SubmittingtotheRake (4 page)

“Then you understand the yearnings of the flesh,” he said,
sliding his hands down her ribs back to her hips. His fingers slowly gathered
her skirts upward. The blood pounded in his head as the image of their naked
bodies rutting against the post flashed in his eye. “I may be devoid of morals,
but I am no hypocrite.”

She stiffened, but he dared hazard her indignation would be
short-lived. His fingers continued to lift her skirts.

“Tell me, Miss Merrill, why you find it so depraved to
indulge our prurient desires?”

“I don’t,” she protested. “My censure lies in your seduction
of innocent young women.”

He did not bother correcting her that it was Josephine who
had seduced him, but instead replied, “I willingly engage and seek the
companionship of women with similar appetites.”

That gave her pause. Apparently it had not occurred to her
that he was not the only one guilty of lust. His fingers grazed her thigh as he
continued, “I think it immoral of you to impose your sense of morality on
others and to deny women the pleasures of the flesh.”

“
I
am immoral?” she responded in disbelief. “Because
I am not a libertine?”

“Because you would bar fulfillment from others for no
purpose.”

He slipped his hand between her thighs.

“No purpose, my lord? Protecting a loved one from shame,
from risking her future is not reason enough for you?”

He found her clitoris and began a gentle caress. “In whose
eyes would she be shamed?”

“Need—need you ask? In the eyes of…polite society.”

Her breaths became shallow as he stroked the sensitive nub.

“Setting aside the premise that there is a single pervading
norm—which I would dispute—are the darlings of the
beau monde
always
right?”

“It matters not if society is right or wrong.”

“How convenient,” he said ironically, deepening his touch.
“What if it were wrong? Ours is a society that once burned people they thought
were witches, sanctioned the trading of fellow humans as slaves, governed
without representation of the people. By abiding by its norms and following its
standards, are you not guilty of supporting its immorality?”

He sensed her thoughts swirling, the wheels of her mind
turning, and felt a strange thrill, more exciting than any seduction he had
undertaken before. Slipping a finger toward her quim, he discovered her wet
with desire. Arousal raged in his cock. He was almost there.

“You would believe,” she said, still trying to persevere
with her own judgment, “that not allowing a woman to become wanton is somehow
immoral?”

“Precisely. The suppression of freedom is rarely a good
thing. Make no mistake, I do not encourage recklessness or condone any impulse
that is criminal. But why should we condemn what are but natural urges of every
man and every woman?”

She was gasping as his fingers plied their trade, striking
her sensitive spot over and over.

“It may be natural for
you
, my lord.”

He fitted his body against hers. Marvelous. The contrast of
her soft body against his hardness. With his length, he pushed her into the
pole.

“Do you suggest you have no such urges, Miss Merrill?”

He ground his desire into her. Her arms tightened against
the pole.

“I do not let such urges overwhelm me.”

She clearly knew not what she said for her body indicated
otherwise.

“Why not?”

No answer. But her thighs parted for his fingers to conduct
their ministrations. He plunged a finger into her quim. She instantly clenched
about his digit. He plunged another finger into her as he continued to circle
her clitoris with his thumb. She trembled between him and the pole, gasping and
groaning, groaning and gasping. Her climax loomed near.

“I think, Heloise,” he said in a low, husky tone next to her
ear, “you should surrender to your natural urges. Allow yourself to indulge in
the sublime and submit to me.”

Though her body was clearly responding to him, he still
wanted to hear her say it. There would be no triumph until she did. When she
did not reply, he withdrew his hand. She let out an anguished cry.

“Submit to me.” He tried again.

Her hips ground against him, in search of his hand. He
teased her lightly with his fingers, but not enough to make her spend. She
moaned.

“Submit.”

Her voice was shaky but the sentence clear.

“Yes…yes, I submit.”

Chapter Three

An inferno of yearning engulfed her body. Desperate for his
touch, for release, Heloise had agreed to submit to the Earl of Blythe. The
delectable beginning—of feeling his body pressing hers into the post, of his
skilled fingers teasing her body to arousal—had become a divine torture. She
felt as if she would go mad if she did not spend, and yet, she exalted in the
precipice from which her body dangled. She understood that she
wanted
to
submit to him.

And she was not the only one whose desire had been sparked.
His erection, hard as stone, pressed against the arch of her arse. That
awareness made her cunny ache, made what he did to her all the more pleasing.
Her legs threatened to buckle and her arms begged for liberation from their
bonds, but she would not give in until she had attained her climax.

She waited for him to resume his stroking. She heard him
take a ragged breath. Then felt him step away from her.

What the bloody…

She had agreed to submit to him! Surely he would reward her
now. Her nerves trembled like the vibrations of a tuning fork, seeking the
proper conclusion.

Damnation
, she cursed to herself when still he did
nothing. What a fool she was to think that she could expect better from a rake!
Had she not accused him of lacking morals? Granted, she knew her statement to
have been in the extreme—she suspected he
did
have a conscience or she
would have thought all attempts to reason with him hopeless—but he was proving
her words now. Well, if he would not help her, she would satisfy herself. She
tilted her hips and attempted to grind her mons against the post.

“Stop it,” he ordered.

When she refused to obey, he found her nipple and squeezed
it—hard. She yelped and stopped.

“You have much to learn, Miss Merrill.”

He was back to addressing her formally. She had liked it
when he called her “Heloise”. On his tongue, the name, which she had hitherto
found plain, sounded beautiful, inviting and seductive.

“You’re a blackguard,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Resorting to insults now, are we?” he responded.

“I should have known not to expect better—”

Threading his fingers through her hair, he massaged her
scalp with both hands, coaxing her resistance away and easing her into a
quasi-meditative state. But then he jolted her from the tender complacency when
he fisted his hands in her hair and jerked her head back.

“Have you ever stood naked before a man?” he asked into her
ear.

Her heart throbbed, pressing itself against her chest walls
as if it had grown too large for its compartment.

There had been an attempt with the son of the squire, but
her stays had exasperated the young man. He had thrown her skirts above her
waist and penetrated her before prudence, made sluggish by the carnal distress
in her own body, could prevail. In the most unceremonious of minutes she had
lost her virtue. But amidst the aftermath of shame and fear was a guilty
satisfaction, a smugness even, of having discovered the taboo reserved only for
couples lawfully joined. Having given of herself already, what was left for her
to forsake? Why not indulge her desires? The experiences of her youth could not
compare to this though, and a part of her yearned to revel in what might come
from a man of greater…artistry.

“Have you?” he repeated.

“No,” she replied.

“You are about to,” he informed her, unbuttoning the back of
her gown.

Her pulse quickened. It did not take long for him to push
the top part of her garment off her shoulders and toward her wrists. He
unpinned the skirt and untied the petticoats. They pooled at her feet. He
unlaced her stays with the swiftness of the most practiced chambermaid. In
little time, she found herself standing in her chemise, stockings and shoes.
Little bumps lighted her skin at her state of undress. Did he mean to proceed
further? Would she find herself, as he had suggested, naked before him? What if
he did not like what he saw? He had expected the company of Josephine, after
all.

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.