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Reaching around her, he grabbed her breasts through the chemise. Of a sudden, she yearned to feel his powerful hands upon her bare flesh. She would arch her breasts farther into his hand were it not for the post pressing into her sternum. He fingered the seam of her chemise, and she realized with embarrassment that she had not selected one of her finer, less worn undergarments. Fisting the fabric in one hand, he wrenched it against her body.
“Wait!” she gasped. “I haven’t—”
Too late. The chemise ripped away from her, scalding the skin where it had most resisted. She took in a sharp breath as if cold had blasted her body, but it was not the air she found chilling. She had no undergarments to wear home. And now she stood with all of her in plain view of his probing eyes—eyes that surely missed little, eyes that were examining every inch of her. What was he thinking? Why did he not speak?
Crossing over to the wall, he removed an instrument and went to stand behind her once again. Why did he not stand so that she could see him? It was unsettling not being able to read his face or know what he might do next. She rested her forehead against the post. Part of her was more aware, more alive, than she had ever been before. Part of her wanted only to disappear into the ground. This had been a mistake. She was not ready for this.
He struck the crop against the post above her head, making her jump.
“The nine-tail and single-tail are also delectable,” he murmured into her ear. “Your safety word is ‘Madrid’. Ever been to Spain, Miss Merrill?”
The crop. He had taken the crop. What did he intend with it?
“Miss Merrill, I asked you a question.”
“No,” she answered.
“It is worth a visit. If you wish to be released, speak ‘Madrid’ and I shall stop. Otherwise, you may cry as loud as you wish. You may protest, wail, plead, beg or sob, but only ‘Madrid’ will set you free.”
She groaned. Ready or not, she wanted this. Her cunny pulsed with anticipation.
Whack!
The crop stung her buttock. He allowed her a moment to register the sensation before landing another. The pain was sharper, more concentrated, than the blows he had delivered by hand. He struck her three, four, five more times, his backhand as potent as his forehand. She gritted her teeth against the burn. Her entire arse felt as if it were on fire. On the twelfth whack, she cried out and tears stung her eyes.
“I will release one of your hands,” he told her. “You will pleasure yourself.”
Pleasure herself? In front of him? But masturbation was the most private of acts. The notion of touching her genitals before him was horrifying, lewd, sinful, wicked…provocative.
He coaxed her into action with a strike that made her wonder how she would ever be able to sit again. Her hand flew to her mons and she rubbed two fingers against her clitoris. It was awkward with the post in the way. She had to arch her derrière to provide her hand enough access. At first she felt only shame. There was nothing pleasurable about fondling herself before Lord Cadwell. He had sauntered to the side for a better view. But when she chanced to meet his smoldering gaze, saw the slight ripple of muscle above his jaw, desire flamed in her loins. She rubbed herself more purposefully, making the anticipation quiver down the length of her legs.
The crop fell against her buttocks once more, raining an agonizing yet endurable pain, but she continued to fondle herself. It was unlike anything she had ever experienced. The pleasure. The pain. One seemed to fuel the other. The agitation blazing in her body was ten times stronger than what she had felt earlier. She did not care if he ordered her to stop this time. She would not do it. Her body deserved to spend this time.
And spend it did. She jerked against the post as her wave crested, rolling her beneath it, into the glorious turbulence of release. It flared deep in her groin, shot down her legs. A wrenching cry tore from her throat. When at last she surfaced for air, she felt weak and ragged. Her legs collapsed beneath her just as he swept her into his arms and undid the last of the bonds. He tossed aside the bodice of her gown and laid her across the bed.
With her eyes closed to contain the intensity of sensations that had just assaulted her, she breathed in the relief of her accomplishment, her body satisfied and content despite the ache in her limbs and the tingling of her buttocks. His hand caressed the welts on her arse with a gentleness she would not have thought possible given how forcefully he had wielded the crop. She felt something cool and moist—a salve of some sort—applied to her. It eased the burn and soothed the ache.
“You did well, Heloise.”
“Mmmmm,” she acknowledged, relishing the sound of her name upon his tongue.
She thought he might now put his triumph into words, and she would not have cared much if he did. Lord Cadwell had known somehow that she had wanted this. To attempt denials now would prove a futile exercise. But he said nothing. Instead of proclaiming victory—she expected some level of smugness from a man as arrogant as he—he had praised her. She felt proud of herself. Her body had been pushed to limits she had not thought possible. And it felt magnificent.
His gentle rubbing lulled into her a state of peaceful bliss but a gradual arousal also began to build. She could feel the curve of his body behind hers. She was becoming sensitized to his touch in the most alarming and thrilling ways. How was it he could awaken her body with the simplest of caresses? Wetness pooled between her legs once again, desire welling in her veins. She hoped that he would touch her more intimately.
Just as she was about to beg him, his hand circled around her thigh, grazed the soft curls at her mons, and reached for the supple folds of her quim. She could hardly wait to see what he would do next.
Sebastian was not surprised at how well Miss Merrill had handled the crop. Wild thoughts ran through his head at the possibilities. There was so much he could do to her. So much he wanted to do to her besides fuck her against the post. How exquisite she would look with her entire body bound in ropes—her arms pinioned behind her, her calves tied to her thighs, her breasts captured and squeezed. Thus tied, she could learn to take him into her mouth and down her throat. It would not be easy, but with the proper incentive, he was confident she was not the sort to give up easily. The vision of his cock gliding between those plump, tender lips was nearly his undoing.
Containing the force of his lust had been like pushing a coach and four up a steep slope, but after she had finished convulsing against the post, when he knew the soreness in her limbs would come alive with a vengeance, a flood of tenderness had filled him. The sense of satisfaction as he cradled her in his arms was greater than he could ever remember it being. He knew not why he felt such a strong desire to protect her. And claim her as his.
Marguerite had been surprised by Miss Merrill, but no more surprised than he. He had taken dozens of women far comelier and more practiced than Miss Merrill. How was it then that he felt driven to madness by her? A cautionary bell rang in his head, one that questioned the wisdom of pursuing anything further.
Her arse had an alluring glow of rose about it. Ignoring the bell, he palmed her buttock and wondered if she was still a virgin here. Marguerite was correct—he didn’t do virgins. But hers was such a delectable arse, he found himself considering the prospect, intrigued at being the first to plumb her nether hole. His cock swelled its support for the idea.
Her coiffure had mostly come undone, and tendrils of hair curled about her face and down her neck. Tiny beads of perspiration dotted her nose. He liked her look of disarray. Liked that he was the one who had placed her in such a state. The flush in her rounded cheeks added to her loveliness. His hand wound its way to her mons, brushing her curls and feeling for the dampness between her thighs. A soft moan escaped her lips when he brushed past her clitoris.
He nibbled her ear. “Tell me now, Heloise, how you enjoyed your submission.”
