Rough Surrender (28 page)

He sat on her, with her ankles crammed together between his legs. A cloth wiped up her from her cleft to her anus. He could have done that first! But she said nothing, just wanting him to complete the writing, to claim her as his own without more fuss. Then, only then, it seemed likely he would fuck her, and she so,
ever so
, wanted him inside her. Something nudged at her anus–a juice-slicked pen from the feel of it, and slipped a few inches in. “No,” she whispered.

“Oh yes. My latest penholder, miss.” She buried her face deeper in the bedspread, resigned. “Don’t let it go inside. Sir.”

He chuckled. “I won’t. If you don’t move, it will stay where it is.”

The pen nib poked and scratched at her, writing letters, her labia so sensitive she nibbled her lip to keep from twitching away. It wasn’t sensual, not by any stretch of the imagination, least not until the letters crept up toward her anus and he popped a finger into her slit as if it were some sort of placeholder.

“Just stretching you the right way.”

“God! Aren’t you finished? How many letters can there be?”

The pen nib lifted. His big hand smacked down and jolted her, first on one cheek of her bottom, then the other. Tentacles of hot pain sizzled across her rear. She hissed.

“I do believe that was a whine, Faith.
Shh
.”

Damn. Then, as she’d thought, and dreaded, the letters were slowly looped up to her nether hole around it and run down the other side. Well. Darn it. No one else would get to see. Though Mr. Meisner had an awful sense of humor.

When he finally packed up all the pens, plucking the one from her anus last of all, she muttered. “Whatever did you write?” That was much more writing than he’d done before.

“Property of Leonhardt Meisner. Do not enter. I thought the last was a nice touch.”

“Oh my God.” She groaned. “Was that sarcasm? Sir.”

Then he leaned his weight over the whole length of her body and pressed his cock along her slit, running it between her legs until her clitoris was nudged. He bit her neck, hard. “Truth, Faith. Are you now mine?”

Oh
. A thrill went from the tip of her toenails and all the way up her body–the body he so sensuously lay over, clamping her bound wrists between them, thrusting his penis in a most erotic way through the swollen groove of her pussy. More wetness slipped from her, dripped over his hard flesh, over the head of his cock as it poked at places down there that lit up with heat and throbbed. Slide, nudge, poke. Even her anus joined in, clenching as if wanting him there. Her nipples puckered and jutted into the bedspread. She panted hot jungle-moist air, her head to the side, mouth open, feeling everything he did to her.

He’d asked if she was his? However could she be anything but his? “Yes, Mr. Meisner. Mr. Leonhardt Meisner, I am yours. Please fuck me.”

“Such a naughty, dirty mouth.”

What? Something soft slipped across her lips and in. Though she tried to shake her head, he tied the gag behind her head then wound his fingers in her hair.

“If you want me to stop, Faith. Shake your head like you just did, only worse. Understand?” He released her hair.

She heard the crackle of some packet being opened, as he put on protection.

She shut her eyes. Gagged. Hands tied. Whatever next? Her arousal climbed a notch, balling up inside her as his cock found her entrance and, this time, thrust inside a smidgeon.

“You understand?”

She nodded quickly, wanting everything to begin.

“Good. Now you’re quiet. I can fuck you properly.”

And he did. The thrusts sent her into the bedclothes, stretched her, his cock ramming up inside to the very end of her cunt. He lifted her into the air, impaled and helpless, pounded at her again, made her drool over the cloth in her mouth and gasp and moan. She loved it, and when she came, screamed through the gag in hoarse grunts until her body stopped shaking.

Afterward, when he unbuckled the belt and ungagged her, she couldn’t stand, the same as the last time she’d been in his bed. Of all her habits, this was one she wouldn’t mind repeating. Maybe next time, he’d gag her again. She wriggled and pressed her mound into the bed at the thought. If not, she was certain he’d find something else just as good.

They drifted off to sleep together, arms and legs wrapped around one another, tangled so no one could easily unknot them.

Her last thoughts: Everything was perfect. Everything.

The rapture lasted until she got up later and, in the glow of a light in the bathroom, read the note that stuck to her foot on the way. It had slipped from her coat pocket. Jimmy’s note.

I’ve found out where your engine has gone, Miss Evard. I’m sorry, but two different men have sworn that Mr. Meisner took possession of it. With their help I tracked it to a warehouse that is rented by Mr. Meisner. Please advise on what you wish me to do.

Tears tracking down her face, sobbing quietly, she looked down at his sleeping form for half an hour, or maybe more, or maybe less, she didn’t comprehend the time...then she dressed and left him. The note was enough, with her added message at the bottom.

Who the hell do you think you are? You don’t respect me at all. Not one damn bit.

Goodbye. I hope I never see you again
.

She would walk to the hotel, get her belongings delivered tomorrow...or was it today? Whichever. Nothing really mattered any more. The world could end and she wouldn’t notice.

She headed toward Boulevard Abbas, her hair barely caught up by pins. Curls escaped to dangle across her face as she trudged along the footpath. Her shoes scraped when she couldn’t be bothered to pick her feet up high enough.

“Evening, Faith,” said a man in a soft voice. “A little late to be out walking.”

Who?
Before she even lifted her head enough to see, someone had caught her arms and dragged them back painfully, screwing her wrists high on her back while another shoved a rag in her mouth and gagged her. Bundled into the back of an automobile, blindfolded, with her ankles tied to her wrists, she had no time to think anything in the confusion. Hadn’t even screamed.

“That was very easy,” said a strange man. He coughed, exhaling a putrid odor. “We should go. We would not want her getting rescued.”

“No.” The first man was in the front. His door slammed.

That voice? Smythe? What was happening? Why?
The rag in her mouth made it hard to think of anything except the struggle to breathe. When she tried to sit up, the man with her smacked her down with a blow to the side of her face. She lay there quivering, pain ringing, burning, in her head. Would anyone look for her? Even Leonhardt?
God
.

The bruises and stripes on the body of the woman they’d rescued from Smythe surged into her mind. They’d messed with his business, Leonhardt had said. The hate in Smythe’s eyes, yesterday... Was this revenge?
My God, what is he planning to do to me?

Chapter 29

Awakening to find Faith missing from his bed, Leonhardt stretched, yawned and waited for her to return from the bathroom–for where else would she be? When ten minutes passed without her emerging, he slid from the bed and padded over to the door.

Open?
Puzzled, he pushed the door open farther.
Not in the bathroom. Where then?

Within five minutes, he’d realized she was gone from the house. A few minutes later and he’d discovered the note, half screwed up, on the bedside table.

Slowly, he sat on the bed, feet squarely on the floor, set shoulder width apart. He stared at the note in his hands.

You don’t respect me at all.

He scanned across those words over and over. When first he’d read the note, the meaning had hit him like a sledgehammer. Now though, it all seemed gibberish. Incomprehensible. How could she just
leave
after all that had happened between them?

The pillow she’d lain on was at his right elbow and he picked it up, brought it to his face, inhaled. The scent of her hair, her body, remained.

“Damn.” He replaced the pillow in its correct spot and put the note on the bedside table with a statue of a pirouetting ballerina on top to hold it down.

Where would she have gone? The hotel? It seemed the most likely place. Clothes were still here. He could wait. She would send for them and once he knew where she was, he’d go to her and...somehow he’d make things right between them.

How? How could he do that? What had he done wrong? Kept her from killing herself? No. More than that, he’d ignored what she wanted. Ridden over the top and tried to stop her from doing something he knew she loved.
You don’t respect me at all
. Was it true? No. Of course not. He respected her a lot. Just...why in God’s name did she have to fly?

The clock was on half past eight.

No. Hell. No
. He wasn’t going to sit here waiting. He threw on some clothes, leaned out the bedroom door and yelled, “Mawson!” He never shouted but if ever there was a time to do it, now seemed right.

By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, Mawson had arrived. A little breathless, and still pulling on his black coat, but he was there.

“Sir. You yelled?”

In another life, an earlier time, he would have smiled at Mawson’s acerbic comment.

“Yes, I did. I have a problem. Miss Evard has gone missing.”

Mawson’s eyebrows twitched upward a fraction. “Sir?”

“I’m off to the Heliopolis Hotel to check there. I want you to get to the Orient Hotel and check if she’s gone there.” He rubbed his eyebrow with his finger, thinking. “Make sure you check with a Mrs. Willoughby.”

“Very good, sir. I’ll order a hansom cab.”

All excellent plans had their flaws. Within twenty minutes, he’d been at the Heliopolis Hotel and found no sign of Faith. No one had seen her. On returning home, all he could do was wait for Mawson. Chasing after him would likely mean missing each other by a hairbreadth.

So he went to the dining room, sat and ate breakfast, methodically, chewing every morsel of...whatever Helen had cooked. It tasted like stewed paper anyway.

“Very nice,” he told her, dabbing at his mouth with napkin. Where in hell was Mawson?

“Thank you, sir.” She executed a perfunctory curtsey, went to walk out the keyhole archway leading out to the hallway.

“Wait.” He looked at his hands where they lay either side of his plate.

“Yes, sir?”

“Helen.” He pressed a little harder on the tablecloth. “What do you think of Faith?” From her open-eyed look, he’d shocked her somehow. He waited.

“Sir? Um. She seemed a nice lady. A little too adventurous with all that flying business but...nice.”

A little too adventurous?
“That’s all, Helen, thank you. Come back and clear the table in half an hour.”

Whatever was the world coming to if the servants, if Helen, had the same opinion, he had?
Have I turned into a stick-in-the-mud? Or am I merely being sensible? Damnation
. This would all have been much simpler if he’d just told her he had the engine, then stood back and told her she wasn’t flying anywhere.

He could almost hear the laughter in the back of his head then. Who was he fooling? She’d have gone and done it anyway. How was he going to fix this? How? He didn’t want to lose her. Was there a chance she hurt as much as he did? The note, her angry words, all seemed to say so.

Mawson returned while he still sat at the table like some long-forgotten statue in a tomb.

Hat in hand, uniform rumpled, Mawson looked as if he’d spent the last hour and a half riding camels to and fro.

“Sir. I enquired at the Orient and apparently Miss Evard has gone off on a picnic with Mrs. Willoughby and some other ladies. My pardon for taking so long. I did try to track them down but it seems they’ve not gone where the manager of the hotel indicated.”

“Ah. Thank you, Mawson. When do they return?” Should he go to the hotel and wait for her? No. Perhaps that would be too eager.

“Around five this evening, sir, I was told. They’ll send word when the party returns.”

“Good.” But...Faith go with Mrs. Willoughby? She’d said she abhorred chaperones. How likely was it she’d set out on a picnic then with Mrs. Willoughby? Even if upset? Not impossible, though. “Mawson, I know you’ve tried to find them but I want you to go back and try again. Find out if Jeremy is with them. His servant might have an idea as to their destination.”

“Very well, sir. I shall do that.”

Leonhardt slumped back in the chair.

There wasn’t much point in going running off like a headless chicken. Besides, the ache in his chest made it impossible to think far enough ahead to plan anything worthwhile. The air show was still on. He found himself going up the stairs, then all the way to the roof, where he sat on the divan, in the gentle warmth of the morning sun, and looked out toward the aerodrome.

He imagined he could even smell her up here. As if that were possible. The drape was back over the sawhorse. A new purple-and-green tablecloth covered the dining table...and just one glance at that was enough to bring an image to his mind of Faith lying on there. He could feel the supple softness of her skin, remember the hardness of her nipples, the arousing taste of the skin beneath her ear, the sound of her voice, her laughter.