"She just disturbed me... is all, I have no... silly trifles, no worries of jealousy in my mind," she laughed anxiously. "Why would I be jealous of you courting some other creature? You 'court' every woman who passes by the threshold to your manor," Isobel teased.
"It's Lady Maryweather who's been doing the courting," Lord Brighton scoffed. "She's not but a virago, a widow sniffing about for power and money. She'd do anything to get the upper hand on me. She's tried to seduce me," he recalls flippantly, "and while I... appreciate the efforts," his voice grew dark, lustful; his breath teased the bruise on her neck and she shuddered. "I have something else I've acquired a taste for."
"I had to lie to loyal servants of my family," Isobel recalled, biting on her bottom lip, pain and anger flowing as freely as the hot, lusty blood in her veins. "I had to keep it all a secret... I couldn't tell old Beatrice, that I'm little more than a pauper, now. But perhaps I'd prefer to be," Isobel sniffled, "perhaps living a gutter is preferable to the hell you and Eugenius have sandwiched me between."
"Hell? Is that what you call our last encounter?" Lord Brighton grinned devilishly; she felt his lips on her bruise, suckling softly; it hurt, a dull throbbing pain, but each throb of sensation made her stomach churn in steamy, erotic ecstasy as she recalled him denying her; spanking her, those stinging, burning slaps. She shoves her memories away as best she can, but they remain there, burning like smoldering embers in the back of her mind, and when he draws close and whispers into her ear she can't resist the sensation of his words tickling her flesh.
"Everyone... my carriage driver, they take me as relocating to your village, for 'convenience'..." she recalled bitterly.
"Perhaps this is hell... but perhaps you're more ashamed of those 'sins', than you ought to be, love," Lord Brighton groaned; she felt her body swept up in his strength, and he pulled her steadily towards the door to the study, its refined maple desk and richly-upholstered chairs shadowy in the flickering glow of a single candle, the blinds drawn tight over the windows, bookshelves stacked across the walls.
"I'll... I'm not some harlot, for you to please yourself with," she protested. "I'm..."
"You're like me. I saw it... remember?" Their eyes locked onto one another; his enticing gaze gleamed, and her unsteady, shaken eyes glared - in defiance, but silently, in want. She couldn't stand to admit he was right - it went against everything expected of her, but how could she deny what made her feel good - what made her feel truly alive? "If this is hell..." he pressed his lips against hers, his words lingering on her skin, "then why not come and sin with me?..."
She breathed deep. Each breath nagged in pain at the mark on her neck - and every breath reminded her of her first time with a man - her time with him. How it had felt like nothing she could ever imagine. So lost in her reverie was she that she didn't notice him carry her body into the study, sidling her slowly as her feet followed without even thinking. He had seen into her eyes - and she had seen into his.
They both wanted... needed, more.
CHAPTER TEN
She found herself bent over the luxurious, varnished maple desk; elaborate designs carved by hand across its surface. Lord Brighton, full of animalistic lust, tossed the books stacked upon its surface to the floor, and she yelped when she felt his hands SLAP at the tender skin still burning beneath her frilly stockings. He pulled her dress away, giving him access to her plump backside once again; she shuddered, feeling so completely his; so owned, a sensation she never felt before. The Duke of Thrushmore had wanted so desperately to own her - but the thought had appalled her. Now he owned her - her fortune, her body, her soul - and in this filthy and sinful moment, she wanted nothing else. She may have hated him, hated what he is - but nothing could overcome the feeling of their bodies together in this stifling heat.
"Lord Br... Lord," she murmured, wanting to protest. He stepped to the front of the desk, pressing a finger hard against her lips to silence her. Lewd glee burst from his expression; he tugged at a book set upon a nearby bookshelf, and with a loud metallic scraping the bookshelf came open like a secret door. She glimpsed curiously into the chamber behind - catching sight of a variety of implements she could only guess the use of, her innocent young mind unfamiliar with the prods, whips, collars, and wraps laid out along a small table. She hears a metallic clinking, and from the shadows he emerges again, carrying in his upturned palm a thin silver chain, with clamps on either end.
"I know what you want... I know better than you," he breathed deep into her ear. "So you need to trust me. If you wish to be yourself, to submit... first, you need to know what it is to be chained. Not that you don't already," he smirked against her ear, kissing her skin. When her lips moved to speak, she found his hand pressed over her skin again; each time he denied it, she felt her heart beat harder, and it wound her body tighter with sexual glee. He wrenched her wrists tightly, pulling them behind her back; she cooed, feeling pain in the aggressive might of his movements, but every surge of pain felt like heaven as it crept through her body, down her stomach and into her quivering, soaked femme petals. He pulled her wrists together, and after hearing the metal chain jingle for a moment she found herself a captive to the chains; bound by harsh polished metal, unable to resist.
"Don't speak, don't move—I command you," he said, and when she heard that voice again it sent desire flooding into her every sense so thick that she couldn't help that her body began to squirm. She felt him rip her leggings, which forced a barely-audible yelp from her lips; cloth torn and ragged against her skin only drove her further into lustful madness. She forgot the pain, the stress, the regret - even the sting of the Duke of Thrushmore's palm vanished when he squeezed softly at her neck, his finger toying with her bruise, reminding her who she belonged to. She submitted to
the chain binding her tight; her wrists shook intensely, as his lips kissed her down her dress, until she felt his tongue rolling along her skin, teasing at the folds of feminine flesh between her luscious thighs. It felt so full of scandal - a man pleasing her with his tongue, something so uncouth she couldn't have even dreamed of it only weeks ago.
But it felt so good that she abandoned all the fear and the care she had about what a 'gentleman' or a lady is meant to be; what they should feel, or do. She knew right now that she felt something that made every nerve in her body burst, like a thunderstorm rattling the windowpanes in her manor. She perked her rear up to him, letting him taste her more fully; his tongue sunk in to her soaked depths, lapping at the moisture, savoring every drop. It felt so good she had to starve herself of air to stop from screaming out and begging for him to give her more. She had to obey his rules - he demanded it, and the more he demanded, the more wild it drove her pretty young body.
When his tongue left her body a quiet pain filled her; the struggling, searing pain of being so bereft of him and what he did to her body. She looked back and saw him, the rustle of fabric alerting her.
"What are my rules?" he demanded darkly, his exposed torso gleaming with sweat as the faint candlelight flickered across his chiseled abdomen and handsome face, twisted now in lustful pleasure. Sunlight crept through the slats covering the window, bars of light cast across Isobel's terrified face - terrified he might deny her more, and terrified that being so denied, so used, would make her even hotter.
"Don't—" she parted her lips impulsively to answer him, before remembering his demand. She clasped her lips shut, her fingers squirming in their bonds as if to indicate harried apology. Please, she thought; please, don't stop. Please, please, don't stop.
"Perhaps I need to punish you again," he groaned, grasping the chain binding her wrists together; he tugged hard on them, and she whimpered; she felt his stiffening shaft then against her rear, taunting her; teasing her folds, the reddened tip pressed against her feminine bead. Her eyes widened as lightning and fire struck her every nerve like a consuming storm. "Perhaps you should be teased... and perhaps you should get nothing, little Isobel." She nearly glanced back at him in fear; but no, she obeyed his rules this time. His fingers grappling the chain on her wrists, she sucked back the yelp of terrified pleasure in her throat. She closed her eyes. In her mind she could retreat; she could think about him, and keep herself at bay. She could think of his hot body, of which she'd only caught brief glimpses. She could swallow hard all those impulsive moans. She could follow his rules like he demanded, while her imagination ran wild.
Her eyes shot open when she felt his length penetrate her hard; harder than he had been in their first encounter, stretching her wide and making her absolutely tremble, drip in salacious sensation. He entered her fast and rough, his skin slapping against her pretty backside; her flesh jiggled, her breasts bounced, and as he took her from behind again, hands grasping firmly on her wrist, she could do nothing to stop him; she could not protest, she could not grasp him. She followed his rules and she did not moan; she did not squeal, she did not beg for more.
And she loved every sinful second.
"I want you to cry my name when I tell you," he hissed into her ear, mounted atop her body like a starved wolf, inhaling her scent and the feeling of her flesh tensing beneath him. She didn't look; she didn't speak, she dare not, lest he stop all this and force her to remember how truly, salaciously sinful she's been. He pumped his hips harder against hers, and she felt the sensation welling up inside of her; the orgasmic, explosive feeling of a perfect release, building like a firestorm in her chest, as he stretched her wider, harder, faster. She quivered, and it positively hurt to hold all the feelings in; her fingers wanted to reach for him, her eyes wanted to see him basking in their shared desire, but she couldn't. His fingers grasped at her ass hard enough she could feel his fingers burning deep into her flesh, leaving bristling marks - claiming her, just as he had done with his teeth to her neck. She'd be a sticky, sweaty, bruised mess of lusty flesh when he had finished with her - and she savored that very thought.
"Now," he growled hotly, "I want you to finish, and I want to hear your voice scream my name loud enough that this entire bloody estate will hear," he said. "I demand it," he said; hearing his command made her body react on its own; she couldn't even believe the words pouring from her parted lips.
"Yes! I need you, my lord - my master," she shrieked, again and again, until her lungs hurt and her throat burned. He pounded her faster, the desk shaking and rocking and creaking on its hinges beneath their joined bodies, until they looked a single messy blur. She felt the orgasm explode through her every nerve, and he joined with her, his shaft hardening and throbbing inside of her as it poured slick wave after messy wave of his release inside of her clenching, trembling walls. The orgasm rocked her so hard her muscles felt rubbery; her body grew limp as the sensations rode down every limb, leaving her breathing hard and her chest hurting and her stomach turning and her insides feeling so warm and perfect.
As the last vestiges of their erotic joining faded, the pain began to set in - the bruises across her body; the spanking, the wear on her every muscle. She felt aching, weak; Lord Brighton pulled her into his grasp, lifting her from the desk; though his strength wavered after their powerful orgasm together, he managed to carry her nonetheless, collapsing onto a couch lurking in the corner of the study, its plush green upholstery soft as a cloud. They laid together - his arm across her stomach, gripping her tightly, his breath tickling her ear, for a long moment, before reality rushed rapidly back into her mind. Shame at her sin set in quickly, even as she still glowed with delight from the sensations of the things he did to her body.
"You're still breathing heavy," he groaned into her ear, tightening his grip at her waist. "Why are you breathing so heavy?" he asked bluntly.
"I... I'm just b... breathing, heavy," she stammered, nerves weighing heavily on her mind. "I just..."
"You don't know what you're feeling, do you?" he asked. "It wouldn't be the first time. I didn't know what I was feeling the first time, either."