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The vibrations slowed. She prayed he would wind it again. Instead, he rose and placed the Tremoussoir on the chair. She groaned in frustration.
“Rest awhile, Miss Herwood. I will return shortly.”
She glared at him as he took a robe off the back of the door and slipped it on. He was leaving her? For how long?
“Pray, do not be long,” she said. “You did promise to see me home, my lord.”
He said nothing and closed the door behind him.
Chapter Twenty
DEANA TRIED THE SHACKLES but found them secure. She growled in frustration. She was lying upon her back with her arms and legs spread in the air. She glanced at the Tremoussoir on the chair. Could she reach it? No, she would have to crawl to it, but with her arms locked with her legs, there was no possibility she could maneuver herself there. She tried the shackles once more but without success. Her body had been poised to spend again. Instead he had left her in aggravation. Was this her punishment? She reached a hand toward her own cunnie to see if she could stroke herself, but her hands were locked too far away. Perhaps if she found a way to rub herself upon something? But she was surrounded only by soft pillows.
“Aaargh,” she muttered.
“Vexed?”
He had returned and stood in the doorway. He held a box, which he placed atop the chest of drawers.
“I’m bloody dandy,” she replied.
He clucked his tongue as he approached. Sitting down beside her, he ran a finger along the length of her womanhood. She shivered.
“You are in not in need of anything, Miss Herwood?” he teased, circling her clitoris.
She moaned. I am in need of you.
“Do you wish me to beg for it, my lord?” she asked more flippantly than she intended.
His eyes steeled. “Would you?”
“If you wish it, my lord,” she replied more sincerely. She glanced at the Tremoussoir. Yes, she would beg for that divine little instrument again. Her gaze traveled to his crotch. Or better yet...
He dipped a finger into her cunnie. She closed her eyes. Yes, she wanted him inside.
“Please, my lord,” she began.
“Please, what, Miss Herwood?”
She stared him in the eyes. “Please fuck me, my lord.”
His gaze aflame, he withdrew. Slowly—much too slowly—he kicked off his boots, tore off his stockings, unhinged his braces, and left fall his trousers. His cock stood at proud attention. Kneeling against her bottom, he rubbed his shaft along her. He jerked himself against her clitoris, her cunnie, her perineum until she was near to spending. Retreating, he spanked the expanse of flesh before him from the underside of her thighs to her buttocks and even across her hot, wet folds. She yelped at the slaps, but they fueled her ardor. Her body knew no shame before this man.
“Fuck me, my lord,” she implored.
“We were deprived our final night at Chateau Follet,” he said, halting.
She strained for his hand to fondle her or smack her again. “Yes.”
“A pity.”
“Yes.”
“Is there anything you wish we could have done, Miss Herwood?”
“I would that you could have fucked me senseless.”
He frowned and she wondered if she had responded too brashly. But in the next instant he was upon her, his cock plunging deep into her. She cried out at the depth of his penetration. Her knees crushed the pillows beside her as he slammed his cock into her. She welcomed every ounce of force. Her body, tormented with lust, in need of the strongest relief, wanted the pounding, wanted him, wanted to drive out all possibility that there would remain some small grain of unsatisfied desire for him to taunt later.
