The Duke's Bedeviled Bride (Royal Pains Book 2) (2 page)

“To begin with, the goal of erotic spanking is sexual stimulation,” he said. “Orgasm must be the purpose, not punishment. Thus, the slaps should be hard enough to bring blood to the region, but interspersed with caresses and gentle rubbing of the buttocks and genitals.”

“Is that not what I’ve been doing?”

“Aye, but I know your aim is vengeance rather than arousal, which undermines my trust, stripping some of the pleasure from the experience.”

He was right. Her goal had been to teach him a lesson, not bring him to climax. Perhaps she could reconsider her objective for the sake of marital harmony.

For the time being, leastwise.

“What else do I need to know to do it properly?”

“Take your time before starting,” he said. “Play with my buttocks. Rub, squeeze, and pinch the cheeks. Kiss, lick, and finger my anus, if you do not find the idea distasteful. Check my cock for hardness. Tell me what you plan to do. Anticipation is a powerful stimulant, Maggie. Exploit it to full advantage. When you feel me trembling with excitement, you will know I am ready to be spanked.”

“Then, what?”

“Generally, ’tis best to start with light slaps using a slightly cupped palm, fingers together.” Tilting toward her, he demonstrated the posture he’d described. “A hand such as this will produce a gratifying sound and redden the skin without excessive pain—to backside or hand.”

As he settled back down across her knees, she attempted to form her hand into the shape he’d shown her. When she’d achieved it, she brought her cupped palm down lightly upon his left cheek with a hollow-sounding smack. The result was exceedingly satisfying. Though redness bloomed in the spot she’d struck, her hand did not sting as before.

“By the by, you can graduate to a flat palm and fingers spread, but relaxed,” he said. “Such swats hurt the most. For best results, establish a slow tempo with an irregular rhythm—taking a moment to build tension betwixt each stroke. If I cannot anticipate when the next blow will fall, my arousal shall increase ten-fold.”

“How interesting. Is there anything else I should know?”

“Aye,” he said. “Take your time, strike only on the fleshiest area of the buttocks, and betwixt each swat, be generous with your touch—in ways that soothe and stimulate. Rub the spot you’ve struck. Stroke my cock. Fondle my cods. All the while, keeping in mind the number or severity of the spanks is not what will bring me to climax. That will depend upon how fully I submit to the experience. And for me to surrender control, I must trust you are committed to the same goal as am I—erotic enjoyment rather than remonstration.”

Could she set aside her anger and agree to the goal? Deciding ’twas worth a try at least, she spanked him, hand cupped, four times in succession—two blows per cheek.

He gasped and squirmed, affording her more gratification than she’d expected.

Resolving to enjoy herself now and claim her pound of flesh at another time, she rubbed the red hand prints she’d branded upon his flesh before sliding her fingers into his crack. God, how the forbidden fruit of his tight little anus called to her. She ran her finger in circles around his tempting sphincter before pressing the tip into the opening.

He clenched and groaned.

She pushed deeper, meeting moisture, pressure, and heat.

This was surprisingly arousing. Her cunny was already throbbing with need and she’d only gotten started. Removing the finger, she ran her hand down his hair-lined crack to his cods. Taking his sack in her hand, she bounced and squeezed the eggish innards before proceeding to his phallus. He was incredibly hard, but hardened all the more in response to her stroking fingers.

The feeling of power was utterly intoxicating. Returning her hand to his buttocks, she slapped him open-palmed twice upon the same cheek.

He winced under the resonant blows. “Sweet Jesus, Maggie. That stung like the dickens.”

So did her hand.

“Good,” she said, feeling deliciously wicked. “My intent was to cause you pain. You have been exceedingly naughty, as you well know.” She pinched him hard before adding in an admonishing tone, “And you shall address me as Mistress Margaret or suffer the consequences of your impudence.”

He laughed at her, the fool. “Is that a promise or a threat?”

“A threat, I assure you.”

“I see. And may I inquire as to how you plan to carry out said threat?”

Erotic excitement cascaded through her. She raised her hand high and brought it down upon his buttocks—once, twice, thrice in quick succession.

Beneath the sparse dark hairs, the buttes of his twin hillocks were now an angry shade of crimson. She set her hand upon the reddened flesh, savoring the heat summoned by her swats. A similar fever burned in her loins.

 
“Enough of this,” she said. “I want you inside me.”

As he made to rise off her lap, the carriage stopped with jarring abruptness. He tumbled to the floor, breeches around his knees, landing in a tangled heap.

“Why have we stopped?” she asked, gaze darting around the coach’s damask-covered interior.

“The devil if I know.” Wearing an expression of intense displeasure, he got to his knees and pulled up his breeches. Whilst he fumbled to fasten the ribbons and buttons, someone pounded on the carriage door.
 

The rapping was far too bold and determined to be the coachman. And the likelihood of the knocker being a beggar seemed remote, given the open terrain all around them. The only other possibilities quickened her pulse and made her chest feel heavy.

Robert shot a glance from her to the door. “Identify yourself and state your business. And be forewarned before you do that I am both armed and a masterful swordsman.”

Maggie blinked at her husband, astonished. If he was bluffing about his skills with a sword, she questioned the wisdom of the gambit. Even were he as accomplished as he claimed, he had no weapon as far as she could see. She wrung her hands, the blood in them still humming from the spanking.

After several breathless moments, a deep, coarse voice tinged by merriment said, “’Tis Robin Hood, of course. Here to take from the rich so I might give to the poor.”
 

“Let me guess,” Robert returned with more cheek than befitted the direness of their circumstances. “The poor in this case would be yourself and your accomplices.”

“You’re clever for a nobleman,” the man said. “Now open the bloody door and throw out your purse—and your sword, if indeed you have one—before I am forced to put a bullet in the brain of your driver.”

Robert and Maggie exchanged mortified glances. “What assurances do I have you will not put a bullet in me even if I should follow your instructions to the letter?”

“You have my word. My profession is thievery, not murder.”

“Forgive me for saying so, but the word of a bandit carries little weight in my books.”

There was a loud explosion outside the door and the window shattered, spraying jagged shards of glass through the coach.

Temples pounding and heart racing, Maggie slid to the far side of the carriage.

Robert got to his feet and stuck his head out the broken window.

She wanted to jump up and pull him back inside, but was too paralyzed by fear to move or speak.

“I give not one good goddamn about your books, you highborn bag of shite,” the highwayman said with a phlegmy laugh.

Robert bravely—or foolishly?—held his ground. “Before I surrender my purse, I must have your solemn pledge you will do no harm to my servants, my wife, or myself.”

“With all due respect, you aristocratic bunghole, you are in no position to be making demands.”

“All the same,” Robert persisted, “I must have your oath you will leave us unmolested after absconding with my money.”

“I shall have to see this wife of yours before making any such oath.”
 

The next instant, the window beside Maggie exploded, showering her gown with fragments of broken glass.
 

A grime-blackened hand reached through the jagged opening and unlatched the door. As the hand retreated, the carriage door burst open. An unshaven man with greasy blond hair leaned in, grabbed her by the arm, and pulled her out.

She screamed and struggled as he hauled her roughly around to the other side, where his partner stood, foot atop the back of their prostate coachman. Heaven help them! He held a flintlock pistol aimed at Robert’s chest.

The thief with the pistol flicked a glance toward her before reaffixing his beady gaze on her husband. Then, with a leer Maggie did not care for in the least, he said, “She’s bonny. Far too bonny to leave unmolested, I’m afraid. But I’ll tell you what. In the spirit of fairness, I shall offer you a choice. I can shoot you now and spare you the spectacle of the two of us taking turns with her—or I can spare your life and let you watch.”

Robert stared at the man with hate in his eyes.

Cold steel pressed the skin of her neck. Holy Mary. The man had a knife! And his partner was armed to the teeth. Daggers of all shapes and sizes dangled from his grubby doublet and a sheathed sword hung at his hip. There were probably more knives hidden in his battered boots.
 

Would they cut her throat after they raped her? Of course they would. And just as surely, shoot Robert after forcing him to watch them defile her.

Please God, help us both to escape this debacle with our lives!

The armed thief thrust out his free hand, took hold of the front of her bodice, and tore it open, stays and all.

Brisk air washed over her breasts. A cold, calloused hand closed around the left one. As the thief with the knife to her throat squeezed and fondled, his pelvis rear-ended her. Even through her petticoats and farthingale, his state of sexual excitement was apparent.

For the love of God, do something, Robert!

As if he’d somehow heard her silent plea, Robert burst from the carriage brandishing a sword.

The pistol discharged with a deafening crack, startling her and both assailants.

Seizing the moment, Robert lunged, thrusting his blade with impressive force. With a spin, the thief dodged the jab and drew his own sword. Their weapons met with a ringing clang that echoed back from the hills. The scrape of metal sent a chill down Maggie’s spine.
 

She held her breath as her husband and the thief crossed swords.
Clang, clang, scrape, clang.
The sun winked from their swift-moving blades as they performed a deadly dance of attacks and deflections.

She knew next to nothing about fencing, but it did not take an expert to see Robert was the far better fighter of the pair. Every move he made spoke of grace and confidence. The highwayman, in comparison, seemed clumsy and desperate. He was sweating and breathing hard whilst her husband appeared cool and self-controlled.

Their blades met again with a resounding clank. They disengaged and faced off, resuming their stances.
 

The thief lunged and feinted.
 

Robert parried, but too late. The tip of the highwayman’s sword caught the sleeve of his shirt. Robert winced in pain, but, rather than retreat, he ran his opponent through.
 

The highwayman’s eyes widened and a choked sound escaped his mouth.
 

Maggie closed her eyes, unable to bear the sight. When she opened them again, an enlarging blot of crimson was spreading across the sleeve of Robert’s billowing cambric shirt.
 

With a leap and a hard kick to the bested man’s chest, her husband extracted his gory blade with a sucking sound that turned her stomach.

As the highwayman fell dead, the coachman sprang to his feet.

Praise God!

Now, ’twas three against one, but, unfortunately, the outnumbered thief still held a knife to her throat.

Robert rounded on them, blood-smeared blade outthrust in a menacing manner. “Let her go or I’ll give you a taste of the same meal I served your friend.”

The thief tightened his hold and increased the pressure on the blade.

Another shot rang out. The knife fell and the man holding her collapsed. She spun round to find the coachman holding a smoking pistol.

Arms came around her middle and the familiar scent of lavender and clove filled her senses. Robert. Her flesh-and-blood savior. Turning in his arms, she sank into his strong hold and warm body. His heartbeat was as rapid as hers.

“Are you all right?” His breath brushed her ear.

 
“I am now.” She glanced at the coachman, heart swollen with gratitude. “Thank you for your bravery.”

“Thank your husband, duchess.” The driver tipped his dusty velvet cap and lowered his gaze. “If not for the duke, we’d all be awaiting the undertaker at present.”

“Aye, well,” Robert muttered. “There is much to be said for the element of surprise.”

Maggie shuddered at the thought of how close they’d come to a far graver outcome. Only as she relaxed into her husband’s embrace did she realize she was trembling—with cold as well as shock.

The coachman reclaimed the driver’s seat and reins. “When you are ready to set off, Your Graces, just say the word.”