Submitting to Lord Rockwell (3 page)

“I have,” he replied.

“And they did not dislike it?”

“Quite the contrary.”

She closed her eyes at his seductive voice. She wanted to
trust him.

“Surely you can forgive my skepticism,” she resisted.

“Have I not attended you with satisfaction?”

He ran a finger up her bare arm and she could not quell a
shiver. How had her body become so sensitized to his touch?

“What you require is beyond the norm,” she murmured.

He rested his hand upon her shoulder, then gently began
rubbing away the tension.

“I would not have invited you here if I did not think you
possessed a bold spirit. I shall do nothing you cannot bear. You have but to
utter your chosen word.”

“Rati.”

“Precisely. You may invoke it at any time. I would not have
provided you this safety if I meant to force my will upon you. All that I do is
for your desire.”

She raised a brow. “I will desire you to flog me?”

The corner of his mouth curled upward. “You will.”

“I very much doubt it, my lord.”

His eyes glimmered. “Care to lay wager upon it, Miss
Herwood?”

“Despite my conviction, I think I had best not.”

“Then to allay your fears, allow me to propose that if you
do not find this night to be fulfilling, I will offer as recompense the sum of
one hundred pounds.”

A hundred quid! She salivated at the sum. She could stall
the creditors from repossessing the furniture. Her mother could indulge in jam
and butter upon her toast.

“And how would you define fulfillment?”

He trailed his hand down to the swell of her breast. “Not I.
You shall—with your orgasm. The absence of it would mark a night unfulfilled.”

She gazed down at his hand. One hundred pounds. And she had
but to refrain from spending?

“You mock me, Lord Rockwell.”

“I rarely jest on such matters.”

His hand dipped beneath her décolletage and cradled a
breast. She closed her eyes. His touch was exquisite.

“Do you make a habit of such outrageous propositions?”

“Would you believe me if I said I did not?”

“No.”

He kissed her lightly upon the neck. “Then why ask?”

She sighed. Exasperating if not clever man.

He whipped her around and pressed his mouth full upon hers.

“Come, I dare you to accept the wager,” he murmured against
her lips.

Chapter Three

The warmth between her legs flared once more, but she forced
her mind to the task. “You have me at a disadvantage. I have but your word that
you will honor both the word of safety and your wager.”

He pulled back and stared deep into her eyes. “Your dilemma
is understandable. I can only ask that you trust me.”

Her heart throbbed with excitement and fear. Thriving in a
gaming hell necessitated the constant assessment of character, and her
instincts gave no alarm with Lord Rockwell. She wanted to place herself in his
hands, but she barely knew the man. And yet she had never felt more at ease in
a man’s company.

A hundred pounds. It was too grand a sum not to take the
risk.

“Very well, Lord Rockwell, I accept.”

His smile reached his eyes and she sensed her relief
reflected also in him.

“I promise you will not rue the hand you lost at
vingt-et-un
.”

He led her to a mirror and stood once more behind her. It
was most disconcerting for she knew not what he would do, nor could she read
his countenance.

“Tell me what arouses you,” he instructed as his hand brushed
the skin above the back of her bodice.

“You are most forward, Lord Rockwell, and I have no
intention of giving you any assistance in winning your wager.”

She saw his smile in the mirror.

“Touché. I will discern the answer nonetheless.”

He began to unbutton her gown.

Dialogue could prove a good distraction, she decided. “How
many women have you entertained in this chamber of yours?”

The answer should dampen her lust.

“You are most forward, Miss Herwood.”

She could not help a grin at his response.

“I have not kept count.”

“Several?”

“Define ‘several’.”

He eased the top of her gown down her arms. It pooled at her
feet. She watched in the mirror as he untied her petticoats next.

“Four or more?”

“Or more, certainly.”

The petticoats fell to the ground. She blushed at the sight
of herself in chemise and corset. He began to unlace her corset without effort.

“Should not a man of your stature be seeking a wife instead
of indulging in prurient interests?” she asked, averting her eyes from the
mirror.

“Should not a woman of your situation be seeking a husband
instead of gambling at a gaming hell?” he returned.

She bristled. “I asked first.”

“A wife is easy enough to attain. I see no reason to rush.”

How she wished she could claim the same of a husband!

“I am earning my dowry, if you will, at the gaming hell.”

Clever response, she praised herself.

“You require a husband with funds, not a man in search of a
dowry.”

She pursed her lips at his obvious statement, which made
quick work of her smugness.

“It is no easy matter to find a man with funds and
possessing a decent character.”

“Especially in a gaming hell.”

Their dialogue was proving quite effective, for now anger
trumped all that she felt. To her surprise, tears threatened. She was well
aware that her current finances necessitated her spending time in a gaming
hell, which dimmed her marital prospects and future security.

“You see the irony of my situation then,” she replied with
an edge. “I have not the fortune to have been born into the
ton
or with
a bounty of assets at my disposal.”

The corset dropped from her.

“I beg to differ,” Rockwell said.

She saw herself wearing only her chemise, stockings and
garters.

He slid the sleeve of the chemise down a shoulder and kissed
her there. “You have remarkable assets.”

He gripped the flimsy fabric and tore it in twain down the
front, exposing her breasts, her abdomen, her pelvis. She gasped and stared at
the mirror in shock. Modesty finally set in and she looked away. As if his
words had not riled her enough, he had to destroy her chemise as well?

“I will compensate you for your loss, but look in the
mirror, Deana.”

She should chastise him for the familiar use of her name,
but she fixed her concentration upon the ground.

“Look,” he ordered in a tone she found difficult to disobey.

She moved her gaze to the mirror.

“You are lovely.”

He pulled the torn garment from her and circled his arms
around to cup her breasts.

“In addition to many other fine attributes in your
possession,” he continued.

He tugged at her nipples and all her anger dissipated,
replaced with a poignant need. She looked away once more, but he took her chin
and directed her to the mirror.

“Look at yourself,” he commanded.

She raised her eyes.

“I am no poet,” he said, “or I could speak eloquently of
these.”

Once more he fondled her breasts. Desire warmed in her loins
despite the awkwardness of having to look upon her own nakedness.

“And these.”

His hands dropped to her hips.

“And this.”

One hand reached the triangle of hair at her groin. How
delicious his warm, strong hands felt upon her body…

A hundred pounds
, she reminded herself.

“You have the body of a goddess.”

His voice was a caress as powerful as his touch.

“That of lithe Artemis,” he continued, “or Athena.”

He took both her hands in his and guided them to her breasts
and over her belly. He moved their right hands between her thighs. She gasped.
She was touching herself in front of him! He stroked her flesh through her
fingers. His left hand moved hers back to a breast, palming the mound, rolling
it over her chest. She needed to escape the assault of sensations but tried not
to squirm. He began strumming against her flesh, bumping her fingers into
herself. She squeezed her thighs together to limit the movements but he managed
to push her forefinger into her wet, hot cunny.

Dear God, he’s making me frig myself.
She was both
aroused and flustered. He lifted his head to see her countenance. The flash in
his eyes made her heart thump even more. He pushed her finger deeper inside her
while he pressed his thumb upon her clitoris. Gradually he increased the
motions of both hands. Her head fell against his shoulder at the onslaught. She
could look no more. Wonderful sensations brewed and ricocheted inside her.

A hundred pounds. A hundred pounds. A hundred pounds.

“Do not move,” he said, withdrawing his hands.

She saw herself in the mirror, one hand upon her breast, the
other buried between her legs. Her cunny throbbed around her finger. When he
stepped away to retrieve something, she pulled out of herself and covered
herself.

“You moved,” he scolded upon his return.

The darkness of his tone quickened her pulse. A threat lay
beneath his words. She saw he held a long thick rope. He planted a simple
wooden chair behind her.

“And I have yet to punish you, Miss Herwood, for your first
indiscretion.”

Punish?

“My lord?”

“I specifically told you not to come inebriated.”

She felt like a chastened child but retorted, “I forget you
are accustomed to women doing all that you bid.”

He pulled the rope taut between his hands. “By all means, contravene
me at every turn. I take as much delight in administering punishment as I do
pleasure. Arms behind you, please.”

After a brief hesitation, she complied, praying that she
would not regret her decision to place all trust in him. With the servants asleep,
there would be no one to come to her rescue should she need it. She doubted
they would hear her screams through the door and down into the servants’
quarters.

Standing in front of her, Rockwell looped the rope around
her neck, crossed it in front of her chest and wound one end beneath a breast,
around her arms in back, under the other breast and back up to her neck. He did
the same in mirror fashion with the other end. With the skill of a weaver, he
wrapped the rope about her ’til her arms were pinioned and her breasts trapped,
simultaneously propped up by the rope beneath and pressed down from the rope
above. He bent her arms at the elbows and tied her forearms together. He
stepped back to evaluate his handiwork.

The sight of herself in the mirror, her stockings and
garters still upon her, her bosom bound, was unexpectedly
beautiful
.

“Did you learn this in India?” she asked, liking the look
and feel of her body in the rope. Its rough dryness contrasted with the soft
suppleness of her skin.

“It is a Japanese art form. Do you remember your safety
word?”

She nodded.

“Speak it.”

“Rati.”

“Good.”

He held one of her protruding breasts, then let it go and
slapped its underside. She gasped, mostly in surprise. His hand came down upon
the top of it. The thick flesh, confined by the rope, jiggled once. She could
hardly believe that he had struck her, yet the contrast of that touch with the
tenderness of his earlier caresses was invigorating. He spanked the other
breast, a little harder this time, but she did not recoil. She looked at him to
see that he was appraising her responses.

“Do you require your safety word, Miss Herwood?”

“No.”

She wanted him to continue his attentions. He obliged,
slapping one breast then the other. Her cunny pulsed. Not only could she bear
the punishment, it had the surprising effect of arousing her further. Gripping
the rope around her chest, he pulled her to her feet. Her gaze caught in his,
she sensed she could have been prey he intended to devour. His mouth plunged
down upon hers. She could do nothing but submit to his ferocious kiss and
understood then why he had wanted her sober—that she could appreciate every
maddening sensation, be it pleasant or painful or a strange mixture of both.
When he released her from his kiss, she felt as if a fine wine had been dashed
from her lips. She wanted more, wanted his tongue to continue probing her
depths.

He repositioned the chair in front of her and bent her over
the back of it. In the mirror she saw a woman, naked, her chest bound in rope,
her posterior protruding before his lordship. What a wantonwench was
this woman staring back at her!

“What implement do you favor for your punishment—the crop,
whip, or—?”

“I favor none.”

“Ah, shall we try them all then?”

“The nine-tails.”

She hoped that she had selected the right instrument. The
wide leather tapes of the nine-tails looked less imposing than the crop or
single whip, both of which would no doubt sting. As she watched him remove the
implement of choice from the wall, she assuaged her fear by telling herself
that the pain would no doubt dampen all arousal and thus allow her to win the
wager.

Upon his return, he caressed the curve of her rump and
grasped a handful of the flesh. She closed her eyes. Never had she been so
exposed to a man, her most private of parts manhandled in such a manner.

Releasing her arse, he gave it a pat. “You are quite
delectable, Miss Herwood. Do you recall your safety word?”

Would she need it?

“Yes, my lord.”

His hand slipped past her buttocks to the wetness between
her legs. She groaned. He teased and tormented that traitorous nub of desire.
Despite her efforts to resist, she felt the arousal intensifying, felt herself
growing hotter and wetter. She shifted, both from having to hold herself up
against the discomfort of the hard chair and the ache emanating from within.

“Please,” she mumbled.

“Miss Herwood?”

“Please…punish me.”

Silence.

Was he reveling in his victory? Did he intend to emphasize
his earlier prediction by making her beg even more? Glancing in the mirror, she
saw the bulge at his crotch. Perhaps she was not the only one fighting back
urges.

He stepped back and splayed the tails against a buttock. She
gasped. As she had hoped, the tails landed with a thud and not a sting. He
backhanded her other buttock with the flogger, warming her skin and making it
tingle. The next blow landed with greater force, but not much worse than the
spanking her breasts had received at his hand. She wondered how much of his
full strength he would employ. Though her heartbeat quickened at the question,
she felt she could trust him not to harm her. The tails slapped against her
derriere in varying rhythms, warming her whole body, invigorating it. Even the
blows that made her wince and grunt proved enlivening. Her bottom ached, but
every nerve had come alive. When he paused and ran his hand between her legs,
she nearly fell off the chair.

Dear God.
Shutting her eyes, she concentrated on
staying in place, pretending the exquisite sensations at her quim were not
hers. She was elsewhere. This woman at the mercy of Lord Rockwell, this woman
bound and flogged was not her.
Think of something inane!

Her mind went briefly to her aunt and mother recounting
their walks through Hyde Park, whom they saw, what was worn by those they saw,
whom they didn’t see…

Something else rubbed at her cunny—the flogger! She groaned
as the tails moved against her, brushing her most intimate parts.

Abruptly he pulled the flogger back and lashed its tips upon
her buttocks. This time it stung, but his earlier ministrations had overwhelmed
her and the pain served only to make her crave his touch even more. He began a
wicked dance between flogging her arse and caressing her quim. Any control her
mind had on the situation was fast slipping away under the onslaught of
sensations.

“Ahhh!” she cried after one particularly hard blow.

He stroked her aching cunny, stoking the tension in her
loins. Lubricated by her wetness, his hand created a delicious friction against
her. She could not ignore the heat engulfing her body, the blood pumping in her
veins. The odds of her winning the hundred quid were no longer in her favor.
Her body craved to be led up to the precipice over which she would find
release.