Enamoured (The Enslaved Duet 2)

I felt my heart in my throat as he took his time studying me, his grey eyes soft as velvet against my skin as they swept over the edge of my cheekbones, trailed the seam of my hairline and lingered on my lips like a kiss.

“Good morning, wife,” he greeted, his upper crust accent abraded with sleep in a way that made my pussy dampen.

The hand in my hair flexed, then tugged, forcing me closer to his face.

“Good morning, husband,” I said on a slight gasp.

I wriggled against his good leg, stimulating my wakening pussy against the hair roughened, hard panel of flesh. My pulse jumped as I watched Alexander’s eyes turn to smoke with longing.

His hand clamped over my hip and then relaxed as he moved to place his hands behind his head, the muscles in his arms flexing in a way that made my mouth water.

He looked every inch the indolent lord as he ordered, “I don’t have long this morning for idleness. If you’re really so desperate to come, little mouse, you’ll have to ride my leg. I have emails to attend to before I shower and leave for London.”

I pouted at him even though I’d been particularly insatiable since he’d returned from the “dead.” We had spent the first two nights after the maze debacle in a small inn in Whaley Bridge, being interviewed by local police and a few visiting members of MI-5, but every free moment otherwise, we were tangled together in the paisley bedsheets.

There were no scenes, no blatant Dom or sub behavior, just the natural twisting of hips and twining of limbs as we reconnected in the most fundamental way we knew how.

It would have been easy to blame it on the exhilaration of a near-death experience or the high of vanquishing our foes, but it was much simpler than that.

We were safe, and we were free. The worries that had weighed down our thoughts for years had evaporated and left in their place like crystalized salt after the going of the tide were lust and love.

So, we indulged.

We indulged so much my pussy was still puffy, and my skin was riddled with red marks and bruises like the spring fields of poppies and blossoming bluebells exploding over the British countryside.

I couldn’t really complain that Alexander didn’t have time to fuck me when that was essentially all he’d done for the past three days, but I was still put out.

“Please,” I breathed even as I tilted my hips and began to churn against him. “If you have to be gone all day, I need you inside me one more time.”

Alexander ignored me, leaning over to grab his phone from the nightstand and then grabbing a silk grey pillow to prop behind his back before he resettled. His eyes were on the screen, his face utterly expressionless as he finally said, “Either come like this, topolina, or not at all.”

His disinterest lit a box of matches in my groin and before I could censure myself, I was gyrating, grinding against him. The scrape of his leg hairs against my clit and the hard heat of his muscled thigh pressed flush to my wet and blooming sex coupled with his relentless passivity had me orgasming before I knew it. My soft cry punctured the air as I shuddered against him, arms wrapped tightly around his narrow waist to hold me steady while I spasmed.

While I lay there, my panting breath rippling gooseflesh over his torso, Alexander continued to read his email, fingers moving rapidly over the screen. There was whoosh as an email was sent off, and then all of the sudden, I was under him, his body so heavy it stole my breath.

His face was in mine, his impassive expression broken open with the inflexible cast of his lust. I gasped into his mouth as he pressed it against mine, as his hand found my swollen, achy sex and pressed deliciously hard against it.

“Does your pussy hurt yet, bella? Does it ache from the stretch and thrust of my cock? I think I fucked you fifty times in the last thirty-six hours, and I want you to feel every single one of those fucks in this pretty cunt.”

I was moaning before he’d finished speaking, panting for more like a shameless wanton. There was something extraordinary that happened to a well-used pussy; the more you fucked it, the better it felt, and the more it wanted.

Or maybe that was just me.

And I was finding, as Alexander wedged the crown of his big cock into my nearly swollen closed folds, that I was okay with my insatiable desires because Alexander was an insatiable man.

I walked the entire house three times. The first time was leisurely, touching everything as I passed, feeling the texture of the 15th century tapestries and the smooth curves of the carved wooden antiques, squishing my bare toes in the Persian rugs, and spending long moments gazing into the collection of priceless artworks lining the walls. None of the remaining servants bothered me as I walked like a wraith in my white silk robe through the haunted and hallowed halls of the house that I vowed to make into a home. They seemed to sense that I needed the freedom to roam after so long confined to one place, specific rooms. On my second pass, I delved deeper, finding the keys in the study that opened some of the locked doors I’d always wondered about. I found what must have been Rodger’s room, decked out in antique weaponry and European football posters, and Noel’s collection of rooms, all dark and musky with his scent, a fragrance I associated acutely with evil.