by Sabrina York
“Poor coachman.”
He glared at her.
She ignored him.
“He knocks out her coachman and takes her prisoner. She struggles.”
But she was already drawing that. The lovely armful of woman caught in the clutches of a dark demon bandit. She captured the struggle wonderfully. The image made him restless.
Or maybe it was the woman by his side.
He lowered his voice an octave. “He cannot abide struggles, so he ties her hands. A close up, I think, of her hands, bound with rope.”
“Hmm. He doesn’t waste any time, does he, our brigand?”
He did not comment on the way she said the word. Though it annoyed him. It also provoked him. To mischief. She really should have known better than to provoke him.
Then again, she didn’t know who he was. Not really.
He glanced at the sketch. It was perfect. Still, when she looked up at him he shook his head. “No. Not quite right.”
Her face puddled. “What do you mean?”
“The angle of the knots… Here. Let me show you.” He crossed to the armoire, where he kept his playthings. He let the door swing wide. So she could see the whips and quirts and paraphernalia. He selected a length of rope and turned back to the table. As he had hoped, she’d noticed. Her eyes were wide, her mouth agape.
He smiled wickedly. “I find it helps to have aids.”
“A-aids?”
“Yes. For visual cues, don’t you know.” He knelt before her, excitement humming in every thread of his being. He was dying to see how far she would go—how far she would let him go. “Put out your hands.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Put out your hands. I’ll show you how it should look.”
Her lips twisted wryly. “Doubtless, it will be difficult for me to draw with my wrists tied.”
“Please. Indulge me.”
To his delight, and his chagrin, she did. He wrapped the rope around her wrists and secured it with his favorite knot.
“There. Try to get free.”
She turned her hands this way and that. As he’d known—from years of experience—she could not slip out. Ah. Once a man had her hands, he had it all. Silly girl.
“You see the difference? Between this and the knot you drew?”
She studied her sketch. “N-no.”
He placed a hand on her knee and grinned up at her, attempting to make it the most evil grin he could manage. “This knot is real.”
Her lips made a charming little “O”. “Lord Hedon, I don’t think—”
“No. You didn’t think, did you? Coming here, to my rooms, unescorted, thinking a silk mask would protect you.” He stood and stepped behind her, lifting her arms over her head and back, quickly lashing the end of the rope to a ring on the back of the chair. This thrust her breasts out at a tempting angle.
“Lord Hedon! What are you—”
“Hush, darling. You’re in my power now.”
“But what about our work?”
Seriously? That was all she was worried about? She was about to be ravaged by the biggest rake in Christendom and all she could talk about was her sketches?
He cupped her breasts, both of them. Tweaked twin peaks. “Hush.” This, he whispered in her ear. “I wouldn’t want to have to gag you.”
A flush crept up her cheeks. She wriggled and writhed and tried to get free, although he fancied she didn’t try too hard. He didn’t know if he should be gratified or annoyed. He chose annoyed. Because, damn, this was some other man as far as she knew. Some stranger. Some feckless villain!
He yanked up her skirts and she squealed.
She didn’t yell or holler or bellow. She squealed.
As though she liked it.
His mood darkened.
He stormed back to the armoire and found two straps and a quirt, the one he’d used as inspiration for Asha’s whipping with the sheik. He lifted one of Kaitlin’s thighs over the arm of the chair and strapped it in place. And then the other. Pushing her annoying skirts out of the way—God, he should have stripped her first—he exposed her cunt.
Beautiful.
He teased her curls.
She was wet.
Rage snarled through him. Because she was wet. For another man.
He glared at her. She gazed at him with dewy—yes, fucking dewy—eyes. Her lips were parted. Her breath came out in pants. With rough fingers he held open the folds of her labia, exposing her clitoris. It was swollen, slick.
Rage and arousal battled within him. They both won.
He brought down the leather tip of the quirt, straight onto her nubbin.
She groaned, arched, writhed against her bonds. “Oh, yes. Yes.”
God. He hated this. Also, he loved it.
Again and again he smacked her pearl, alternating with swipes of his questing tongue. Her taste, her scent was delightful, excruciating.
He couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t. He took her into his mouth and sucked, nibbled, nipped. She cried out again, angling her hips up toward him as far as her bonds would allow. With her legs lashed to the arms of the chair and her arms bound behind her, she was not able to wiggle much. He loved that she tried.
He also loved the fact that when she did so, she offered him entrance to her steaming cunt. He slipped the handle of the quirt inside.
She watched, agony written on her face.
Good. She deserved it. For letting another man touch her like this, have her like this, torment her like this.
In his fury, he shoved the quirt deeper, at the same time, pinching her nipple. Unable to stop himself, he smacked her cunt again, the sound echoing off the walls.
She stiffened, threw her head back and came, howling his name. “Edwaaard!”
He froze. Yanked out the quirt. She seized again.
Confusion racked him. Conflicting emotions warred within him. She had allowed a stranger intimacies he’d considered his and his alone. Yet she’d cried his name when she came. What did that mean? He hadn’t a clue.
Then again, his brain was rather fogged with lust. Dewy with it, perhaps.
He waited until she recovered herself before he said anything. When, finally, with a heady groan, she lifted her head, he caught her chin and held her gaze. “Why did you call me ‘Edward’ when you came?”
She snorted a little laugh. Tugged on her bonds. “Don’t be ridiculous. Untie me now. We have work to do.”
“Why did you call me ‘Edward’ when you came?”
“Because it’s your name, silly. Now untie me.”
Realization slammed through him. Fury. Relief. Annoyance. Lust. All swirling together.
He stood. Ripped off the mask. Stared at her. “How long have you known?”
She stilled. The grin flickering over her face was impish. “Why, from the very first. In Mr. Dithers’ office.”
He gaped. Last night? All this morning? She’d known? She’d been teasing him?
He wagged the quirt at her. “You are a naughty little minx.”
“Surely you didn’t think I wouldn’t recognize you? Edward, I could recognize you if you were wearing a full domino and I were blindfolded. In a dark room. Now please, untie me.”
He shook his head. “No. I don’t think so.”
She put out a lip. “We have work to do.”
“I have work to do.”
She gaped as he made his way to the armoire, pulling out one item after another and making sure she got a good look at each.
“Edward? What are you— Heavens! What is that for?”
“You thought to tease me?” He dropped the items on the bed and came over to the chair to release her legs. He released her hands too, but did not untie them. “Lady, I shall show you teasing. A teasing you will never forget.”
And then he slipped a blindfold over her eyes.
Chapter Twelve
It really should not have had such an effect on her, that blindfold. A mere scrap of silk. But it plunged her into a da
rk fantasy where she was utterly helpless, in the clutches of an evil stranger who had wicked designs upon her person. Anticipation crawled up her spine. She shuddered.
“Yes,” he murmured, rubbing her throbbing nipple. It peaked to an unbearable tautness. “Consider this research for our book, sweet. You are Fiona. The flame-haired maiden. Taken and held captive by England’s most notorious brigand.”
Something brushed her cheek, something soft and tantalizing. A feather? It trailed over her face, sending prickles along her skin.
“And now, he intends to tease you mercilessly.”
“M-mercilessly?”
A low chuckled thrummed. “Mercilessly. He will make you moan. Beg. Quail for release. Do you like that?” The feather skipped down to her exposed thighs, danced over the bare flesh. She tried to arch up into it, strain for more, but he did not allow it.
“He shall likely torment you for hours.”
A moan, ragged and needy, passed her lips. A gush of desire bubbled from her.
“God, you’re a tempting little piece.” His voice was just as ragged. Just as needy. Then he snorted, a harsh eruption. She heard him clomp away. When he returned, when his touch returned, it was not soft in the least.
He dragged something over her skin, in the same pattern as he had with the feather—but this object had a hard, bristled texture.
She flinched as it scored her nipples, one after the other in turn. “What is that?”
His breath kissed her ear. “Hush, darling. The brigand has a gag. He would love the excuse to tie it over your pretty mouth. Or perhaps not. Remember Asha’s punishment when she spoke out of turn?”
Kaitlin stilled and pressed her lips together.
Edward laughed.
Having silenced her so effectively, he proceeded to tease her, gently torture her with a variety of objects. Each heightened her arousal until she trembled with an unbearable tension.
It was nearly a relief when he unstrapped her legs and released her hands—but he didn’t untie her wrists.
“Stand up.”
She did not think she could. Her knees were far too wobbly. But she tried. He supported her and led her, blind, across the room. He fiddled with something and then she felt a tug. Her arms rose over her head until she stood nearly on her tiptoes.
“Edward?” A quivering whisper.
“Hush, darling.” He patiently unbuttoned her bodice until it fell about her waist. “I’m not Edward. I’m a highwayman, remember?”
“W-what shall I call you?”
He stilled. She felt his presence behind her, his warmth, his breath, his intensity. “You know what I like to be called.”
She shuddered.
“Say it.” A low hiss.
“S-sir?”
“Ah.” She knew she’d pleased him. She could hear it in his voice.
“Please Sir?”
His chuckle was tight. “Don’t tease me now, Kaitlin—I mean, Fiona.”
“T-tease you?”
“Yes, darling.” As he spoke, he pulled up the back of her skirts and somehow secured them up about her waist. She shivered when he pulled up the front as well. “If you call me ‘Sir’ too many times, I may just lose control.”
A naughty imp whispered that would not be too awful—until he continued.
“It would displease me to end this too quickly.” He leaned in and whispered, “You wouldn’t want to displease me, would you?”
“N-no Sir.”
In response, a sharp lash fell on her exposed bottom. She lurched forward. This was unlike anything she’d ever felt. Not a quirt—a crop perhaps? It was thin and supple and the crack stung. She couldn’t hold back her cry.
“Did you like that?”
Even as he asked the question, the sting warmed to something unbearably pleasant, leaving only an ache—but it was an ache for more.
“Yes Sir.”
“Excellent.”
He moved away once more. She heard him rummaging about in the armoire. She shook with the realization that he was hunting for something she had not seen.
“Spread your legs.”
She pressed her thighs together and shook her head.
“Come, Fiona. Don’t be disobedient.”
She shook her head again.
He sighed. Kaitlin thought she caught a hint of satisfaction in his tone.
“Do you know what I have in my hand?”
“No. Sir.”
“A very interesting little invention. For women just like you, Fiona.” He tied something around her leg, just above the knee. It felt like a garter. Then he kicked her legs apart and did the same to the other.
To her horror, she realized she could not bring her legs together. No matter how much she struggled.
Though she was blindfolded, she felt the heat of his gaze upon her. She certainly heard the noise he made deep in his throat as he watched.
A mind-melting excitement sizzled through her. She was bound. Blindfolded. Helpless. And her legs were tied apart.
“W-what are you going to d-do?”
“Hmm.” He’d gone back to the bed. When he returned she felt something cold and smooth nudge against her slit. He rubbed it along, dampening it, nudging at her aching button. She shuddered. “Don’t come, now. Fiona. You remember Asha’s training? She wasn’t allowed to come without permission.”
But—
“Fiona never read those books.”
An ominous silence descended.
A shark crack filled the room even as a heat the exact size and shape of his hand flooded her bottom. “Firstly, don’t talk back. Secondly, we are going to assume that Fiona has, indeed, read those books. And I wasn’t lying about that gag, my dear.”
“I’m sorry.” She wasn’t. Not really. But he did expect her to play along. And she really—really—wanted to know where this was going. Needed to know.
For the illustrations, of course. She needed to know so she could create this scene in glorious detail.
“Now. At the risk of repeating myself, you may not come.” This he said even as something—that cold, hard, slick object—eased up into her cavern. Her body clenched in reaction. Rejection of the invasion, perhaps. Or, perhaps not.
It felt strange. Uncomfortable. Large.
“Hold it in.” He gave it an extra push.
“Edward—”
Another crack, but this time, not his hand. It was the crop again. She flinched.
“But I can’t!” Whatever it was, it was heavy. And slick. And each time her body seized, it seemed to slip out another notch.
“You must. If it falls out, I will assume you are asking for,” his voice lowered to an ominous tone, “a punishment.”
She whimpered and tried to tighten her hold. The phallus slipped out.
His response was immediate. Three quick lashes on her bottom in a crisscross pattern, causing her flesh to burn. Then he shoved the thing back in.
This time, as it nudged up against her quivering walls, a spasm took her. It was a small crisis, a tiny flood of bliss, but he noticed.
“Did you just come?”
“N-no, Sir.”
“Liar.” But his words held no heat. He thumbed a nipple. Pinched. Delight shot from her breasts to her weeping slit. Her entire body thrummed with every beat of her heart. His hand made a slow path down her body, over the gathers of her skirt, and found the damp nest between her thighs. He toyed with her pearl as he eased the hideous phallus in and out and in again.
“Please!”
“Nice.” He nuzzled her neck. “I love when you beg, sweeting. But now it’s time to get serious.”
“What!?”
He didn’t answer. She hated that he stepped away. Hated the absence of his heat. Hated his absence altogether.
When he returned from his rummaging, he lifted the ruffles of her skirt and fit a thick belt around her waist, tightening it until it cut into her flesh. It was cold. She couldn’t imagine what it was for, but he gave her little time t
o wonder, drawing an unseen strap between her legs and securing it to the belt in front and back. It held the phallus in place. Inside her. Cradling it.
Her head went a little woozy with relief—because she would no longer have to work so hard to keep it from falling out—but perhaps there was a touch of dismay slithering through her as well. Because it was wedged up inside her. Filling her. Tantalizing the screaming nerves of her channel.
And she couldn’t come.
Edward—the brigand—hadn’t been joking when he said he was ready to get serious. Now, having so completely prepared her for his salacious attention, he went to work.
She could see nothing. Only feel. So each lash, each kiss, each agonizing caress was a surprise. He varied them. Harsh to sweet to unthinkably devious. She had no idea what items he was using to ply her trembling body with such unrelenting bliss. He kept her constantly on the edge of a taunting release.
He smacked her nipples—each in turn—with the leather flap of the quirt, keeping up the barrage until they were hard and taut and swollen beyond belief. Then he would take them in his mouth and soothe them with sweet suckles, or fill his mouth with cool brandy and cause her to flinch and gasp as cold kissed scalding heat.
As he licked and lapped sweetly above, he barraged her with gentle slaps over and around the strap covering her most tender button. The thick strip covered her, but as the phallus slipped lower and lower—though never completely falling out—the strap tightened, increasing the pressure on her pearl. When the leather slipped between the folds on her labia, the burning smacks fell directly on her lower lips.
And when her breathing quickened, when her body quickened, he would stop. Just stop. She could tell he was still there, probably staring at her, definitely sipping his brandy now and again as she heard the glass settle on the table before he returned, but he said nothing.
Her body was on fire. Her mind in a whirl. Her gut curled into a knot—a knot of want.
Tears streamed down her face, dampening the blindfold.
She did not know how much longer she could bear this.
“Edward.” Her voice was hoarse from her cries. Something in her ragged tone spoke to her desperation. “Edward.”
He came to her side at once. “Darling? Are you all right?”
