Mr. Ridley: A Whipping Society Novel

by Delilah Marvelle

  Gripping the ledge hard with one hand, she gave into what her body wanted and needed and frantically fingered her nub. She watched the open doorway, her core tightening from the release she so desperately wanted.

  All whilst thinking of him. His cologne. His amber eyes. His muscled body. His length. The one she wanted in her mouth and in between her thighs.

  Her fingers grew slick from her rising pleasure. Disbelief overwhelmed her knowing she was letting him control her body without him even touching her or seeing her.

  “Breathe without restraint,” he intoned. “Breathing hard and harder will constrict your core and bring you to what you want sooner. Quicker. Gasp for it.”

  She gasped against the overly rapid intakes of her rapid breaths that now heightened the sensations. It hurled her toward the chasm she wanted to fall into. She willed each breath and each crazed gasp to be heard within the echo of the bath chamber in the hopes that he would lose control and take her.

  Unable to hold onto the peak she wanted him to see and hear and feel, she gasped, letting it sweep at her like a high wind from every mountain.

  “Who are you thinking of?” he asked.

  “You,” she whispered.

  “Who do you want in the tightness of that cunt?”

  “You.”

  “Who are you willing to bleed for?”

  “You,” she choked out.

  “Am I worth the pain?”

  “Yes!” She flicked faster, her core tightening beyond what she could hold. It came too fast for her to breathe as she called out, “Ridley!” She staggered against the pleasure that momentarily blinded her.

  She wobbled and sank back into the water, letting the soap float away from her body much like the world was floating away with her soul.

  There was a moment of silence followed by his choked, rasping breath that rose and rose.

  She paused as she eyed the open doorway in disbelief.

  She sat there unmoving in the lapping water and listened.

  His body shifted against the creaking leather chair as his quaking breaths grew more labored.

  Kali. On. High.

  He was pleasuring himself. As if he could no longer restrain the control he had over the power of their attraction. She sank into the water and peered over the copper ledge of the tub, a part of her knowing she had driven him to this. Even worse? She was reveling in it.

  The sound of a well-wetted hand moving quick against his cock as he dragged in over-controlled ragged breaths filled the silence. He grunted.

  She brought her quaking knees together feeling as if she were climaxing again and with him.

  Long seething and regimented, savage breaths became timed against moist sounds.

  Her face and her body were on fire, heating the water she was sitting in. She would never be able to look at another man again without hearing those breaths. His breaths.

  She dug her fingers into her burning cheeks, waiting.

  Waiting.

  Waiting.

  He kept going and going, those moist sounds now frantic and needful and riled and spastic. What sounded like a boot slamming into the side table sent it crashing, shattering glass that sprayed past the door and into the bath chamber.

  The wrong side of her brain wanted to scramble out and see him doing it.

  Instead, she set her chin against the ledge of the tub and imagined him in his glory.

  A thud, thud, thud hit the chair harder and harder, tremoring the walls as if he were bucking his muscled thighs and the thickness of his rigid cock well beyond what the chair could hold.

  She clacked her teeth against the edge of the tub, feeling as if he were thudding his entire length into her and filling her womb with his seed and their future.

  The chair hit the wall.

  A long guttural groan and seething breaths through nostrils and teeth filled the air.

  Silence now settled itself.

  Keeping her own upper teeth still wedged against the tub, she eyed the doorway.

  There was a rustling of clothes and the shifting against the creak of leather. After a moment of silence, he said, “I’ll be in the study.”

  He rose and wordlessly stalked past and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  She giggled and went under water in complete disbelief.

  She had somehow managed to seduce Mr. Ridley.

  Not even an hour later, after she had dressed with the assistance of the chambermaid who arrived at the pull of the bell (how lovely), Jemdanee breezed out, her freshly washed hair braided.

  She officially felt like a woman. And not just any woman. One capable of bringing the strongest of men to his knees: Mr. Ridley.

  It was glorious.

  Determined to find him and wrap her arms around him to show him the unending adoration she felt, she alighted before the closed doors of his study.

  She eased out a breath, chanting to herself that this changed everything yet nothing. Turning the latch of the door, she paused.

  It was locked.

  She cringed. So much for it changing anything.

  She knocked gently. “Mr. Ridley?”

  He didn’t answer.

  She couldn’t imagine that a man like him would feel awkward.

  If anything, that was for her to feel.

  She knocked again. “Mr. Ridley?”

  He didn’t answer.

  Jemdanee hesitated, rather surprised he would sulk about what just happened between them. “The doors are locked from within. So I know you are in there and that you can hear me.”

  He said nothing.

  She pressed her cheek to the cool surface of the door and tried to be consoling. “You need not apologize or feel guilt,” she offered, knowing full well any other man would have just veered into that bath chamber and spewed it on her or shoved it into her. “I never do anything I don’t want to and I wanted to.”

  There was a thud against the desk. “You’re too damn young to know what you want.” He was quiet for a long moment, then softened his gruff voice. “I’m not avoiding you. I have to finish these damn notes given I never did.” He hesitated. “Feel free to wander about the house and open every door. Take whatever book you want. Read. Make my home your home until I’m done.”

  She bit back a smile.

  It appeared she had earned more than his pleasure.

  She had earned a measure of trust. “I’ll be upstairs should you finish your notes early, Mr. Ridley.” She grazed her fingers against the wood, wishing he would come out. When he still didn’t, she decided it was best to give him the time he was asking for.

  Exploring the house would not be without its merit.

  It was yet another way of getting to know him.

  Making her way back up the stairs, she wandered down the vast corridor, determined not to miss a room that might whisper more of who he was.

  She veered toward the first door and opened it.

  Her eyes widened as the scent of must and dust swept at her like ghosts looking for a body to possess. Leather bound books of all sizes were stacked unevenly against every wall from floor to ceiling, covering old furniture and tables and sideboards that had been stacked with as many books as it would allow without toppling. The shelves of the bookcases were bowed beneath the weight of too many books, books, books. The entire floor to her knee were also stacked with books and no reasonable manner in which to enter that room without knocking something or everything over.

  She decided to shut the door.

  “Mr. Ridley, I worry about you,” she muttered, half wishing he could hear her.

  She went to the next door.

  Opening it, a large stack of books toppled. She cringed. Glancing down the corridor, she wedged herself inside, trying not to knock anymore over and knelt against the bundling of her skirts. She carefully gathered the dozen she had knocked over, but her elbow hit another stack and her foot did another, thudding more books to the ground.

  “This is not going so well.�
�� She stacked, smoothed and patted them into random piles which she slid toward the wall and away from the door.

  A sound from the other side of the room she was in made her gaze snap up.

  Chaucer sat perched atop of a stone bust of what appeared to be Napoleon.

  How. Fitting.

  Chaucer blinked and with a wobble offered, “Faaaawwwwwk. Fawk.”

  She burst into laughter, her eyes widening. “Poor Chaucer. Are you attempting to repeat vile words your master has condemned you to hear?”

  With the rise and spread of wings, he flew toward her, circling once and then alighted onto a stack of books beside her, glancing up. “Caaawww.”

  “That would certainly be a more appropriate use of your language,” she chided. Wanting to touch that dark head, she slowly, slowly held out her hand, holding his gaze, wondering if he would let her touch her. “Might I pet you?” she softly asked.

  He clicked.

  “I have no idea what you said, but I will attempt to trust that you will not lunge.” Holding out her forefinger, she gently grazed the softness of his feathers, surprised that he was letting her touch him.

  “He never lets anyone touch him,” a deep voice said from behind her. “No one but me. Consider it an honor.”

  She gasped and almost smacked poor Chaucer in doing so.

  Chaucer flew up and darted toward the open doorway, landing on the shoulder of…Mr. Ridley.

  A shaky breath escaped her.

  Ridley leaned against the doorway, Chaucer still propped on his shoulder. He eyed her. “I want to apologize for what I did.”

  She smoothed her calico skirts against herself in an attempt not to squirm beneath his steady gaze. “I should be the one apologizing.”

  Ridley shifted his jaw. “I rarely lose control. Not like that.”

  “Human nature is known for its lack of control, Mr. Ridley.”

  Petting Chaucer’s head with a large hand, he held her gaze. “And that is what makes us dangerous to ourselves and the world. Our lack of control.”

  They said nothing for a long time.

  He scanned the room and pointed to a pile of books tucked within a sizable glass encasing. “Those came from King Louis’ personal library out of Versailles.”

  Her lips parted. “How is it you have books from the beheaded French king?”

  “My father was one of the few Brits who went into France during the Reign of Terror. Morbidly, it’s how he met my mother. He entertained himself and her by attending estate sales across France, purchasing items that in my opinion, should have never been bought. I’ve attempted to contact certain families with the assistance of Vidocq who is still in France in an attempt to return whatever I can, but too many were left unmarked, erasing who it belonged to. So I sell it, hoping someone might treasure it more than I.”

  Jemdanee wove her way through the piles of books and furniture toward where he stood in the doorway. She lingered close.

  Chaucer flew up and disappeared down the corridor.

  Ridley continued to hold her gaze. “He senses danger.”

  She gripped her skirts. “Ridley…?”

  “We can’t.” He turned and stalked down the corridor.

  She cringed and bustled after him. “I would never judge you,” she offered. “Taking pleasure in each other is not the worst thing we could have done.”

  He stopped but did not face her. “Understand, Kumar, that I have the devil in me and he is French.”

  Whatever did that mean? “Assure him I am not offended.”

  He glanced back at her, his features strained. “Your soul is twisted to even jest.”

  “I grew up seeing the world for what it is: twisted.”

  He swiped his mouth and tugged his waistcoat into place. “Are you at all hungry?”

  She perked. “Very much so. Yes.”

  He swung away and wagged his hand. “Come. You and I will dine at a table I only reserve for myself.”

  Hurrying after him with the rustle of skirts, she alighted beside him, almost humming at the prospect of being invited to see every corner of his life. “What sort of table is it that you only reserve it for yourself?”

  “It came out of France during an estate sale. It belonged to a certain Marquis de Sade who has long since departed.”

  She eyed him. “Was he an agreeable man?”

  His tongue rolled around the inside of his cheek. “There is a woman here in London by the name of Madame de Maitenon who claims de Sade was more of a gentleman than a demon. Of course, she herself is a courtesan which may skew her own perception on what defines a gentleman.”

  “Ah.” She followed him down the sweep of stairs and into a dining hall whose doors were closed to the adjoining parlor.

  Rounding an inlaid carved wooden table, he pulled out a chair and angled it for her, waiting for her to be seated. He inclined his head. “Please.”

  A true gentleman despite what he did earlier. She seated herself regally. “I thank you.”

  “My pleasure.” He yanked on a calling bell cord beside the entrance and rounded her, pulling out a chair for himself. He sat and slid a hand across the surface of the table. “Few get to see it.”

  “I feel so honored.” She smiled and leaned toward the table to observe the intricate carvings laid beneath glass. Her smile faded. “There is a man eating the head of a goat whilst buggering a woman who is…using her foot to…bugger a man who is whipping a woman.” She eyed him. “I believe this is where I lose all understanding, Mr. Ridley. I prefer not to set a plate on this, for as I had mentioned to you before, I am a vegetarian,” she quipped.

  He heaved out a breath. “That particular scene hardly personifies me. This is what I am referring to. Isn’t she beautiful?” He tapped at a wooden carving of a woman who was sensually draped in ropes from foot to throat.

  Jemdanee eyed it and him. He thought a woman choked by rope was…beautiful?

  His finger traced it, his voice fading. “I only point her out to those I trust.”

  Which hinted it meant something to him.

  She leaned in and angled her head to better look at it. The twisted look of anguish on that contorted face and sneering lips hinted the woman was trying to free herself but couldn’t. A serpent bit into her throat. “Do you truly find her and this beautiful?”

  Ridley half-nodded. “I used to sit at this table as a boy. Usually alone, because my father travelled and my mother had her own circle. Given I refused to associate with many people when I was younger, for I was awkward and shy, I read books to her. Unlike everyone else in my life, she remained unchanged. She always welcomed me with the same expression and never walked away. She was always here. Waiting. As if the ropes kept her in place. As if not being in my presence caused her anguish. The sort of anguish I have always felt toward everything in life.”

  Her throat tightened knowing it.

  Steps echoed into the room. “You rang, Mr. Ridley?” the butler asked.

  Ridley glanced up and rose. “Yes, Fulton.” His voice warmed. “See to it that Kumar receives whatever it is she desires out of the kitchen. I have a few missives to write.” He angled past the butler, stepping out into the corridor.

  Jemdanee almost knocked over the chair in an attempt to keep him from leaving. “Ridley?”

  He swung toward her and blankly held her gaze. “’Tis Mr. Ridley, if you please. What is it?”

  She swallowed, sensing something had changed. “Are you not joining me for a meal?”

  “No. I’m not hungry.”

  “Then why did you…?”

  “You have honored me by sitting at a table that rarely has guests. That was the only meal I required. I will see you later tonight. We depart at twenty after ten. Enjoy your meal and instruct Fulton on anything else you may need.” With that, he inclined his head and disappeared.

  Trying to better understand him, her gaze veered back to the figure of the woman he had pointed out. The one wrapped in rope and in anguish.


  He thought her anguish to be beautiful.

  Rope. Knots. Ridley.

  Jemdanee swallowed, sensing he had been silently communicating with her as to his innate desires. She set quaking fingers against the flat of the glass above the woman’s anguish.

  Whilst she wanted to dash after him and shake him into telling her what he found beautiful in it and why, she sensed an attempt to confront him too strongly would yield nothing but his displeasure.

  If he felt shame in it, and clearly he did, she dared not further wound that shame.

  She would honor it by waiting until he willingly unraveled that stubborn fist.

  A fist that would eventually tire and relinquish its hold on every secret he kept.

  Chapter 9

  10:34 p.m. — In Ridley’s coach travelling to the Surrey Theatre on Blackfriars Road

  Well-fed and well-rested though she was, there was no further denying that Mr. Ridley was an outrageous man who had taken her to be a Kumar too far.

  Too. Far.

  Jemdanee grudgingly adjusted the oversized wool cap she was forced to wear down to her nose over her braided hair. She shifted against the equally oversized male coat and trousers she’d been stuffed into in the name of ‘justice’. Fake black whiskers had even been applied with beeswax beneath her nose.

  It reached past her chin.

  For clearly, as an Indian, she wasn’t hairy enough.

  “Haaaaallo,” Chaucer offered from beside her, peering up at her. He clicked as if laughing.

  She peered down at Chaucer. “I will mind you to keep that clicking to yourself. I am fully aware of how ridiculous I look and hardly need it pointed out by a raven.”

  Having a boot-sized bird chiding at her in English and sitting on the seat in a black lacquered carriage as if it were a human passenger on its way to a theatre full of dead bodies was as equally morbid as it was outrageous. “Inform your dark prince I am not at all pleased with him,” she added. “Inform him. Click at him twice and swat a claw at him for me.”

  Ridley’s rugged features rhythmically appeared and disappeared into the shadows of the night as light from passing lampposts filtered in through the carriage windows. “It could be worse,” he rumbled out. “You could be dead.”