And Then Comes Marriage (24 page)

“To be open means to be helpless before someone. Naked, with no lies or stories or boundaries between you. I was open once—open and young and naïve and so, so unwise.”

“Oh.” She looked thoughtful. “I wish I could be unwise. I have spend my entire life being prudent. I have been careful since I was a child. Careful of every word I say, every move I make. I dress carefully, I speak carefully.”

“You sleep carefully.” He smiled slightly. “You sleep as if someone is watching.”

Her lips quirked. “Apparently, someone is watching.”

“Just tonight. What of all the other nights of your life?”

She released the anchor of the bedpost and advanced upon him, moving slowly until she stood between his open knees. She reached a tentative hand to stroke his hair back from his temple. He didn’t pull away, although his eyes dropped from hers. “There was one time I wasn’t careful,” she said softly. “I was not careful last night. I forgot to be, the moment you touched me.

Lifting his eyes, he gazed back at her, knowing what she wanted him to say, what shone in her eyes like hope but he would not lie, not to her.

“I did not forget.” He shook his head at her disappointment. “Mira. I cannot. My heart, what … what is inside my heart—”
No.
“I cannot!” The dread grew within him. He wanted to stand up, to stride around the room, to shake off his rising turmoil. Her body blocked his way—and he knew if he reached out to move her, then he would touch her. If he touched her, he would never let her go.

So he flexed his jaw and stared over her shoulder, for he could not meet her deep-sea gaze. “I wish I could make you understand. It isn’t as though I do not look around me and see others with their hearts alight, with their hopes and dreams written on their faces. But I cannot. I cannot
unknow
what I know.”

“What is it that you think you know?” Her voice was a breath of a whisper that stirred his hair.

He closed his eyes against the need that surged into his chest. “None of it is true. What people think is love is simply desire meeting desire. Loneliness meeting loneliness, at its best. Madness meeting madness, at its worst.”

He forced himself to meet her gaze then. He looked into her eyes and told the truth to a woman for the first time in more than ten years. “There is no such thing as love.”

“I see.” She lifted her chin. “Then I suppose I must settle for unwise.”

Chapter Twenty-one

Miranda stepped closer, moving his thighs wide, and settled her hands lightly upon his shoulders. Curiosity was wide-awake with hunter’s gaze unblinking. “Show me how to be unwise, Cas. Teach me.”

“You do not wish to learn what I know.”

She considered him for a long moment, then dared. “Should I ask Poll to teach me what he knows, then?”

His entire body went tight beneath her perceptive hands. Ah. If the muscle in his jaw flexed any harder, she feared he might break his teeth.

“You are very beautiful, especially in that wicked excuse for a wrapper,” he noted. “That translucent silk shows everything.”

She could not help glancing down at herself. Arousing his interest had been her only intention in donning it.

He went on thoughtfully. “I think you would make an admirable harem slave, with a bit of training.”

She swallowed. “Training?” She lifted her head to catch his gaze and she saw it.

The fire, like glowing coals deep in the jungle green of his eyes.

He wanted to burn with her.

A shuddering thrill raced through her, straight to her lower belly. Good. She wanted to combust with him. She wanted to scorch him right back. This, then, must be something new for him to teach her. She was an excellent student, so she lifted her chin and slowly untied the closure of the barely there dressing gown. She let it slip down off her shoulders to pool around her feet. “Train me.”

His narrowed gaze was shadowed. “I will not stop once begun. You will want me to stop, but you will wish in vain. You must embark knowing this.”

Heat pooled between her thighs. “I understand.”

“No, you don’t. But you will.” He reached his hands to toy with her breasts. He took the heavy weight of them in his hands and squeezed gently, pushing them high. “Lovely Mira.” Then he slid his fingertips to her nipples and tweaked them until they surpassed their already pointed state.

He did not stop there. When her nipples were pink and rigid, he took them in his fingertips and squeezed them, twisting slowly. A whimper of surprise escaped Miranda.

He squeezed harder, just for an instant. “Mira, do you like this?”

She nodded. She did like it, for the sweet, hot tingle afterward was like a reward for enduring the pain. He twisted again, slowly but ruthlessly, until she gasped aloud.

“Are they throbbing, Mira? Can you feel your heartbeat in your nipples?”

She shook her head, not understanding but willing to learn.

So he showed her. She stood utterly still as he took her to the edge of pain, over and over again, until her pink nipples became red and swollen and she felt the hot pulse of her heart in each of them.

The wickedness of his torture, the look of banked heat in his eyes as he watched her gasp and writhe for him, the naughtiness of standing before him naked while he sat before her clothed had Miranda’s thighs wet with arousal.

“You did very well. Do you like this now?” He brushed his palms over her sore nipples, barely touching. She gasped and quivered at the rich rush of sensation.

“Oh yes,” she breathed.

“Now you’ll feel everything,” he told her mysteriously.

He slid his hands down to grasp her small waist and pulled her into his lap.

Miranda found herself lying across Mr. Worthington’s thighs, not in a friendly, faceup, “let me kiss you for hours” way—but in a facedown, “you’ll never steal from the cookie jar again!” way.

“But—”

In a swift moment, he caught at her hands and pinned them behind her, one large hand wrapping easily around both her wrists. With no way to hold herself up, she was forced to lie with her face in the coverlet. Her hair fell about her, blocking her vision. Her throbbing nipples rubbed against the nubby wool of her coverlet, a fresh torture.

“Cas, I don’t believe I—”

His open hand came down upon her bare bottom, a light slap that stole her words with shock.

“I do not wish you to speak without permission, Mira.”

Alarm traced through her. She swallowed hard. “I—”

Slap.
Then,
slap!

That one stung a bit. She gasped.

“Do you understand?”

She opened her mouth to reply, then thought better of it and nodded. She hoped he could see it under all her hair.

Slap.

“When I ask you a question, I expect a swift and ready answer, Mira.”

She blinked back the heat behind her eyes. Don’t speak! Speak! “I understand!”

“You enjoyed displaying yourself in the window while I took you from behind.”

It wasn’t a question, yet it made her uncomfortable. She tried to squirm, but he merely pressed his hand holding her wrists down against the small of her back and she was pinned completely still.

His hard hand came down upon her bottom again, much harder. She bit back a yelp of surprise at the force of it, not sure if she cared for this new direction much at all. Yet the deep rich tingle left behind by his palm was like the “training” of her nipples, and made her squirm slightly on his lap. He must have realized this, for he caressed her bottom with gentle circles of his hand, soothing away the sting.

“You’ve enjoyed the wicked things we’ve done, haven’t you, Mira?”

She bit her lip, not sure how he wished her to answer. The slap of his hand on her bottom brought the truth from her in a gasp. “Yes!” She buried her face in the coverlet.

“Say it out loud.”

She turned her face and spoke the truth through the fall of her hair. “Yes … I’ve liked the … the wicked things we’ve done.”

“Enough to want more, I should imagine. More and more.” He didn’t seem to require an answer. His fingertips trailed thoughtfully over her buttocks, outlining each globe, slipping down into the crease between, then up again.

“You’ll allow me to do anything to you, won’t you? Anything I wish?”

She held her breath as his hand circled and soothed. Anything? Would she truly?

“Mira? Answer the question.”

Still she hesitated.

Slap
.

She gasped. “Yes! Yes, I’ll let you do anything you wish to me!”

“You’re a wicked wanton creature, aren’t you, Mira?” His palm, hot as flame on her sensitized bottom, circled around and around the most tender section of her skin. “Say it. Tell me what you are.”

When she hesitated again, even knowing what would come from her pause, she realized that she wanted this. She indeed liked it, thrilled to being pinioned there, naked and helpless on his lap, while he, still fully clothed, held her there.

Master and slave.

Owner and willing, eager object of his desire.

Slap
.
Slap!
Harder than ever before.

She cried out loud this time, then gasped out, “Yes! Yes, I’m a wicked, wanton creature!” Then, more softly, “I’m
your
wicked wanton creature.”

“Mine.” His circling soothing hand slipped down, down between her thighs, touching her, sliding along her labia. “You’re wet for me. You want this, don’t you?”

He slid a long finger deep into her, penetrating her slowly while she squirmed on his lap. Miranda flushed hotly. Yes, she wanted it. She liked being pinned down, held safe while he stroked into her, while he took her down into herself, into her own darkness, allowing her to enjoy what she ought not to enjoy, what should be wrong to enjoy.

He’d warned her of the dangers of such a journey, yet she trusted him, especially after his confession to her. This was play—wicked, deviant play, but play nonetheless.

And it was the very wickedness of the game that made her all the wetter.

I think I may have a talent for being wicked.

He thrust that long finger in again, deeper. She panted, helpless in his grasp, helpless to do anything but allow the sweet invasion.

This time when he withdrew that slick finger, soaked with her arousal, he used it to wet her clitoris. It throbbed at his touch, already swollen, already sensitive. She wanted to roll her hips, to move into that touch but she could not move. His grip on her wrists was not painful, but it was without mercy or quarter. He was in control and he meant for her to stay pinned.

With a shuddering sigh, she released into her imprisonment. The training would continue. She wanted it to continue. She ached for it to continue. The wicked, wanton creature inside her was dying to see where her master/lover would take her next.

He touched her softly, making tiny circles now, stroking her clitoris until she began to gasp and tremble and moan. Fast and faster still, until she came close to that sweet height, that cliff that she longed to willingly fling herself from to fall so sweetly—

Abruptly, he stopped, slipping his wet fingers away from her clitoris.

The spanking commenced once more. She was not permitted to speak so she whimpered and moaned and gasped as he “trained” her until her lip ached for being bitten and her bottom burned like fire.

He stopped, just as she thought she might just break her silence and beg him to cease.

His hand, hot from striking her flesh, rubbed softly over her sore skin, soothing and stroking, circling wider and wider until his hand slipped between her thighs once more.

She nearly wept with relief as his fingers lingered at the slippery gate to her vagina.

Slowly he penetrated her again, thrusting his longest finger deep, again and again, taking her high once more. Then it was two fingers, thick and knobby, twisting within her, taking her breath away with the spin of sensation. Helplessly she could only toss her head on the coverlet, for he held her so firmly, she could not even buck into that wonderful, invading hand. She could not change its relentless pace as it forced her high again, higher, and yet higher—

He stopped, his hand slipping from her slowly.

“Nooo!”

He went very still. “What was that? Do you defy me, Mira?”

Oh no.
Oh yes.
She caught at her lip with her teeth, holding silent, waiting. The hand lifted. She began to shiver with anticipation and, yes, a tiny bit of fear. Her clitoris throbbed. Her labia swelled and pulsed hot with every beat of her heart. She wanted … wanted.…

He spanked her hard, so very hard, three times in quick succession.

She came.

Immediately that hand moved, his sure fingers reaching between her thighs for her clitoris, stroking swiftly. At once, her orgasm doubled in intensity, carrying her up in a hot relentless rise, no sweet release allowed. He forced her to the height again at once, his touch implacable and merciless. She cried out wordless protest, even as she came again and again.

At last, he stopped. She lay limply across his lap, gasping and, yes, even sobbing into the coverlet, her eyes wet.