I push the dildo halfway up her anus. Her body seizes. Her mouth opens wide. I push the dildo farther in, until only its base protrudes from between the cheeks of her buttocks.
Her breaths come in hitches and rasps. While she remains on her knees, her body trembling and adjusting to the invasion of the dildo, I undress, climb into bed behind her, and place the head of my cock against her cunt. She is drenched. I sink deep into her in one motion, groaning with the hot, sleek pleasure of her body.
She no longer censors herself. Those erstwhile tiny little escaped whimpers have turned into full-on moans and screams. And instead of mere quiescence, she is pushing her bottom back against me, compelling me to fuck her deeper, harder.
I don’t know whether it is fury or thrill coursing through my veins. It has ever been this way with her, feelings that should be simple and straightforward turning complicated, even twisted. I only know that I cannot live without this. I cannot live without her.
Her climaxes come in voluptuous waves, one building upon the next, together pushing toward that violent crash. And I crash directly into her, my seed erupting endlessly, this collision of ours as much one of passion as one of desperation.
I desperately want to make her mine. And she desperately wants to avoid ever becoming mine.
AFTERWARD, I RELEASE HER WRISTS, hold her in my arms, and, with her blindfold still on, kiss her for a long time. She does not return my kiss, but she does not speak in mockery. Nor does she tell me she is pretending that I am someone else when I once again make love to her, slowly, tenderly—for a while, at least, until my lust—our lust—burns out of control and we again revert to animals.
In need. In frenzy.
In love.
Me, at least.
Chapter Four
DAWN BEGAN WITH A MISTY DRIZZLE. By the time I return—early—from my ride, rain is coming down in a steady shower, accompanied by flashes of lightning and rolls of thunder.
I find Grisham outside my door, anxiously waiting for me. Most of the time he is high-spirited and adventuresome, and I see little of him except in passing, as he runs about showing himself a good time around the estate. But when the sky cracks open with booms of thunder, Grisham turns into a whimpering pup and follows on my heels for as long as the weather remains loud and violent.
“I ought to chase you out of here, Grisham,” I admonish him even as I crouch down to scratch him behind his ears. “Why, yesterday afternoon when I came across you in the woods, you didn’t even stop to say ‘arf arf.’ You just zoomed past me after that rabbit. And now you come with your tail between your, well, next to your leg, and you want the comfort and security of my manly presence?”
Grisham barks eagerly.
“It’s true what they say: Irony is lost on you, my boy. All right, I forgive you. Now give me a minute change out of my wet clothes. We’ll go down for breakfast and I’ll let you steal some bacon from my pl—”
Some instinct makes me turn my head. Farther down the corridor, my bride stands by her half-open door, watching me. For no reason at all, my face grows hot.
And is it my imagination or is her face also turning red?
I straighten. “Lady Larkspear.”
She returns a perfunctory nod, steps back inside, and closes the door. I remain where I am for long minutes, before I realize I am still wet and that Grisham is still waiting for his bacon.
I sigh and rub the top of his head. “Come on.”
WHEN I LEAVE MY ROOMS again, I look toward my bride’s door. It remains firmly closed, no one observing me, openly or surreptitiously.
Disappointed—even though I knew she was not going to be there—I set out for the breakfast parlor, Grisham at my side. Only to come to a standstill on the threshold of the room. She is at the table, a slice of toast in one hand, a book in the other.
Grisham barks to announce himself.
She looks up, her gaze sliding over me as if I am part of the wall, to land with a smile upon Grisham. “Well, well, if it isn’t the true master of Larkspear. Come here, Grisham.”
Grisham needs no further encouragement to bounce toward her chair, tail wagging furiously. She grabs his head and scratches his neck. “There’s my boy. There’s a good boy. How did it go with your lady yesterday? Did you have any luck? You did, didn’t you? You look smug, you dog.”
“How do you know about his lady?” I can’t help my question.
She glances sideways at me. “Oh, doesn’t everyone know he is hot for his little bitch?”
My face scalds again. Fortunately there are no servants about to bear witness—the items for our breakfast are set up on the sideboard for us to help ourselves. I approach the sideboard, lift the silver domes, and cast about for something to say. “Don’t restrict yourself to toast. Your favorite dishes are here: baked mushrooms, potted hare, and fried ham.”
“How do you know these are my favorites?” Her tone is just noticeably sharp.