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As if coming to her senses, Miss Merrill tried to push herself up. He promptly pushed her back down. Now came her indignation, the blush of anger, but she would see that she was no match for him.
“I’m not finished with you yet,” he told her. “Lie still.”
She either did not perceive or chose not to listen to his directive for she continued to struggle. The grinding of her pelvis against his thigh caused the blood to course boldly through his groin.
“Lie still,” he commanded again and emphasized his words with a harsher slap to her derrière. God, how he wanted to hear the sound of her arse sans the gown and petticoats, but he had to proceed with patience with this one. He wanted to frighten her a little—that was part of the arousal—but he also wanted her to trust him.
“I am loath to issue my demands twice, Miss Merrill,” he informed her. “Now take your punishment like a good girl.”
He could guess her internal dialogue. She was a good girl. That was perhaps the problem. Perhaps she had never been punished and was bored with being the good girl. Perhaps she had been punished too often before she became the good girl and wanted a return to the days when she wasn’t so good.
She lay still across his thigh as he delivered several sharp blows. Was it his imagination or had she lifted her arse higher to greet his hand? He smacked her several more times before pausing to note her quickened breath, the stillness of her body and the flush upon her skin. His own body felt warm and he wished he had removed his coat earlier. His cock was hard with the weight of her upon him.
“How did that please you, Miss Merrill?” he asked, his breath less steady than he would have liked.
“Please me?” she returned, incredulous.
“But of course. Why do you think women come here willingly if it were not pleasurable?”
She had no answer, so he continued. “That is the beauty of the debauchery you were so hasty to condemn. The irony of what occurs here at Château Follet is that the more you dread it, fear it, disdain it, the more you enjoy it.”
“Impossible,” she murmured.
“Is it?”
He reached toward her ankle and slid his hand under the hem of her gown. She gasped when his hand came in contact with her stocking-clad leg. Her body jumped at the touch, but she could do far worse if she truly loathed what was happening. Gently he drifted his hand up the silk until he reached the softness of her bare thigh—a hundred times smoother and more delectable than the feel of silk. Heady with anticipation, he reached under her arse, between her thighs, and when he connected with her wetness, he closed his eyes, his breath ragged.
The blood was pounding in his cock, and he allowed a husky quality to creep into his voice. “Your body, Miss Merrill, proves the possibilities.”
Running his hand around her thigh, he palmed a buttock. Glorious. He grasped the flesh more firmly and heard her groan. Flipping the dress and petticoats over her waist, he laid bare the prize. Two perfectly rounded orbs, as unblemished as those of a babe, gleamed in the dim light of the candles. He licked his bottom lip as if he were about to feed on a succulent cut of beefsteak. He delivered a sharp slap with the back of his hand and watched in delight as the mound of flesh quivered.
“How many, Miss Merrill?”
“Hmmm?” came the dazed voice from beneath the layers of fabric.
He gave her a formidable swat.
“Four,” she answered quickly.
Sebastian smiled to himself. She could be trained.
“Eight it is,” he said. “If I have to repeat myself again, we will triple the number.”
Greedily, his hand slapped at her arse. The smack of bare flesh to bare flesh rang in his ears as melodious as a symphony. When he was done, he gazed with satisfaction at the red imprints his hand had left upon her pale skin. He could smell her arousal and confirmed it when he slid his hand between her and found her wetter than before. His erection pressed painfully against her hip.
Abruptly, he stood and dragged her to the post.
“What are you—” she protested when he pulled her wrists around the post and tied them overhead with silken rope.
The hemp he would save for another time.
Another time? Sebastian silently cursed himself. What the bloody hell was the matter with him?
Stepping back, he admired her form pressed against the post, which cleaved her breasts and separated the globes to either side. Miss Merrill was not unattractive. Her rounded figure reminded him of Ruben’s portrait of Hélène Fourment. Supple. Ripe. He could see himself entwining his fingers in her lustrous dark hair. She had a complexion free of blemish and that required little in the way of powder or rouge. And those voluptuous lips…
A sense of remorse crept into him as he observed how Miss Merrill’s bottom lips quivered. She had very full lips. More succulent than her cousin’s. He wondered how such lips would feel beneath his own. He imagined taking her mouth would be like sinking into a rich, sweet strawberry.
His head swam with lust, and he needed to clear it before he did something he did not intend—such as tearing the clothes from her and ravishing her. He reminded himself of the anger that he had felt earlier. The impudence of this woman, to foil his plans for a pleasant weekend and deprive him of the joys of exploring Miss Josephine’s lovely body. The effrontery of her to stand there in judgment of him with those wide brown eyes—eyes possessed of such clarity that he could see every emotion through them. He almost feared looking into them too deeply.
