That felt like a missed opportunity. Weeks of missed opportunities.
His breath grew short and arousal thrummed through him.
But Eleanor’s gaze turned immediately to the dresses that he had arranged to be set out for her arrival. The blue dress first, then others behind. Gray, to match her eyes, and a soft cream silk that would cling to her curves delightfully.
Obscenely.
He could not allow her to leave the house wearing it. But for him—yes, he could have her wearing it for him, just as she had come to him the other night wearing nothing but that thin little slip of nightgown.
He hardened almost painfully.
She whirled back to him, joy lightening her face like sunrise, a smile blooming at her lips and brightening her eyes from gray to the deepest blue.
“Sebastian,” she whispered, and he knew with that single word he was lost, and may never be found again. He knew with that word that the battle he had fought to keep her out of his life had failed already, and even if he banished her forcibly from his presence, he would never be able to banish her from his mind.
He knew, beyond all doubt, that his quest to convince her to leave had failed. Not now, but days ago.Weeks. It had failed the moment she had walked down the aisle to marry him, and he could not bring himself to regret it.
“Is this for me?” she asked.
“It is.”
She pressed her hand to her lips and tears sprang to her eyes. “I don’t know what to say. This is—the gowns are beautiful. You bought them for me?”
“Well, I can hardly wear them,” he said irritably, annoyed by her shock, even though it was perfectly justified. Annoyed, too, by her tears, and the effect they were having on him. And, most of all, annoyed because he wanted nothing more than to ease her suffering and wipe away the moisture on her cheeks. With a hesitancy he deeply disliked, he stepped closer and used his thumb to wipe them just so. She looked up at him, expression trusting, and he cursed. Then he drew her to him and kissed her.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Eleanor felt as though her world ended and began every time Sebastian touched her, especially when he did so in this way, with the roughness of urgency and the gentleness of tenderness. The shape of his mouth against hers convinced her that he wanted her almost as much as she wanted him, and there was nothing more in the world that she could want.
“I ought to punish you,” he murmured there, tearing at her clothes to reveal skin, “for tormenting me in this way.”
Such sweet torment. She would have given herself to the flames themselves if they would have burned her with this same pleasure. “Then do so.”
He growled and tore still more at her clothes, ripping them from her body and tossing them aside. Then he bent her over his knee, naked while he remained clothed, and brought his hand down on her bare buttock. She gasped, the sting moving through her body until it dissolved into heat. Nothing had ever quite felt likeit, the pain and pleasure blending together to such an extent that she could not distinguish one from the other.
“This is for all the ways in which you have invaded my life,” he said, delivering another stinging slap. “And this is for inviting Luke to the picnic with us.”
“Why are you so against his friendship?”
Another stinging slap directly where the other had been. “That was for the question.”
She squirmed, already aching and needing something between her legs to ease her need. “I’m sorry.”
Another blow. “What do you call me when we are like this?”
“Sir. I’m sorry,sir.”
“Good. I’ll give you ten more of these, and if you choose to behave, I may consider rewarding you.”
Eleanor bit her lip as he struck her across her other buttock. She could almost imagine the red handprint he would leave on her pale skin, the proof that he had been there, branding her, marking her. Not in a permanent way, but he had already done that to her heart. She had never been opposed to falling for her husband—marriages, she supposed, would be easier with some affection on one or both sides—but she knew now how fixed that affection was.
Even if he denied her for the remainder of her life, she would still love him for all the small gestures, and the way he slowly had opened himself to her. She loved the cruel man he could be, and the clever man he often was. There were so many different facets to him, and she loved them all.
Five spanks. Her eyes watered and she bit her lip to hold back her cries of pain. The soft flesh between her legs throbbed with need. If she could not endure the pain, she could tell him, and he would stop, but with each strike, her arousal grew. And after a few seconds of sting, the pain turned to pleasure. The burning felt exquisite.
“Eight.” He struck her again. “Nine.” Once more. “Ten.”
She whimpered, draped helplessly over his lap. Her legs felt like jelly, and her bottom burned. It was all too much and yet not enough, because she needed—sheneeded—more.
