by Lisabet Sarai, Amy Armstrong, Sam Crescent, Cheryl Dragon, Tanith Davenport
“Minx!” He leaned over to pinch a welt. “You’ll pay for your insolence. But let’s get these ropes off first.”
Her muscles screamed in protest as she brought them down to her sides. Her fingers and toes were numb. Shaking his head, he chafed her wrists and ankles to stimulate the blood flow. “My apologies. I should not have kept you tied for such a long time.” His manner was almost tender as he boosted her body onto the bed. She rolled onto her side to spare her wounded ass the friction from the bedclothes.
“I didn’t mind, sir.”
“It’s my responsibility to see that you come to no harm.”
He stretched out along her body, facing her. Caressing her cheek, he searched her eyes. “You really didn’t mind, did you?” She heard wonder in his voice.
“No, sir.” Olivia swallowed the lump in her throat. Honesty was the only alternative. “Actually, I liked it. I liked it all—the rope, the belt, the teasing, the roughness—the way you acted like you owned me.”
“What about the Russian?” Andrew’s voice caught, a signal of unaccustomed uncertainty.
“Dmitri is the past. That was more than four years ago. And I should never have trusted him. After six months together, he simply disappeared one day—taking most of my money with him, I should add.”
“Did you—did you love him?”
Olivia had the feeling her companion didn’t want the real answer, but she felt compelled to tell the truth.
“I did, at the time. He was the first person to see—well, who I am. What I want. When he left me, I thought I’d die. I spent more than one night leaning on the railing of a bridge over the Seine.”
“The bastard didn’t deserve you, Olivia.” Andrew gathered her to his chest and took possession of her mouth in a kiss that brooked no refusal. Not that Olivia had the slightest inclination to refuse.
“I agree, sir,” she continued, when he finally permitted her to catch her breath. “But—ah—do you think that I went too far with him? When I admitted what he had done to me, you seemed upset—maybe even shocked. Does it disgust you, sir?”
Andrew rolled her nipples between his fingers and pulled them into tight, throbbing peaks. “You’ve got to be joking, Olivia. I wasn’t disgusted. Just terribly envious. So many firsts that you and I will never have.”
A little thrill skittered through her. He sounded as though he was expecting their relationship to extend beyond the weekend. Olivia pushed the tempting notion out of her mind. Aside from their carnal inclinations, they had nothing in common.
However, there were still many hours before sunrise. As she snuggled in the circle of his arms, enjoying the way he dragged his nails over her breasts and down her belly, she stifled a yawn.
“Sir?” she ventured after a long comfortable silence.
He trailed his fingers through her tangled hair. “Yes, slave?”
“What about the other ten strokes of my punishment?”
Andrew MacIntyre released a hearty laugh. “Don’t worry, Miss Alcott. You’ll get everything that’s owed to you.”
Chapter Seven
“I can’t do this, Andrew. I’m sorry.”
Andrew and Olivia paused together atop the mezzanine stairway that led down to the Great Hall. Music filtered up, along with the swell and ebb of conversation. Although it was barely nine p.m., Catherine MacIntyre’s ball was already in full swing. Her guests had arrived earlier than they would have under normal circumstances, eager to survey the competition—and to catch a glimpse of the unorthodox house guest Andrew had invited to participate in the closely scripted rituals of the wealthy. Gossip had spread the news far and wide. Functions at Wavecrest were usually well-attended in any case, but no one wanted to miss tonight’s festivities.
“Of course you can.” He tucked her arm under his and pulled her body closer. The French perfume he’d bought surrounded her with an aura of roses, but underneath, he thought he caught a whiff of her feminine musk. “You look exquisite—the gown is perfection—and you’re far cleverer than any other girl attending. You’ll charm everyone.”
He surveyed his companion with smug approval. With its simple, elegant lines, the peacock-blue silk he’d commissioned suited her to a T. The low-cut neckline left her arms bare and exposed a generous but not improper expanse of fair skin. The fabric clung tightly to her breasts and torso, then flared out over her hips and swept to the floor in a sapphire cascade. Unlike some of the fussy fashions he’d seen, the gown had little ornamentation, aside from the ribbons that hung from the waist, draping the skirt in gleaming loops of satin.
Diamond teardrops swung from her earlobes. A matching diamond on an almost invisible chain nestled in the hollow of her throat and a blue-dyed ostrich feather arched over her upswept, mahogany-brown curls.
Yes, the outfit was worth every penny of the small fortune he’d paid for it. Olivia Alcott was a pearl without price.
Olivia shook her head. “They’ll know the instant they set eyes on me. I’ll die of embarrassment.”
“Nonsense. No one can tell whether you’re wearing undergarments. With your figure, you’ve no need of a corset, and it’s warm enough that your nipples are scarcely visible…” He punctuated his assertion with a tweak that made her gasp.
“Don’t!” She jerked away from him. He held her fast.
“Olivia, did you not agree to be my consort this weekend?”
“Yes—yes, sir…”
“And to obey me without question?”
“And have I not done so?” Her eyes sparkled in her flushed face and he knew she was reviewing the same glorious recollections that had him half hard in his tailored tuxedo trousers.
“Yes, yes, you’ve satisfied me in every way, my lovely slut. Tonight, though, I need you more than ever, here by my side. I must make it clear to my mother and to society at large that I am not in the market for a wife.”
“So I’m to play the role of your mistress, then?” The sharpness in her voice surprised him. He brushed his lips across her ripe ones, savouring her sweet breath.
“What do you care what those hypocrites think of you? You’ll never see them again.”
Olivia did not answer. She peered down the stairs, into the brightly lit hall—the lion’s den. “You’re right,” she answered at last, her voice low and resigned. “It doesn’t matter at all. Let us go.”
Andrew guided her down the carpeted steps, his hand upon her elbow. He’d planned to make an unobtrusive entrance. However, when they appeared in the arched entry, every single person in the room turned to survey the new arrivals.
Couples stood frozen on the dance floor. Wine glasses paused halfway to their owners’ lips. The orchestra continued to play, but the occupants of the room were as motionless as machinery without power.
His mother, in a cluster of gaily clad ladies near the windows, shot a pointed stare in his direction. He executed a gracious bow in her direction. As the musicians brought the current song to an end, he addressed the assembly as a whole.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I am delighted to welcome you all to Wavecrest. Please enjoy yourselves—and if I can do anything to make your evening more pleasant, do not hesitate to ask.”
He nodded to the orchestra leader, who struck up a new waltz. As though waking from a dream, the guests resumed their drinking, dancing and conversation.
“Miss Alcott, may I have the pleasure?” He held out his hand to his companion. In the brilliant light of the massive electric chandeliers, Olivia looked more enchanting than ever.
“It would be an honour, sir.”
She was light as a breeze, sure-footed and graceful, following his lead without the slightest misstep. His hand settled on her waist, where he could feel her warm flesh shifting under the silk. Her fingers enlaced with his, she focused on his face as he swept her around the floor. In her eyes he read desire, need and a raw devotion that humbled even him. They were silent as they danced, but their eyes and their bodies spoke volumes.
The waltz ended. Another began, then another. Olivia’s lush form moved in perfect synchrony with his own, dipping and twirling, responding to his slightest cues. Andrew fell into a sort of lustful dream. He wanted the dancing to never end. He’d keep Olivia in his arms forever.
“Andrew, dear.”
Catherine MacIntyre tapped him on the shoulder. Reluctantly, he and Olivia separated. The young woman looked as dazed and shaken as he felt himself.
“Ah—yes, Mother?”
“Good evening, Miss Alcott. I’m glad you could join us.” His mother actually sounded sincere. She turned back to confront her son. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I fear you’re monopolising Miss Alcott’s attention. There are several young men who are eager to have her as their partner.”
“What? Who…?” He glanced around the room, glaring at all the other male guests.
“Meanwhile, it’s your duty as host to dance with some of the other ladies. Miss Linton and Miss Harper are both pining for a bit of your attention.”
He was on the verge of refusing. Wavecrest was his house. It was his money that had paid for the music, the champagne, the delicacies the guests would consume later at supper. If he wanted to spend his evening with the one woman here who interested him, who could stop him?
Olivia’s hand on his arm forestalled him. “Andrew, your mother’s right. You should devote some time to your other guests. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
His mother’s smile evidenced her relief. She laid a bejewelled hand upon Olivia’s bare arm. “Thank you, Miss Alcott. I appreciate your understanding. Come, let me to introduce you to Mr Frank Ormsted. His father owns the Ormsted department store chain…”
Just like that, Olivia was gone, carried off towards a knot of guests in the far corner of the room.
Andrew gritted his teeth as Mary Beth Linton descended upon him like a satin-clad vulture. As he led the chattering girl into a foxtrot, he sought out Olivia’s elegant form. She appeared to be completely comfortable, smiling at a skinny red-haired gentleman, laughing at his jokes. Selena Larimer claimed him next—and didn’t say a word throughout the dance—then the much-celebrated Charlotte Harper, who turned out to be both clumsy and loud. He was grateful to hand her over to one of the Vanpatten cousins.
The parade of partners slowed. Mary Beth wanted another round, but Andrew excused himself. He snagged a flute of champagne from a waiter and glanced around the room, seeking his partner of choice.
The Grand Hall of Wavecrest was fifty feet long and two storeys high. At the moment it held perhaps forty people, scarcely a crowd in such an enormous room.
Olivia Alcott was not among them.
Chapter Eight
What were you thinking, silly girl? That you and Andrew had a future?
Lifting her gown to keep from tripping, Olivia hastened down the terrace stairs and out onto the lawn. She stepped beyond the brightness streaming from the ballroom windows, into the welcome shadows. The strains of the violins faded. Instead, she heard the call of the night birds and the susurration of the waves against the cliff.
Without any particular plan, she made her way towards the absurdly ornate Chinese tea house that perched at the far edge of the property, overlooking the sea. Dew soaked through her satin slippers. She removed them and continued barefoot, damp grass squishing between her toes.
The muggy summer night felt cool after the crowded ballroom. A breeze slaked the fire in her cheeks. She’d made such a fool of herself. Whirling about in Andrew’s arms, gazing up at his face, she’d allowed herself to believe… The ball, the guests, everything had disappeared during that magic waltz. Andrew—her lover—her master—had become her only reality. Even now she could summon the strength in his grip, the confidence with which he’d guided her steps, the sharp scent of his cologne and the challenge in his eyes. She nearly swooned at the recollection—or perhaps that effect could be attributed the champagne she’d consumed so recklessly after his mother had separated them.
He’d been ready to refuse the order. Olivia had recognised the struggle in his eyes. Then he’d acquiesced, yielding to his fate, stepping effortlessly into the role to which he’d been born. She wanted to hate him for his lack of courage, but how could she, this man who’d opened her, taught her again who she was and what she needed? He was not to blame. He belonged to a different world than she, one as remote and strange as darkest Africa.
Their connection, which had seemed so right and true and inevitable, was transient. She gave what was natural. He took what he needed. A simple transaction, obedience traded for pleasure.
Tomorrow evening, he’d send her home, marked by his belt and his kisses, and the interlude would be over. She was a practical woman, not prone to crazy dreams. Why should she have expected more?
She’d press him, though, about the factory. She would not allow him to take advantage of her perversity without providing something in return. If he did not fulfil his part of the bargain, she’d expand the strike, state-wide, across the northeast, across the nation, until he rued the day he’d met Olivia Alcott.
Righteous anger could not banish her sorrow. She leaned on the tea house railing, the varnished wood floor smooth under her bare soles, and fought her sobs, drawing the salt-laced night air into her lungs in great gasps. I won’t cry, she swore. Not over a shallow, selfish popinjay like Andrew MacIntyre.
“Olivia! There you are! I was afraid you were gone…”
He came up behind her, encircling her waist and pulling her body against his. All her resolutions crumbled.
“I’m so very sorry to have left you on your own in that nest of vipers.” Andrew nuzzled her neck, then tugged with his teeth at her diamond eardrop. A delicious thrill skittered down her spine.
“No matter. Everyone was perfectly civil. In any case, I completely understand. You’re the host—you’re required take care of all your guests.” Olivia marvelled at the calm in her voice, even as he cupped her breasts through her finery and thumbed her nipples.
“You’re the only guest who interests me. I don’t care a fig for the rest of them.”
He turned her around, pressing her buttocks against the rail, and stroked her cheek. “Olivia—” It was too dark for her to read his expression, but his voice held an uncharacteristic note of uncertainty. His lips found hers, in a soft, tentative kiss that ended too soon and made her ache for more.
She searched his face in the gloom. “Yes? What can I do for you, sir?”
His whole body stiffened at the title, as though electricity coursed through him. At the same time, the act of voicing her surrender melted the last remnants of her anger.
He tightened his grip on her bare upper arms—she’d have bruises tomorrow—and released a low chuckle, full of lust and menace. Wet heat bloomed between Olivia’s thighs.
“You’re still willing to serve me, then?” His fingers were at her throat now, testing her pulse before sliding down to trace her collarbone.
“Of course, sir.” His touch kindled almost unbearable arousal. She wanted to sink to her knees, to kiss his feet, to breathe his scent and rub her cheek against the glorious hardness at his crotch. “I am yours to command.”
“Ah, that’s my slut talking. Come here then, girl.” He hustled her back towards the entry to the pavilion. The building resembled a normal gazebo, but dragons perched on the tiled, upswept eaves and were carved into the red lacquered pillars supporting it. He arranged her between the gateposts, facing the great house, which glowed like a Chinese lantern. “Raise your arms and put your palms against the posts. Yes, that’s right. Don’t move. Now, how to bind you…”
Olivia followed his instructions, eager for whatever he had planned. If someone had looked from one of Wavecrest’s many windows towards the sea, they might have detected some motion at the tea house, but darkness and distance would hide the details. She found herself wishing that the moon would rise, and was horrified by her own depravity.
Andrew stood before her, pondering
the situation. He clenched and unclenched his fists. Energy fairly crackled through his powerful frame.
“I know!” He seized one of the ribbons that draped her skirt and yanked.
“Andrew, no! You’ll ruin it!”
“I paid for it. It’s mine to ruin—just like you.”
She shivered at the thought.
The satin resisted his considerable strength. Pulling a penknife from his tuxedo pocket—to Olivia’s surprise—he sawed at the ribbon until it gave way. “T’will be strong at least.” He wrapped the strip of fabric around her wrist several times, then tied the other end to the post. The satin caressed her skin, but held her tight against the pillar. “Now for the other…”
In a trice he had her suspended between the gateposts, helpless to resist whatever came next. “Now, to make you more accessible…” He slashed again and again at the elegant gown, tearing through overskirt, underskirt and petticoats. A sea breeze stirred the shredded silk, tickling her bare thighs. Moisture trickled from her cleft. She strained against her bonds, wanting nothing more than to touch him, but with an evil giggle, he stepped out of range.
“Ah, sweet, you do look wicked! What would your Russian think, hey?” He leant forward to pinch her nipple, triggering a shock of pleasure, but backed away before she could make contact. “Did your precious poet ever bind you outdoors, in full view of polite society?”
“No, sir…” Dmitri had confined their deviant games to the garret they’d shared. She’d sometimes wished otherwise.
“Ah—a first then! And do you like being exposed, Miss Alcott? Does it arouse you?” He still wouldn’t come closer. Olivia caught a whiff of her own ocean aroma. Her pussy clenched on emptiness.
“You know it does, sir.” Heat climbed into her cheeks. Heat pulsed in her core.
“Yes, yes, I do know. I know you, Olivia. I know what you need.”
As he gloated before her, he was unbuttoning his trousers. His cock sprang free, arching up towards his white cummerbund. She whimpered, overwhelmed, incoherent with desire.
