His bane? The way her limbs had quivered as she kneeled. The only way he’d been able to continue his performance was to draw his still-wet knuckle against his mouth and inhale the scent of her desire. Proof she wanted this.
Proof she loved every depraved thought that sprung into his mind.
He’d spoken true—making a home had been his aim, but he stayed away longer than he needed, struggling with his baser desires.
How could he be a gentleman when he wanted to treat his wife as a wanton mistress?
He didn’t deserve her.
And he certainly didn’t deserve the ecstatic feel of her mouth on his cock.
As she struggled with his buttons, he thought she would give up, retreat—relieve them both by demanding a proper bed. But in an act of sublime, audacious submission, she’d continued on.
Obedience, absolutely.
Meekness, never.
Just as he was performing—she was performing, too. His banshee hadn’t a servile bone in her body. Her erotic hunger flowered in the expectation of a very specific end.
His heart, stripped bare.
She wished to blunt his edges, bleed away the protective armor that kept him whole. He doubted she could succeed, but, oh, how he wanted her to try.
She only knew the half of what she faced. She hadn’t fully seen the inky substance that pumped through his veins in place of blood. Still, he’d twisted the spigot and let the shadows she demanded flow.
He held her cheeks in place and jerked his hips so his cock touched the roof of her mouth. Perfection—until she nearly gagged. He yanked out and bent down, keeping hold of her face as he rocked his forehead against hers.
“I wasn’t finished,” she panted.
“I decide.” She truly wanted all he could give. “Don’t speak unless I ask.”
She nodded.
He caressed her dusk-hued cheek and softened his voice. “If you get too scared—if it’s too much…” He really shouldn’t be doing this. “Just make a fist and bang three times on the table.” He pulled the hair back from her face. “I’ll stop—no questions, no disappointment, no anger. Do you understand?”
She nodded a second time.
“Show me.”
She made a fist and rapped three times against the floor.
“You have it.”
He hung his head, breathing heavy, all his coiled need snaking into his limbs, jaws fully bared. He lifted her to standing, turned her wobbling legs around, and draped her, facedown, over the table.
He’d never liked this tablecloth, but her? He squeezed the tip of his cock and winced until the pain passed.
Now, for the trussing. He crouched on the floor and rolled down the right stocking. Her leg shook as he tied it securely to the table. He listened. No rap. He proceeded to secure her other leg in the same manner. Then he stood back.
Nice.Very nice.But notthoroughlysatisfying.Yet.
He drew one arm above her head, then the other. When she was fully stretched, he gathered both napkins and shook them out. Linked together, they were ample enough. He loosely secured her wrists. She had to be able to make a fist, if she must.
He lowered down onto his haunches and searched her gaze—no distress. Only vigilance. Alert anticipation. She had the heart of an angel, soul of a wanton, andshe’dchosenhim. Astounding good fortune on his part.
But his power was borrowed, meant to be returned, repaid—with interest—as devotion.
Slowly he rounded the table, then flipped up her chemise.
