Sarah's Surrender (Novella) (10 page)

It was getting hard to breathe, his words affecting her body as surely as any action. She pressed her legs tight.

He stroked himself again, long and hard and tight. Her eyes could not resist the pull of that movement.

“Or perhaps you'd like me to lie back upon the bed as comfortable as any sultan in his harem. I could order you to crawl up from the bottom of the bed, to kiss and suckle your way up my legs. I could command you to stop whenever I wished, have you rise up upon your knees and play with yourself for a bit just for my entertainment. I do like watching you touch yourself. But I wouldn't let you play for too long, only long enough to keep you breathless and bothered. And when you reached my cock, I'd let you touch it only with the tip of your tongue at first. The lightest, softest of strokes. You'd long to take me in your mouth, but I would deny you, allowing only those tiny touches. I'd make you play until neither of us could take it. And then…? Do I let you take me in, press tight with those warm cheeks, feel you work to take my all—or do I have you mount me, ride me like a stallion? You always did have a fine seat. I can feel your strong sure thighs pressing into me, rising and falling, feel your internal muscles squeezing me tight, bringing us both to the point of pleasure. Oh, you do like that idea, don't you, my dear? I can see your eyes darken, see the flush of rose spread across your chest and neck, over your cheeks. Do you like the idea of being on top or do you like the idea of doing just what I say, of holding back until the need is unstoppable?”

“Both.” The whisper exploded from her mouth.

He smiled. “Or what of something darker? Would you like to explore more forbidden passions?”

“Darker?” She felt as if she were caught in a spell.

He held out his hand and drew her over to a high dresser. He pulled a drawer open an inch and then shut it. “That might be a little too dark. This might be better.” He pulled open the next drawer.

It was full of silk scarves, bottles of oil, long feathers, candles, and long glass—no, they couldn't be, only they were—long glass penises. She almost reached up to touch one, but pulled her hand back.

Jonathan smothered a laugh.

She turned at him and glared.

Still smiling, he reached into the drawer and pulled out a long cobalt scarf. He gestured toward the bed. “Get up.”

She peeked in the drawer again, wanting to investigate. There was something sparkly. Ear bobs? And what were the ropes for? And was that a dog collar?

“Up on the bed.” This time it was clearly an order.

With only slight trepidation, she climbed up on the high bed.

“Kneel, facing me.”

She complied.

“Spread your legs a little.”

She raised a brow.

“Just because I want you to. Now do it.”

She slid her knees a couple of inches, wobbling as the mattress gave. Would this ever be easy, this revealing of one's self? She wondered how many times Jonathan would look at her before she'd quit feeling so shy. Except there was only tonight. She lowered her head and slid her knees another inch.

The silk scarf danced before her eyes, the deep blue startling.

“Are you going to tie me up?” she asked.

“Would you like me to?”

Jonathan watched the tremor run through Sarah's torso; her thighs shook and her breasts jiggled. She was quite intrigued by the idea of being tied. He closed his eyes and pictured her spread across the bed, held tight by the softest of ties. Normally he preferred willful stillness, having his partner remain motionless of her own accord, merely because he'd asked it. But he did have to admit the thought of Sarah restrained, held open for him, dark silk against white skin, held more than a certain appeal.

He swallowed. “No, I am not going to tie you, not right now. I have something else in mind. Bend your head forward.”

She complied.

God, he loved it when she just obeyed. How could such a simple act have such a profound effect on him? All she did was bow her head and he nearly exploded like a young man seeing his first bare breast.

With practiced ease he brought the silk scarf forward and bound it about her head, covering her eyes with a few swift wraps.

Her body stiffened. She was not at all sure about this.

“Shh, take it easy. I promise you will enjoy it—at least mostly. Tonight is all about exploration. Let us find out what you like.”

“I—I don't know.”

“Then trust me, as you have trusted me so far.”

She nodded, but he could still feel the strain in her muscles.

“Here, let me help you lie down.” He reached out his arms and guided her back until she lay in the center of the bed. “Reach up and touch the headboard. Keep your hands there unless I tell you otherwise.”

“Why?”

He laughed. “Because I like it. Because I like the way you look, stretched and ready for me, your breast eager for my touch, your womb aching for me. I wish you could see yourself, see what a glory you are.”

“What are you going to do?”

“If I were going to answer that, why would I need the blindfold?”

“But…?”

“Now be quiet, my dear. Be quiet and simply experience. Let no sound pass your lips but moans of passion or the sweet thrill of my name when you can contain it no more.”

Her lips pressed tight and he detected a certain mulishness. She was going to make him work for that cry.

He went to the drawer and stared in, then pulled out another scarf. And then a feather.

He walked back to the bed, watched her nipples peak at his approach, watched her bite down on that lush lower lip. She was nervous, nervous and unsure.

Unfurling the scarf, he ran it back and forth across her skin. He watched her arch like a cat, wanting more, needing more.

“I thought you'd like that. What about this?” With some force and speed he moved the cloth across the tips of her breasts, imagining the growing heat and slight chafing.

The first moan came from her lips.

He continued a few moments more, bringing her almost to the point of discomfort, but not beyond it.

The scarf trailed down her belly and then between her legs. Pulling one end under her, he brought the ends back up so that it held at the apex of her thighs. He pulled one end and then the other. The silk moved across her clit, first slowly and then with greater speed.

Several more moans. Her hips began to rise and fall in unison with his pull.

It was too soon for her climax.

He dropped one end of the scarf before drawing it back up with infinite slowness. A shudder coursed through her.

The feather was soft and downy as he picked it up, one of those ridiculous things that women thrust into their bonnets.

“And how about this?” he asked, tracing patterns on her belly.

“What? Oh, the feather. I did wonder what that was for.”

He played it up and down, across her plumped breasts and back down between her legs. A slight twitch, but not the great response of the scarf.

Searching in the drawer, he found a plush flogger. It was a petite thing, a true toy. He trailed the ends across her, watching her breath hitch and fall. She liked that very much.

It would have been interesting to see her response if she saw the flogger, to feel that slight edge of fear he was sure it would invoke. Another night.

Or not. She had said it was only this one night and he believed her. She would not come to him once she had promised herself to another man.

And she would make that promise.

He might not know the details, but he did believe she was desperate.

Sarah would be lost to him forever. Unless he stopped her.

Could he? Dare he?

Dare he not? He thought of all the nights they could have together—and all the days, the sunlit easy days. The strangest thought began to overtake him. Could he really be considering such a thing?

He ran the flogger across her belly again, dipped it between her legs. Gave just the slightest flick, not enough to leave even the slightest sting, just enough to make her jerk and take notice.

Dare he?

And would she agree?

He was by no means certain. He'd certainly been wrong about her before, very, very wrong.

He could not believe he was even considering this.

But he was certain he would regret it if he did not. He could not see her go to another man.

And it was right. Deep in his gut he knew that to be true.

She had always been his. Now that she was truly his, he could never let her go to another.

It might be rushed. It might be foolish. He'd certainly acted foolishly before.

But he could see no other answer.

This was his chance to right the great wrong he had done—and hopefully to bring happiness to them both.

He reached into the drawer again.

A strange sense of contentment began to take him. It was the right decision. With every second that passed he became more convinced of that.

The long translucent phallus was cold in his hand, but it would not stay so for long. He rolled it slightly between his palms and then placed it on her belly, rolling it down as if flattening a crust for a pie.

She shivered once, but then settled.

“I like that. It feels good,” she whispered.

Smiling to himself, he wondered how she'd react if she could see what was actually happening.

He climbed upon the bed, coming to kneel between her thighs.

Taking the now-warm dildo, he positioned it carefully between her legs, pushed it in just slightly.

She bit down hard upon her lip. He could see her trying to figure it out—and then she did. Her lips formed a circle of shock. Her hand raced down from the headboard, trying to reach his own.

“Stop. Put it back,” he deliberately barked.

“But…”

“Sarah.”

Her hand slowly reached back up.

He slid the phallus in another inch, and then another.

“I know you are unsure,” he said. “But if you could see yourself, you would feel differently. Never have I seen such an erotic sight. You are more beautiful than any dream I've ever had.”

Her muscles clenched about the dildo. She liked it when he talked.

He pushed in a little further and then pulled out. Pushed in again. She was so slick and wet.

Sweat broke out upon his brow. He needed to be in her.

He moved a hand up so that he could rasp a nail across her clit. She jerked and clenched.

He began to set a steady pace, watching her body tighten and rise from the bed.

Watching her breath turn to gasps.

Watching her fingers clench and unclench.

He slowed the pace.

Waited.

Watched her relax.

Began again, bringing her up, higher and higher.

Lowering her back to earth.

This time when he brought her up she began to beg: soft, whispered cries.

He pulled the dildo out, set it aside, slid in himself.

Heaven. His eyes rolled back in relief.

He pushed in to the hilt, felt his balls slap against her. Pulled out.

In. Out. The slick velvet of her skin, the clench of tiny muscles.

And the ache. The want.

He started to count backward in his mind, to recite the names of all the rivers in the world, to track the lineages of the horses in his stable. A little longer. Just a little longer.

Sweat fell from his brow.

His fingers clenched tight into tangled sheets.

In. Out.

He could do this.

He pushed his mind from his own body, his own needs, and tried to concentrate on hers.

She was almost there, almost…

She began to thrash beneath him, begging again, whimpering his name.

Sarah was ready. She was waiting for him to push her over that final hill.

He reached down between their bodies, felt for the tight bundle, took it between his fingers.

“Sarah, will you marry me? Will you become my wife?”

Her eyes shot open. She stared up into his face.

He pulled out, pounded in, and squeezed his fingers tight.

And she exploded, the orgasm lifting her body, and spasming so tight that he could do nothing but follow her into heaven.

She could not have heard him correctly. It was impossible. Jonathan would never have asked her that. He'd sworn he never would.

Could she have imagined it?

It had certainly filled her dreams enough nights over the years.

And she had been on the edge of delirium, so great had been the pleasure, his mastery over her body.

But what if it had been real? What if he had really asked her to marry him? What would she do then?

She couldn't say yes, that was for certain.

Mr. Meyers would be calling tomorrow. She was going to say yes to him.

Or was she?

She had to admit that at this moment she wasn't certain that she could.

She could never do the things with Mr. Meyers she had just done with Jonathan.

She simply couldn't.

And even if he didn't want those things, he would want other things.

She tried to think of her mother, of losing their home, of all the things that would happen if she did not marry Meyers.

It didn't work. She simply couldn't do it.

But did that mean she should marry Jonathan, assuming he had asked?

What if he only wanted to marry her because she might be with child?

What if it was only because she'd had sex with him, because she'd done it without knowing he'd marry her?

Were they in the same scenario that they'd been in five years ago? Had nothing really changed?

The silk still lay wrapped about her eyes and impatiently she thrust it away. Rising up on one elbow, she turned to him.

He lay on his back where he'd collapsed beside her, his face damp with perspiration and high in color.

Large gulps of air were pulled into his lungs one after another.

What did she say? She certainly could not ask if he'd proposed to her. The words almost certainly existed only in her imagination.

He opened his eyes and stared up at her. “You are an angel.”

Well, that didn't answer anything. “I am mussed and damp and probably stink.”

“And you are so romantic. I like the way you smell, very womanly.”

“You are a fool.”

“It's a step up from being an asinine idiot. Or did we decide on an idiotic ass?”

She must have imagined the question. A lump formed in her stomach.

He leaned up on one elbow, bringing his eyes level with hers. “You haven't answered my question.”

She gulped. “What question?”

“You know very well what question, but I will repeat it. You deserve to make me say it as many times as you desire. Will you marry me, Sarah?”

No. She should say no. She did have some pride. “Is it because of the baby?”

He blinked. “No, or at least not presently. I do admit that if I found out you were with child I would insist on marriage. But that is for the future. I am asking you right now, not telling you.” He brushed a damp curl from her cheek.

“Why?”

“Why?” He smiled.

“Why ask me now?”

“Well, I haven't seen you in five years, and clearly I truly was an ass and an idiot for not asking you then.”

“That's true.” And it was.

“So are you going to answer? Will you marry me, Sarah?”

Her pride said no. But what was pride? Would it make her happy in the years to come? Would it warm her heart and her bed? “Tell me why you wish to marry me, Jonathan.”

He hesitated. “Because we were always meant to be and I've been too blind to see that. I should have asked you five years ago. And by not asking, by saying I would never ask, I caused you great harm. Let me make that right.”

Was that enough? Almost, but not quite. “And why do we belong together?” It took everything she had to push on when she was frightened of the answer.

“Because you have always loved me—and I have always loved you.” He rushed the last part.

Her heart began to warm and glow. “You are quite confident.”

“I always have been—it has sometimes been a problem.”

“Yes, you have. And you are certainly correct about that.”

“I am not feeling quite as confident now, Sarah. Will you marry me? Please.”

This was the moment. Five years ago she had chosen the direction of her life without knowing it. She had done the only thing possible.

Now, too, there was only one possibility. “Yes, Jonathan, I will marry you.”

The smile that lit his face told her far more than his words had. She had made the right choice.

He pulled her to him, pressing his lips against her, beginning the dance all over again.

“Sarah,” he whispered. “We still have several hours before I need to get you home so that you can bathe and change and I can call upon you at a proper hour to speak to your father. Do you think you're ready to explore a few more uses for those scarves?”

She could only smile—and laugh, a deep, rich laugh she had not laughed for years.