I tuck the whip away, press a feathered kiss to the small of her back, and settle over her like a promise.
“Let the training continue,” I murmur. “If you will it, little consort, I will spend an eternity teaching you.”
She answers with a strangled noise that is half-laugh, half-moan, and in it I hear the covenant sealed.
THIRTY-ONE
HANNAH
I was steelingmyself for brutality when instead he does this utterly expert, stinging-then-rushing-pleasure thing with that damn whip of his, and I?—
I’m undone.
I am so unbearably confused because I had just decided he’s a bastard. Which he still absolutely is. He tied me to a bed and started whipping me for God’s sake!
But then he’s also behind my ear, his voice velvet and close. “You understand, yes? Your body bends to me.”
I startle and turn my head and find him already over me, one knee on the mattress, wings flared like sails when he’s aroused. And um… I find myself quaking in excited response.
“You will submit to me,” he says as his long, wicked tongue flicks down my neck. “One way or another.”
I tremble. Something trails seductively down my back, but it doesn’t feel like a normal hand. Then his hand clamps at the nape of my neck, and he holds me to the mattress.
“I don’t know if you deserve my cock after the stunt you pulled,” he murmurs in my ear. “Maybe I’ll fuck you with the handle of this whip instead. Bad consorts don’t deserve a master’s cock or the honor of his gush.”
“You aren’t my master,” I snap, still defiant in the rush of so many confusing sensations, even as I want to beg him to fuck me.
“Ah-ah-ah.” He delivers a smack to my ass this time and, after the whipping, it aches in the way that makes my breath hitch. “You’ll learn, little consort. I can be a very patient teacher.”
Something presses between my legs. Not his hand. Not exactly. It’s the leather-wrapped handle of the whip, I think. Just what he said he would use. I go hollow with a gasp.
“I won’t take it.” I glare, but he keeps my head anchored.
“My hand is here, too,” he says, and I feel warm fingers slide along my hip. “And I can smell you. You’ve already started.” His thumb begins to strum my clit in the casual, infuriating way he has that always somehow undoes me. “Such a shapely little consort. So ready to gush for me at my dirty, dirty touch.”
I try to deny it. I shake my head.
But his thumb finds that one place, and the whip handle pushes in further.
All the stimulation primes me until the moan that I swore I wouldn’t make slips out anyway. God. Of course it does. This is the wildness I’ve been whispering to myself about; the thing I got hung up over Drew missing. The kinky, messy, shameful, urgent part of me that isdesperateto be taught.
“I’m going to fuck you with this whip now,” he hisses in my ear. “You’ll squeal and gush for me.”
My hips betray me, giving a small, involuntary arch, and my ass lifts to make room. I am already gushing. I don’t understand half of this body anymore, but it’s saying yes in a big way.
“You won’t get my cock again until you’ve earned it,” he murmurs, voice low and primal, and then he guides the leather-wrapped handle into my pussy. It is narrower than his vast cock, but intrusive in a way that makes me clench around it.
“I love seeing the end of my whip disappear inside my consort’s cunt,” he murmurs.
A small spasm slides through me and slicks the handle. He takes advantage, pushing in without mercy. My legs are tied spread wide, and I can do nothing. I should be furious. I should scream. But my body clenches around everything he feeds me, and the hard pad of his fingers strokes the place that makes me drown in pleasure. Little tremors start to flutter through my belly and down to my groin.
“You’ll love everything I give you,” he promises, low and rough. “You’ll beg for more. You’ll let out that high sound in the back of your throat you’re trying not to make.”
I try to hold to my denial, but his thumb rubs my swollen clit as his hips lean in. He knows. How does he know? The handle presses in more, and he twists it so the bulb-end kisses my G-spot.
In a flash, the world narrows to a hot, bright spike. I grab at the torn cloth binding my wrists because there is nothing else to hold onto. My knuckles go white, and I feel like I’m going to combust.
Am I his first? My brain lurches there, silly and vicious and jealous, and I blurt the question between little gasps. “Did you do this with your other consorts?”
