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“Ahhhh!” she cried out when the second clamp engulfed her.
She squeezed her eyes shut as if the deprivation of sight would extinguish the sensation of touch. Her whole body tensed. She wished she had not nipples. Who knew that two such small points of her body could produce such radiating pain? She wanted to scream for him to remove the clamps, but she only grimaced and gave a little weep. Her body bowed inward against the cross, wanting to escape the clutch of the clamps, and would have bent over if her arms were not tied.
“Breathe.”
Breathe. Breathe.
After a few more breaths, the sharpness of the pain dulled and she began to think she might be able to weather the devilish implements.
Whack!
The crop landed on her breast, making it sway. The movement exacerbated the pinching of the clamps.
Whack! Whack!
“Oh! Oh!” She gasped and dug her fingers into her palms.
Soon her breasts were streaked with a rosy hue. Tears stung the backs of her eyes. She did her best not to sob in front of Alastair. That would have been too embarrassing. But she could not repress her cries and squeals. Dear Heavens. She had not been prepared for this. Having never experienced such torment before, she could not fully appreciate just how much pain her body could be in. She could imagine nothing worse. The cramps from her menses or the time a horse had stepped upon her foot—nothing seemed to compare with the stinging blows setting her body on fire. When was the punishment to end?
Just when she began to consider the use of her safety word, he stopped. He detached the clamps. She shuddered as the blood rushed to the tortured area.
“Well done, Millie.”
“Thank you, my lord,” she murmured meekly.
She had underestimated Château Follet. Or overestimated her own abilities. And she had not suffered the worst of it. She doubted not that there was a wickedness beyond her comprehension that existed here at Château Follet.
She considered telling Alastair that she had had enough. She would thank him for providing her a taste of Château Follet, but her body had reached the end of its endurance. It burned and ached so much, she wondered that she could sleep when she returned to the safety of her bedchambers.
The ground below had blurred with the tears pressing in her eyes. Could she let them fall before Alastair? She had allowed him to strip her, bare her breasts, and flog her with a crop. What did it matter if he saw the tears? Why should she hide them now? But what if the other women he had punished had not cried? Would it not substantiate his belief that she was not up to task here at Château Follet?
It was silly and unnecessary, but she wanted to prove her mettle to him.
But when he lifted her chin and closed her mouth with his own, a tear slipped from the corner of one eye. She had not realized how much she desired his kiss again, had forgotten amidst the torture of the clamps and crop.
How delicious his lips felt against hers! Nothing tasted finer. They pressed against her with such sweetness, and through the pain, desire swelled through her. He parted her lips with his, and his tongue grazed the insides of her mouth, making her shiver.
“Well done,” he whispered against her lips.
She kissed him back, seeking more pressure from his lips. He obliged, taking mouthfuls of her and making her head swim with a euphoria she had never known. His hand went to the back of her head to hold her still as he consumed her. Her body burned for a different reason and arched toward him. Her belly grazed what was a definite bulge at his crotch. A victorious thrill shot through her, and she pressed herself harder against that thickness.
His fingers went through her hair, tugging slightly. She would have welcomed any manner of touch, no matter how harsh from him. A craving had engulfed her now. A craving that only he could satisfy. To signal this, she continued to kiss him despite the awkwardness of her inexperience. He tightened his hold of her hair till she gasped. He wanted her to stop. She wondered if it was because she did not kiss well.
He pulled her head back and seared his mouth to her exposed neck. She nearly wept at the waves of desire rolling through her body. There were no words to describe how marvelous his lips felt against her neck. The grazing of his tongue tickled and thrilled. He suckled her neck, causing the tension between her legs to double—nay, triple—and dwarf what pain the crop and clamps had produced.
Take me. Please take me.
At that moment, she wanted him more than she had ever wanted anything else. Her body bowed off the cross, pulling at the shackles. It was madness how much she needed him, madness how the heat engulfing her could elicit such divine agitation, a pleasure that drove her to distraction. He clasped a buttock, and another wave of heat bowled through her. She rubbed herself harder against him, the pressure inside her body needing to meet with an equal pressure outside.
With a groan, he shoved his hips at her. She had not thought it possible for the bulge between his legs to harden further. With a vigor that surprised her, she ground herself wantonly against him. A small part of her mind cautioned what he must think of her behavior, but she paid it no heed. At present, she wanted only to relieve the fire consuming her and feared that at any moment, Alastair might come to his senses and withdraw.
Instead, he pushed back against her, flattening her to the cross as he continued to mouth her neck, her jaw, her mouth. Her hips, however, he tilted toward his pelvis. Desire swam through her. There could not be a more divine place than where she was, trapped between the wooden cross and his equally hard body. She wanted to speak his name or a word to indicate she was ready and willing.
He groped a breast, kneading the flesh with his fingers. She winced and gasped as her nipples, still excruciatingly sensitive, grazed against him. But she had never felt more alive. She needed and wanted to merge her body to this man who could inflict such acute sensations and coax such delicious wonders. The combination enthralled her to a height she had never before known.
At long last, his hand was between her legs, stoking where the flame burned hottest. She would have preferred his bare fingers but was too aroused to mind her shift scraping against her. The friction from the garment produced a different but still pleasing sensation. With each and every stroke, the fire grew. The rapturous agitation reverberated through her body, and she doubted that she could contain its explosion. She had no wish to contain it. If the euphoria building within her did not find release, she would go mad.
She pressed herself into his hand. He quickened his motions.
And then it happened. What she had sought, what she had craved for the longest time. What she might never experience ever again.
The pressure inside her exploded, shooting shudders through her entire frame. She bucked against him, against the cross. The shackles rattled. Her body exalted in the rapture, but could it survive its victory? Should it stretch or curl into itself? Should she tense or relax? As she waffled between the various responses, the euphoria continued to ripple through her and ricochet between her thighs till she thought she could endure no more. She sobbed as her body quivered and quivered and quivered.
