Page 44 of Tristan’s Temptation

A skein of sizzling arousal snaked through her. She knew what the chair was for. She desired it and dreaded it. But she couldn’t hesitate. Would not disobey.

He led her there and seated her.

It was a very special chair. Hewn of wood, it had a high back and removable arms. The seat was split so her bottom perched on a small ledge. Everything—the globes of her ass, her breasts, her cunt—was totally exposed.

Tristan took his time arranging her, slowly lifting one arm and securing her wrist to the straps high above her head. He took his time, tasting and tormenting her. And then he did the same with the other arm.

When he finished, he stood back and inspected his work, relishing the vision of her, helpless and constrained as she was. He licked his lips.

Shannon sat there, arms bound overhead, and burned. The leather bindings at her wrists were not painful but they reminded her she was helpless. His captive. She tugged just a little to test them and a shot of excitement ran down her spine.

She couldn’t believe this was happening. Her fantasy coming to life…and with him! She couldn’t stop her hips from rolling as sheer lust washed through her.

“Ah ah ah.” Tristan waggled a wicked finger. “I didn’t say you could move. Hold still.”

“But…”

“No talking, Shannon. I’m the Master here. You will do as I say.”

He seemed so domineering, so indifferent, it startled her. For a moment, she was paralyzed with fear. But there in his eyes she saw him. She remembered. And she relaxed.

“Good girl.” He walked to the rough-hewn table and surveyed the implements. Her pulse thudded in anticipation. What would he choose? The whip? The strap? Or something more heinous?

He chose the feather.

Ah. Definitely heinous.

As he approached, a swirling ball roiled in her gut. Anticipation and dread and dizzying desire skirled through her. He stopped in front of her, running the feather through his thick fingers. Just stood there and observed her reaction.

Imagining what he would do with it, would do to her, had her crying out, tugging at her bonds.

Really. She really should change her mind. Perhaps…

But it was too late. Tristan brought the feather down and dragged the soft fronds against her neck.

“Ah!” She arched up, helpless against the sensation. She mewled in agony, not because it was too intense but because it was not nearly enough. It was barely there. He allowed the feather to drift down her chest and around the circumference of one breast. He tormented her thusly for a long time, never once touching her straining nipples. He tormented her until she squirmed in the chair, dampening it with hopeful passion. “Please, Tristan! Please.”

He paused in his ministrations—Shannon had no idea what he was doing because she’d long since closed her eyes—but then the sensation returned…only harsher.

Her lids flew open and she was stunned to see he’d turned the feather around and was using its quill to score the torment on her flesh. Liquid horror trilled through her as the quill traced closer to her nipple and closer still.

She almost came out of her skin when it touched her, scratched across her aching nub.

The breath hissed out of him at her reaction. “Do you like that, Shannon?” And when she didn’t respond, “Do you?”

“Yes. Yes, damn you. Yes!”

His smile was wicked. He flipped the feather around again and repeated the torture on her other nipple. And then—oh heavens—the feather made its way lower.

Shannon wriggled and moaned, tugging at her bonds in earnest. She knew where he was heading. She couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t!

Determined to avoid the torment, she pulled her legs together. The feather froze.

“Shannon. Open your legs.”

She glared at him mulishly.

“Open your legs or I will have to bind them too.”