttock. Firm and solid it presses against the give of my flesh.
My breath snatches. I know exactly what it is.
It’s my own crop!
I don’t bother to straighten. Instead I twist my torso and see a silhouette standing at my left shoulder. A man with broad, square shoulders and a mop of wayward curls towers next to me. I should be indignant at the personal, inappropriate touch from someone I don’t know, but instead I feel a sudden knot of pleasure rock through my body. After all, I’ve been fantasizing about this bloke for weeks.
The chilled skin on my buttock soars to hypersensitivity as the crop continues to exert a confident pressure. A deep roll of excited anticipation lurches in my stomach. He’s so close, only feet away. Lining my crop up against me and touching me intimately but at the same time distantly.
He says nothing—neither do I.
After a moment of bending before him I shift my backside a fraction, the smallest twitch of a movement, just to see what he’ll do.
The pressure releases, there’s a brief hiss in the cold air and then a sting sears through my jodhpurs and onto the delicate skin of my butt. A shard of lightening, a second of sweet torture. It heats my cold flesh and buzzes my pain receptors to life.
A squeak of shock escapes my lips. I can’t believe he did what I wanted him to do—I didn’t even know I wanted him to do it. I curl my hands into the string I was struggling with. He hit me, he’s never even spoken to me but he’s so self-assured he’s gone straight for a kinky, sharp spank. My head floods with excitement. It’s been a long time since I felt something new.
I let the heat travel and pool between my thighs, and to my surprise it swells my hidden folds and a pleasurable hum settles in my clit. A thought enters my head that if he treats the other cheek the buzz will multiply. I stay bent over t
he hay bale, shift slightly and to my delight he takes full advantage of the opportunity. He lines up the crop on my right buttock. I hear it sail through the air and that brief nanosecond between knowing it’s coming and the pain of the hit is the most delicious anticipation I’ve ever known.
I revel in the heated discomfort, lap it up. He’s given it so easily. The hum in my clit escalates to a hungry pull and I feel myself turning full on. Who is this guy?
I straighten and face him. He can see my lusty expression because the orange glow from the yard is flowing around me, but he’s as black as night to my eyes. Only the rough curls of his hair and the shape of his tall outline are visible. He is perfectly motionless, not even a twitch of the crop which now hangs limp from his hand.
I want more. Much more. No man has ever touched me like that and my desire is so sudden and all consuming that my head is no longer in control of my body.
I neglect my fine leather crop, which I presume he’s returning, and step backward into the deeper shadows of the barn. I climb over scattered bales and disappear around the tall turret the children made. I lean against the scratchy wall and beat down thoughts of rational, lucid behaviour; I don’t want them interfering with my moment of revelation.
I wait in the dark silence. The biting cold now a welcome blast to my fevered state. Will he follow me? Did I read it all wrong? Damn, what’s going on?
His bulky presence rounds on me, draws up at my side and immediately invades my personal space. It’s so pitch black the whites of his eyes are the only thing I can truly make out. That and the heat blazing off his body like a roaring fire.
“Hi,” I whisper, my voice husky and needy.
He takes a step closer and I sense him staring down at me, though how he can see I have no idea. After a few, painful, drawn out seconds, just as I’m about to bolt, my mouth is caught. Hard and urgent his lips press down and his tongue forces mine to part for his delicious invasion.
I melt, open up for him, thoughts of bolting fly from my mind. He tastes of strong, black coffee, warm and intoxicating. A whirl of male pheromones floods my senses and cranks up my lust level. I lean against him and curl my hands over his shoulders. His coat is rough under my open palms. I want it off, I want to feel him, make sure he’s real. I slip my fingers under his collar and shove. He doesn’t seem to mind and the weighty garment drops with a whoosh to the hay-filled floor. I return to his marble-hard shoulders and sense a thick woollen jumper covering unnervingly powerful muscles. He could have hit me so much harder. I shiver at the thought.
