A Very Ruby Christmas

by Lavinia Kent

  “Now, my little spy, I am going to cut the gag, but I don’t want you to make a sound, not a single one. Do you understand?”

  There was no way for her to respond, so she stood there absolutely still and quiet, waiting.

  The knife cut. The fabric in her mouth fell loose, until she could spit it away from her.

  Pausing for another moment at the base of her skull, the blade traced down across her shoulders, reaching the strap of her chemise. It paused again there.

  She wished she could see him as he stood behind her, wished she could understand his thoughts.

  His hand moved, the finger pushing up and then pulling back. And then again.

  A soft moan escaped her.

  “Didn’t I ask you to be quiet?” His voice vibrated against her ear.

  The knife caught at a strap of her chemise and, with a swift tug, sliced through. The chemise fell instantly, baring her right breast. A quick movement and she felt the tug on the other strap—and then the chemise fell to her waist, caught only by the lieutenant’s hand. The cool air of the room surrounded her, but the heat of his touch left her burning.

  She wanted to moan and cry as his fingers moved again, stroking, teasing. Moving her hips slightly, she tried to bring his touch to just where she needed it.

  “No.” His hand pulled out, fingers sliding down her thigh.

  She had to bite down on her lip to suppress the moan. Her whole body burned for his touch.

  Again the click of his boots as he backed away from her, the creak of the chair.

  She wanted to scream, No. Her head fell forward; the ache in her shoulders grew even as the ache between her legs encompassed her.

  She bit down tighter, trying to find patience. He’d made her wait before. She could manage this.

  She waited.

  And waited.

  There was no sound from him.

  And waited.

  Every nerve was alive with the awareness that he watched her. If a fly had breathed in the room, she would have felt it, she was sure.

  Still nothing.

  The sudden clatter of metal hitting the floor startled her. The knife?

  The chair scraped against the floor. The click of boot heels.

  He stepped forward. And then again.

  A tap between her shoulder blades. Another on the top of each buttock cheek.

  That wasn’t his finger. What? It was hard and thin. A stick?

  It dropped to her ankle and slowly ran up the inside of her leg. She tried to look down but couldn’t quite see. It was all so frustrating—in so many different ways.

  Another run up her leg, and down again, and again, sometimes fast, sometimes so slow as to barely move.

  This time when it reached the apex, it went higher, rubbing her tight. Unable to help herself, she pushed back slightly, trying to bring it to the spot she needed it.

  He pulled it away, then leaned forward, the linen of his shirt brushing against her skin, the heat of his body seeping into her. “I wish you could see how wet you are, my little spy. You don’t seem nearly frightened enough of what I will do to make you speak.”

  A tingle of anticipation swept through her.

  He stepped back, and she mourned the loss of his presence.

  Again there was a light tap on each of her buttocks, then the tracing of a line up her back, a circling of each shoulder blade.

  She stared forward at the single candle, watched a single drip of wax slide down the side toward the pewter holder. Her eyes focused on the flame.

  Down her back again. Another tap on her left buttock. Her right.

  Down her legs. Up so slowly.

  And then a whiz of air and the sting—oh, the sting. A single burst of pain coursed through her left buttock.

  And then, before she could draw breath, another, across her right.

  A crop. He was holding a crop, had been stroking her with a crop.

  Before the thought could fully penetrate, he moved against her. His warm body pressing into hers, one of his hands came about her, cupping her from the front, his fingers effortlessly finding just that spot and rubbing.

  This time the moan did escape her lips. The shock of the stroke combined with the wonder of his touch, leaving her vulnerable.

  He pressed tighter. “Are you ready to talk, then, my sweet? Ready to share the secrets I need?”

  It was hard to tell where the game ended and true life began. In the game, the lieutenant was asking for the names of her compatriots and probably anything else she was willing to share, but the question seemed deeper, as if Colton was asking for real secrets, for insight into her soul.

  She squirmed, aching. She needed more so, so much more.

  Her head fell back, her cheek resting against his as he leaned over her. If she turned her head, opened her eyes, she would be able to see him—and yet she did not move, beyond the pressing of thighs, the clench and release of inner muscles.

  How would she feel if she were really a spy and he were really her captor? Another tingle ran through her at the thought, at the fantasy. And, yes, she knew it was a fantasy, that only in her mind, and in this room, could it be so delicious.

  But wasn’t that what this moment was about—fantasy?

  She pressed her lips tight, turned her head away.

  He chuckled against her, the rumble in his chest vibrating through her back. “Resistant, are you? Your body cries for more, and yet you will try to refuse?”

  The press of his fingers between her legs grew faster, each stroke rubbing against her clit, teasing and taunting. He knew her body so well, knew just how to move her higher without letting her fall over the edge.

  His other hand came up, skimming over her belly, her ribs, cupping the underside of her breast, running along the crease at the base of her breast, hitting every sensitive spot. Oh, she loved that. He knew exactly where to touch her, how to tease her.

  Her breathing grew shallow. Against her will, she found herself leaning into him, feeling his fullness cupped between her buttocks. Even with the stretched tension of her body, she widened her legs slightly, granting him greater access.

  He was quick to take advantage, pressing tighter from both sides, his fingers running through her slick folds again and again, each time stroking hard against her—and his cock pushing firm into the cleft of her ass. Her legs began to move in time with his hands, pressing forward into his touch.

  She was close, so close.

  His other hand moved up her breast and began to lightly pluck and pull at her needy nipple.

  Her legs pressed about his hand. She needed it now. She was about to burst. Her whole focus was on the movement of his hands as they brought her closer and closer.

  And then he stopped.

  Stepped back, taking his touch from her, taking his heat from her.

  A single finger traced down her spine, then up to one shoulder, across to the other. “I think the strain may be beginning to show, my little spy. I wouldn’t want to hurt you—at least not unintentionally.” His hand slipped about her torso and brushed across the peak of one nipple before settling on it and giving it one quick tug and pinch. The flash of pain shot down between her legs, pushing her close to the peak once more.

  “Are you ready to talk yet, my little spy?” His voice was not harsh, but demand had returned to it.

  She shook her head, ready for the game to go on.

  “Then I think we must change the game, take you further, push you further.”

  Her body quivered at his words. How much further could he push her?

  “Open your eyes.”

  Finally. She lifted her lids and found him staring at her face. His eyes softened for a moment, and she could see the caring in them; then his own features changed, grew still, became devoid of emotion.

  The lieutenant had returned.

  She started to open her mouth, but he placed a finger against it. “You still may not speak until you are ready to talk.”

  She swallo
wed as the deep edge of command in his tone sent a shiver through her. Another nod.

  He stepped back, and she allowed her gaze to run over him.

  Loose linen shirt, soft and white.

  Black breeches—the flap once again fastened—encased his lean hips and strong thighs.

  Black boots.

  The crop in his hand tapped against them.

  The crop.

  She had almost forgotten the crop, although its sting still burned on her skin. Staring at it, she could feel its fire again, feel the bolt of heat that shot from its sting straight between her legs, straight to her clit. Even thinking about the heat of the strike caused her inner muscles to contract. He’d once told her that the sensation of pain could heighten all sensation, and she was finding it to be very true—in small doses, small, very carefully controlled doses. And Colton was always careful.

  Her eyes stayed focused on the crop. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  She swallowed again, trying to wet a mouth gone suddenly dry.

  He followed her look. His lips curled up. His hand lifted, drawing back the crop, and then he brought it down, slowly, so slowly she could hardly see the movement. It tickled past her stomach, barely touching, rose on the other side, and then returned. Again the touch was so light it was hard to be sure she felt it.

  And again.

  Back and forth. Her whole being concentrated on the movement, on the knowledge that at any moment everything could change.

  The crop brushed her more firmly, but it was still a brush, a tracing. It was hard to breathe. Each movement filled her with anticipation of what was to come—and never did.

  Up again—and down.

  Up and then it rose higher, coming to tease against the turgid tips of her nipples. Sensation filled her. Her focus was so intense that even the lightest of touches burned.

  Her breath halted entirely as the crop stopped and then circled her nipple, shivery lines of feeling trailing in its wake. She bent her head and watched the circles, which grew ever closer to the nipple. When at last the crop reached the peak, Colton pulled it away and gave a light but firm tap upon one nipple and then the other. Her body jerked.

  He smiled, repeated the gesture with slightly more weight.

  Another jerk. A restrained moan.

  He drew back. She waited. This one would bring the pain, but instead he brought the tip down between her breasts, tracing another line downward. Her circled her navel as he had her nipples, large circles growing ever smaller, and then the end slipped into the shallow indent of her belly.

  Oh. She’d never realized how sensitive she was there. Her muscles drew tight. Colton pulled the crop away, pushed it forward, pulled back, the meaning of his gesture unmistakable.

  The crop traced lower, skimming over her curls and pausing at the apex of her thighs. He drew a single tight circle, then let it fall a half inch lower, sliding it between her thighs, then pressing up tight against her core.

  She could do nothing but stare at the image of the thin black crop sliding between her lower lips, pulling away, damp with her moisture. And the sensation. Colton knew just what he was doing. He pressed it up, pushing against her, rubbing against the perfect spot.

  She bit down on her lip, trying to suppress an audible response.

  And she could see his cock pressing against the front of his flap, growing ever harder, ever larger. He liked this every bit as much as she.

  Her eyes lifted to his. They were so dark as to be nearly black.

  The ache between her legs grew. All the anticipation of this evening building. She was ready, if only he would take her there.

  Her eyes begged.

  He moved the crop again. Back and forth. Closer and closer she came. Her whole body was sensation, was need and want and more need. She felt she would break if she did not find release soon.

  “Are you ready to talk, to reveal your secrets?” he asked her once more.

  She was ready. She was completely ready.

  And yet she shook her head. No. She was not ready for this to be over. She wanted to know how much further he would take her, how much further she could go.

  He pushed up again with the crop. The pleasure was so intense as to almost be pain. She bit down hard, trying to withstand the feelings that swept through her.

  She closed her eyes, concentrated, tightened her thighs.

  Abruptly the crop was gone.

  “Not until you reveal all,” Colton said.

  All? Despite her thought of a moment ago, she wanted to scream that she would say anything if only he would rub the crop against her again, if only…

  Suddenly, he reached up and grabbed the end of the rope that would lower her further. “I am going to release the rope completely. I will give you a single moment and then I want you to sink to your knees. Do you understand? You may nod your response.”

  A single nod. She could only hope he was not done with her. Her body still ached with need for him.

  He released the rope slowly before striding forward to free her arms.

  She shook them briefly, letting the blood flow into them.

  Abruptly, he moved away, walking to one of the high dressers, pulling open a drawer.

  What more could he have planned?

  He turned and she inhaled sharply. He held out his arm, opened his hand, and revealed the brass clips. Nipple clamps. He’d showed them to her once before and then abstained from using them. This time he would not stop.

  If she did not want this, it would be up to her.

  She wet her lips.

  He stepped forward. He lifted his other hand.

  A set of metal cuffs, lined with velvet.

  Licking her lips again, she paused. Could she do this? Was she ready?

  More moisture pooled between her thighs. Her mind might be unsure: Her body was not.

  He tucked the clips into the waistband of his breeches and held out the cuffs. Holding out a hand, she waited as he fastened one of the cuffs about it. The metal was snug, but velvet protected her wrist from both chafing and cold. He stepped forward again, his shirt brushing the tip of her breasts, his breath moving over her. He pulled her arm behind her back and then grabbed the other arm and pulled it back too, fastening the cuffs in an instant.

  “And now I think it’s time to give some attention to those pretty breasts. I would not want them to feel neglected.”

  Neglected? Hadn’t he been playing with them a moment ago? It was hard to remember. Her whole body was tingling with delight and need.

  Her gaze focused on the clips again. She was curious. She could not deny that. What would they feel like? Could she possibly like such a thing? Her knees felt weak at the thought.

  How much would it hurt?

  A single finger rose and brushed the tip of one nipple, drawing her full attention. It was only the lightest of touches, hardly a touch at all, but sensations shot through her like lightning.

  Colton’s mouth quirked. He had noticed her response.

  Leaning forward, he blew on the quivering tip, the warmth of his breath heating every fire within her. Her hips shifted forward, wanting.

  He touched her nipple again, but his other hand began a slow journey down her belly.

  His thumb and forefinger fastened about her nipple, not hard, but with enough pressure that she felt a thousand fireflies light up behind her eyes. He was hardly touching her and it was almost too much.

  Her head fell back slightly as he drew the nipple away from her.

  His hand shifted to the other breast and repeated the process.

  “Look at yourself,” he whispered. “See how much your body cries for my touch, for my attention.”

  And he was right. Her nipples were red and proud, jutting out from her breasts, begging for more.

  He bent slightly, blew again, and then his lips fastened about the currently neglected nipple, even as his fingers tugged at the other.

  The sight almost undid her, his narrow lips fastened tight about her. And the
gentle scrape of teeth.

  And the pull on the other breast. The squeeze. The barest edge of pain. And of pleasure so great that it was pain.

  The hand on her belly slipped lower, between her legs, brushed that perfect spot, and stilled.

  His mouth kept moving, however, suckling, eating, teasing.

  His fingers kneaded and pulled, extending her nipple as far as it would go.

  And she watched, her mind greedy for each new experience, for each new image.

  The finger between her legs began to move, so softly, the touch lost in the myriad of other sensations that filled her, and yet it was the center of them all.

  Her gaze grew blurry as he took her closer and closer, breasts and clit all aching for more, all begging for more.

  His head and hand drew back.

  She focused. He was not going to deny her again. He couldn’t. She needed…

  He gazed at her intently, the golden speckles about his dark eyes shining, his focus serious.

  He moved slightly, held up one of the clips between them, squeezed it open.

  “Are you going to talk now, my pretty captive?” he asked.

  Her mouth was parched. He was asking her permission. Suddenly she understood exactly what this was all about. She could stop it at any time. It was all about her, about what she wanted.

  Her gaze held his, saw the deep question. He moved the clip closer, opened it about her nipple but held it there.

  “Are you going to answer my many questions?”

  His fingers moved between her legs, drawing her even closer to the summit.

  She bit down hard on her lower lip, using that tiny bit of pain to center her mind, even as she contemplated greater pain.

  She shook her head. No, she would not speak.

  Expecting a smile or a look of satisfaction, she examined his face. She saw none of that; instead, there was only continued concern—and, dare she say, love.

  The fingers between her legs pressed tighter, rubbed faster, each thrust brushing her entrance and then drawing back against her clit.

  So good, so very good.

  Her hips thrust forward, wanting more, needing more. Her feet slid wider. More. More.

  And then his hips pressed forward. She felt him against her, hard and strong and velvet. He must have opened his breeches again when he reached for the clip. She didn’t care. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she needed him now.