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If he were as well endowed as he looked in his slave’s loincloth, it would hurt to be penetrated without any foreplay, make her pussy sting and burn as she climaxed. She had no doubt she would be drunk with satisfaction by the time he finished his relentless assault, her body weeping for more sweet, sensual pain.
Who the hell are you, and what have you done with Eleanor?
Eleanor struggled to listen to her outraged inner voice and remember that she didn’t like pain with her pleasure. She ignored both the rush of heat between her legs and the way her sensitized nipples tightened until it was torture to feel them brush against the leather of
her corset.
“You’re shaking,” her client said, his voice soft and husky, almost as if he knew where her thoughts had been headed a moment before. “Are you all right?”
Was she all right?
God no, she wasn’t all right. She wasn’t going to be all right until she was naked and pinned beneath him. His voice seemed to offer that relief, if only she would break and show him the real woman behind The Wicked Stepmother.
Never, not in a million years.
The real Eleanor never showed her face at work, and she wasn’t about to start now, not for a cocky man without the sense to play by the rules. He should never have come in here, not with his obvious contempt for a female Domme.
She would give him one last chance to play nice, and then she was finished with him. This was her place of business and she called the shots.
“Silence. Now.”
His brows lifted. “I’ll say it again—make me.”
She threw up her hands. “That’s it. We’re finished. It’s obvious you’re not taking this seriously.” She turned to leave—a part of her relieved to have an easy out—but was stopped by an impossibly large hand closing around her wrist.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
“Get your hands off of me,” she demanded. Her arm looked absurdly tiny when engulfed by his fist, but his touch didn’t frighten her.
No, it didn’t scare her; it sent a sharp bolt of desire sweeping over her skin and zinging straight to her clit.
Hell, yes. This was what she wanted.
She wanted him to grab her, take her, force her to succumb to the need that filled her. She wanted her clothes ripped from her body until she was laid bare and completely exposed to the man who would conquer her. A mental image of herself, tied to her four-poster bed, her legs spread wide, flew through Eleanor’s mind.
She fought to suppress a moan and wrenched at her wrist again. She couldn’t stay in the same room with this man for another minute. He was making her crave things that she had never imagined she would enjoy, and it was starting to seriously mess with her mind.
“You have to stay,” he said.
“I d-don’t have to do anything,” she stammered. “I’m the Mistress here, and—”
“Then show me. Show me, Eleanor.”
Eleanor’s jaw dropped open, the shock of hearing him use her real name finally bringing her to her senses. He wasn’t even pretending to play by the rules anymore. In light of current events, it was madness to stay a second longer.
She had to get him out of here, before it was too late.
CHAPTER TWO
Eleanor
“Let me go, now!” She brought her whip down on his arm—hard—but the damn man didn’t even blink.
Fear conquering all other emotion, Eleanor brought the whip down again and again, finally landing a blow to the giant’s shoulder that made him hiss and release her wrist.
She stumbled back, teetering on her heels. She was free, and she knew she should make a run for it, but she was paralyzed by the sight of blood welling in the cut she’d made. She had never drawn blood before—ever—and the sight sent a wave of self-loathing washing through her.
It only made it worse that he hadn’t fought back. Sure, he’d held onto her arm, but he hadn’t hurt her or even tried to block her blows.
