He heard her gasp. She was close.
He stilled his fingers and slapped her flat with the palm of his hand, so forcefully it left a bright red mark. She groaned and bore down on him, desperate now to come, but unable to, he knew, unless he gave her more.
Instead, he slapped her arse again.
She writhed against him as he struck her, absolutely flagrant and not caring. Her skin smarted deliciously and her quim rubbed against the coarse fabric of his breeches and she felt absolutely wanton and she loved it.
“Oh yes. You want this very badly, don’t you, you wicked creature?” he murmured as she bore down on his fingers and edged her thigh against his cock, because she liked the feel of it when it was so hard and straining for her.
Wicked creature. The words inflamed her. All her life she’d been thought a wicked creature, and had been judged for it. But the way he said it, in that sultry tone rich with appreciation, made her feel vain. He saw her for the slightly wicked girl she was, and it aroused him.
She could be as wicked as she bloody wanted while he watched.
And she wasn’t sorry.
And there was nothing she wished to fix except her desperate need to come.
She shifted her hips to grant him greater access as he caressed her.
“You like that,” he murmured. “My hand is absolutely dripping with how much you like that.”
Said hand, slick with her want, reached up to her breasts, coating her nipples in her own desire until they puckered in the cool air.
“But it’s not nearly enough, is it, Lady Constance? You want more, inside.”
“Yes, my lord. Make love to me. Please.”
“Poor darling,” he said. “I did warn you I wouldn’t make it easy. I haven’t quite forgiven you for spying on me.”
The bastard chuckled.
“You’re cruel,” she said.
“Oh, Lady Constance. You have no idea.”
He lifted her off his lap and carried her to the bed, laying her out on top of the counterpane like she was his doll.
“Open your legs.”
He moved his lips down to her thighs and nipped and teased at them, drawing near her quim but not near enough to give her satisfaction. “Ah, how ready you are. It would be so easy to make you come.”
She was indeed so near the point of death that just the feeling of him grazing her belly with his lips sent a tremor through her core. Just a little more and she would—
“I’m not entirely without mercy, my wicked girl,” he said in sympathy, watching her shudder. “What would you say to a bit of my cock?”
“Yes,” she gasped, angling up her hips so he could enter her.
He chuckled once again. “Not there, I’m afraid. I meant in your mouth.”
She whimpered as he moved up to straddle her chest, enjoying the sight of his prick against her pretty lips.
She licked the tip and smiled. “Why, you do want to fuck me, Lord Apthorp. You’re so hard. And you’re leaking.”
Her sultry tone, her lovely voice purring out those filthy words, did something to his bollocks. He had to inhale sharply to maintain his composure.
“I am indeed,” he concurred, his voice smoother than he felt. “And I will fuck you good and well. But first I want to watch you pleasure me.”
She opened her mouth and took him inside. He was careful not to give her too much, but she was eager, drawing back to take him deep into her throat.
“Good girl,” he breathed. “Deep as you can.”
She took more, and he groaned and flexed his fingers in her hair, tugging at it until she moaned. “Fuck yes. Moan a bit around my prick. I like that.”
She sucked him deeper, making the kind of noises that one can make only when one has no thoughts other than desire.
“I’m going to corrupt you in so many ways, Lady Constance,” he informed her. “I’m going to visit you every night, while the house is sleeping, and we’re going to do things you’ve never even imagined.”
She cried out, swiveling her hips as though the air itself might rub against her and bring her to relief. Her naked desperation nearly brought him past the edge of composure, so he pulled gently out of her mouth.
He slid back down her body, dragging his wet cock between her breasts, over her stomach, and down to her quim.
She wrapped her legs around his thighs. “Please, I want you so much,” she murmured. “I’ve always wanted you. Always.”
“Don’t worry, Lady Constance,” he said, placing himself at her entrance. “I know just what you need.”
He was as good as his word.
When he finally slid into her, the room faded out.
She was only aware of her body. And his.
He arched his strokes to hit a place deep inside her that made lightning crack behind her eyes. He gripped her by her buttocks and spread her, slowly edging a finger into her arse, making her feel full and tight, like her entire body was a rod of pleasure as he fucked her.
When they were both shuddering and panting and neither of them could fully speak a sentence, he paused, still inside of her.
“Have you had enough torment, my darling?”
If he did not bring her satisfaction soon, she might simply die from wanting him. “Please, Lord Apthorp. Fuck me,” she panted.
“Christ, I love it when you speak filth to me.”
He spread her taut and drove inside of her.
And then it hit, and she really did cry out his name. Not Lord Apthorp. Not Master Damian. But Julian.
Because this was not a fantasy.
It was the realest thing she’d ever felt.
He drove into her, raw and moaning. She broke open, soaking his cock and their legs and the sheet, keening with her pleasure, her desperation, her love for him.
“I’m coming too,” he gasped, and the violence of his shudders triggered another wave of pleasure.
When, finally, the last of the tremors rippled through her, she buried her face against him, tears falling from her eyes.
“Oh no, my darling girl,” he murmured, moving quickly to take her in his arms. He scooped her up and held her against his chest, wrapping his whole body around hers so that she was engulfed in him. She curled up against his warmth and sobbed.
She hated crying and had done so much of it this past month that she was sick of it. But it felt good and right to do it now. Because her fantasy had been that he would punish her for being naughty, and instead he had made her feel treasured and adored and able to be exactly who and what she was.
“Come back, sweet Constance. I’m sorry. It was too intense.”
“No,” she gasped. “No, that’s not why I’m crying. I’m crying because I loved it. It felt like being free.”
As the carriage drew closer to Apthorp’s family holding a week later, Constance was not impressed by the beauty of the countryside. Cheshire did not boast the verdant glories of her family’s land in Wiltshire, nor the Provençal bounty of the French farmland where she had spent her youth, nor the striking white-cliffed vistas of the Dover seaside, from which they’d traveled.
But if the land was undistinguished, it was in better repair than her husband’s house, with its tar-covered timber beams and daub-thatched siding.