He traced over her nipple again, then searched for the other to give it the same teasing stimulation. It wasn’t difficult to find it. Both of them stood out in little points against her fitted bodice. She was utterly silent, so still he couldn’t even feel her breathe. Her only outward reaction to his caresses was the occasional twitch of her fingers. When he’d teased her enough, he slid a hand beneath the fabric and took one of her nipples between his fingertips. She moved her hands again as if to stop him. At his sharp sound, she returned her palms to her thighs.
“What do you think of this?” he murmured in her ear.
“It hurts when you pinch me.”
“Do you like it?”
“No, Sir.”
He slid his hand over to torment the other sensitive peak. He could see her biting her cheek against a cry, or a moan. With a secret smile, he withdrew his hand from her bodice and started gathering up her skirts. She wore pretty silk stockings, not as pretty as the ones he would buy her, but still very elegant upon her long, well-formed legs. “Hold your skirts here,” he said, placing her hands over the bunched fabric. “Hold them up here at your waist.”
“Why?”
“Open your legs for me, darling.”
“What are you going to—”
“Open your legs.”
His insistent tone silenced her questions. She inched her thighs apart.
“Wider.” He put his hands on her knees and spread them open, and draped them over either side of his legs. “Are you holding up your skirts?”
“Y-yes,” she stammered, gathering them up again where she’d let go. “But...”
He parted her curls and slid his fingers into the velvety folds of her quim. He felt her go tense again, but he had no intention of hurting her. On the contrary, he meant to enjoy her reactions, even bring her off if she could manage it in her agitated state.
“Relax,” he said. “I want to make you feel good.”
“Now? In the coach?”
“Why not? It’s only us here.” Her hips moved ever so delicately as he located her hidden pearl.
“But...you shouldn’t,” she said. “You can’t simply molest me at your whim.”
“Can’t I?” He pressed his cheek closer to hers. She smelled sweet and flowery from her morning ablutions. “It’s a pleasant enough way to pass the time. Besides, you like it.” He could feel moisture gathering as he stroked her. He drew the slickness upward, swirling it around the swelling flower of her sex.
“This isn’t proper,” she said.
“I’m not concerned with propriety at the moment. Nor should you be, my wet and wanting wife.”
“I’m not wanting.” She could not deny the wetness, poor lady. Her body betrayed her, turning liquid beneath his fingers.
He made a gentle sound to soothe her. “It’s a fine thing to enjoy your husband’s caresses. This wetness is a natural reaction. Don’t be ashamed.”
Her hands had curled into fists around her skirts. He played with her as the coach rumbled on, exploring her pussy, discovering what made her go limp and quivery against his chest. “That’s a good girl. Keep those legs open for your husband’s pleasure.”
She made a small, choking sound. He went back to teasing her nipples through her bodice, while simultaneously flicking, stroking, and massaging her pussy’s folds. The more excited she got, the more tightly she squeezed her hands. “Take off your gloves,” he said when her fingers began to tremble. “I want you to touch yourself too.”
She shook her head in a very decisive way. “I can’t possibly do that.”
He gave her pearl a sharp pinch. “Yes, Sir is the correct answer. We discussed this yesterday. Now, take off your gloves. Just one, if you prefer.”
With a sigh of irritation, she took off one glove and laid it aside. He collected her hand and guided it beneath his, down to her damp and heated flesh. “Touch yourself where it feels the best. Stroke yourself. See if you can make yourself come.”
She didn’t ask what he meant. Surely she remembered that delectable peak from last night, when she’d tossed beneath him in the throes of ecstasy. Though she resisted at first, he pressed her until she uncurled her fingers and joined him in stroking her sex. He helped her at first, until he could feel sensation take her over. Her eyes closed, her lips going soft as she leaned her head back.
“Yes, that’s it. This sort of touching feels lovely, doesn’t it? I’ll teach you to pleasure me too, my fairy queen. There’s so much for us to learn about each other.”
“I’m not a fairy queen,” she murmured, distracted.
“You’re whatever I say you are, darling, and I’ll teach you to do all sorts of things proper ladies don’t do. I’ll teach you to use that lovely mouth of yours on my earlobes and my neck, and my balls, and my cock.” He pushed this last against her backside, so she could feel how rigid he was.
She inched forward. “I can’t... You shouldn’t...”
“Yes, Sir, I am eager to learn what pleases you.” He pulled her back against the hard evidence of his arousal. “And so I shall teach you, my dear. I’ll show you how to caress me in different ways. Light, soft, rough, teasing.” As he said this, he demonstrated on her pussy, and then thrust a pair of fingers inside her. “If you’re a good wife, and learn all the things I like, I’ll give you more pleasure than you can imagine. Does this feel good?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “It does.”
“Do you want to come for me?”
She tried to turn into him, to hide her face. “Oh, please. I can’t.”
“You can. I want you to.” He eased his fingers in and out while she continued to stroke her pussy. His other hand squeezed her breasts and teased her nipples, caressing them, maintaining them in permanent, aroused points. “That’s it. Make yourself feel good. Let your whole body come alive with pleasure, and when you’re ready, finish it.”
“How will I know—when—?”
“You’ll know.”
Her hips moved with her exertions, and his fingers surged into her sheath with a mounting, steady rhythm. He watched her face, saw her bite her lip hard. He wanted to kiss that poor, bitten lip. He wanted to kiss every inch of her and bury himself inside her, but this erotic show was too magical to interrupt. She gave a gasping cry, and the walls of her sex contracted around his fingers. He pressed them deep inside her, massaging, encouraging her climax to full fruition. Her feet curled around his calves and her spine arched against his front. Then she fell boneless in his lap, her ecstasy spent.
“I told you that you would know,” he whispered against her ear. He lifted her hand and
drew her fingers into his mouth, licking them, savoring her feminine scent. She stared up at him with a combination of horror and shock.
“You’re delicious,” he said. “You ought to take a taste.”
And like the world’s most innocent courtesan, she opened her mouth and accepted the tips of his lust-slickened fingers, licking them off until his cock was far past aching, and his hand clean enough to thrust back into his glove.
* * * * *
Gwen sat in their private dining room at the Dryesdale Inn, sneaking glances at her husband, uncertain how she ought to feel. She wished she felt in love, but she did not feel that, not in the slightest. She felt something more akin to anxiety, and disbelief that she was actually his wife. Since they’d arrived, the staff had done nothing but scrape and bow to the duke, and hover, and bustle about bringing things and taking things away before one could even ask them to do it. May I freshen your wine, Your Grace? Is the duck to your liking, Your Grace? Shall we bring more cranberry sauce, Your Grace?
Gwen wanted to hate her husband, but somehow she found herself in the same sickening thrall as the servants and staff. How grand he was, how effortlessly commanding. His manners were so smooth and all his glances were the speaking type.
She wanted to defy his authority and stand up to him, but she feared she hadn’t the power to do it. She was terrified to make an enemy of him. For goodness sake, she’d licked her own spendings off his fingers in the coach because he told her to. He’d said scandalous things and described scandalous acts, and she’d thought, I know I will do them. It seemed the whole world bowed to his will, every groom, every servant, every lady and gentleman. They all fluttered and nodded and murmured Yes, Your Grace, and she knew she would do it too.
“Your Grace. Your Grace?”
The endless groveling. Gwen shut her eyes, wishing she could clap her hands over her ears and disappear.