Submitting to Lord Rockwell

She went to stand before his sofa. He rose to his feet. Looking down at her, he brushed a stray tendril of hair over her shoulder.

“What does your body desire most, Miss Herwood?” he asked.

You. At that moment, she realized that she had never desired a man as much as she did then. The embers from his recent caresses were quick to burn anew.

“My lord?”

“What brings you the greatest pleasure?” He slid the back of his forefinger down her neck and along her collarbone.

“Having a romp at the tables against haughty noblemen.”

He circled his arm around her waist and jerked her to him. She could feel his hardened cock against her hip.

“I promise you will enjoy having lost to me, Miss Herwood.” As he held her against him, his other hand cupped her jaw and lifted her face. “You shall not soon forget this night.”

“And what have I done to merit such a prospect?” she asked quietly, momentarily mesmerized by the depths of his eyes. Like diamonds, they reflected an inner fire.

His thumb passed over her mouth, tugging the bottom lip down. He grazed the tip of her tongue. She caught his thumb in her mouth and sucked. Hard.

He groaned. Removing his thumb, he replaced it with his mouth. She could taste the coffee and, beyond that, him. His mouth covered hers, his tongue probed and coaxed. Her head was spinning, she had never experienced such a full and luscious kiss. Deeper he went but in steps that assured she could follow. Not at all like her last lover, who harkened to her mind a pet dog she once had. The dear little bitch would greet her with all tongue, lapping at her face and drowning her in slaver.

Lord Rockwell’s kiss was consuming but purposeful. His lips led hers in a heady dance that left her breathless and wanting. His cock felt like a steel rod against her. She pressed her hips to him, the carnal yearning in her body needing to connect with his. He responded by gripping her tighter, one hand cupping a buttock so that she remained molded to him. She let out a small gasp. He dropped his head and tongued the hollow of her neck. Any lingering regrets of having lost to Lord Rockwell at the card table vanished. She wanted him to take her and satiate the burning within her. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pulled him into her. She would be content to kiss for an eternity but for the ache building within her. Her hand slid from his neck to the slight opening of his shirt.

Abruptly he whipped her around and pinned her backside against him. The thickness of his desire pressed against her derriere. One arm circled her chest, the other her pelvis. She could have melted into his embrace. As he rained kisses along her neck, he groped a breast, kneading the flesh through her dress. Her nipple puckered beneath his touch. She wanted his other hand to pull up her skirts as he had done and fondle once more that most sensitive of parts.

“Select a word,” he murmured as he nipped her earlobe.

“Pardon?”

“A word that when uttered will halt whatever I do.”

She pondered the reason behind the peculiar request as Rati looked down upon them through half-lidded eyes.

“My lord?”

He brushed aside the stray strands of hair at her nape and sucked upon her neck. “Select a word and you shall understand soon enough.”

She noticed a faint smile upon the Hindu goddess. “Rati.”

“I like your choice, Miss Herwood.”

He pulled away from her. She looked at him, disappointed. Had she not complied?

Taking her by the hand, he led across the drawing room and, pulling a key from his pocket, unlocked a door she had not noticed before.

The room she entered was dark but for two bronze oil lamps on either side of what appeared to be a low sleeping area comprised of large plush pillows, a blood-red canopy with golden tassels and orange silk curtains. It was beautiful, fit for an Indian princess. But as she widened her view,

she saw in the corner of the room a mattress adorned with only a stark white sheet. The headboard was made of iron bars like those found in a gaol. On the wall hung more implements one might find in a gaol or medieval dungeon—crops, whips, shackles and ropes.

“Do not fear,” Rockwell said. “All that you see is intended for your pleasure.”

“Pleasure?” she echoed in disbelief. “Are these the teachings of Rati?”

“No. For the sinful delights of flogging, one need look no further than Fanny Hill.”

She flushed at the thought and began to wonder if she needed to flee.

“I presume you have never been flogged for pleasure, Miss Herwood.”