Sure enough, he pushed her to her knees and unbuttoned his fall. “You will service me with your mouth, so that your lips rouse only my desire, rather than my continued ire.”
Milton shoved his fully aroused cock down her throat.
It happened so fast, Elizabeth choked on her husband’s thick member, her soul separating from her body, her mind scrambling to comprehend this attack. He was forcing her to acquiesce, and she tried valiantly to withstand him, please him even in order to bring an end to her torment, but his thrusts were relentless.
Until she peered up into his face and saw therein a look of utter desperation.
So. He was not immune to her, after all. The Duchess’s words returned, making Elizabeth realize she might wrest back control, make him spill whenshedetermined, not when he felt ready. The memory of Evie controlling that man’s pleasure atLeBrecht’sgave Elizabeth the nudge needed to use lips and tongue to full advantage.
And she did. She was soon relishing the tortured look on her husband’s face as she worked him more lasciviously, enjoying her labor now as she moaned against his swollen, dripping rod, gripping his buttocks with both hands to take him ever deeper. She could sense him battling for control, struggling against herefforts—until he pushed her off and stumbled back, gasping for air.
“Fuck!”He yanked her to her feet and spun her up against his desk to lift her skirts and tear her offending drawers in two. Elizabeth welcomed his swift, harsh entry. She did not fear this. She felt empowered. Triumphant, even.
“You’ll pay for that, harlot.” He pumped hard and fast. “For I’ll not spend down your throat till you’re round with my child. My seed will not be wasted, Lizzie, not when it is your duty to give me heirs.”
He shuddered inside her, without care for her pleasure this time, then gripped the nape of her neck to bend her over so that her forehead touched the wood of his desk. “You will remain in this position, arse up, to let my seed take root.” He pulled out slowly, as if careful not to spill.
She heard drink poured at the sideboard while her body quaked over his desk. The bastard had left her in this degrading position because he could. She knew what he’d do next.
He softly stroked her buttocks while he sipped his blasted drink. “You will count aloud each strike I wield, as reminder of whyI punish you today.”
Only his words did not reduce her, they spurred her to revolt, fueled her competitive streak. She’d count untilhegave up. Gave in.
“You will be given five strokes for wearing drawers again. Another five for attempting to control my pleasure, and ten for visiting the Duchess without my permission only to goad me on our drive back. All of which are rules, Elizabeth, you know full well you must obey.”
“To hell with your rules,” she muttered into his desk.
“What was that, love?” He put his drink down right beside her.
She wished to strike it to the floor, smash the glass to bits.
“Beat me all you like.” She spoke through gritted teeth. “But to use the wordlovein jest is an insult I’ll not take.” A bonfire rose in Elizabeth’s chest. “Lovedoes not dominate, it cultivates, Jasper Audrey. Or have you never read Goethe?”
***
“Love, Lizzie,” Milton hissed into her ear, “inflames.”
His palm cracked her backside so hard she jerked, shouting “One!” in brash defiance.
“Two!” came out in willful disrespect, subsequent strikes met with only more perverse, adverse counts spilling from his wife’s lips. She’d insulted his intelligence, his birth, and his position as her husband—and now the wench had the gall to reach ten with nary a tear.
By fifteen, Milton’s breaths were ragged, his anger spinning out of reach. “Do you wish to continue, Elizabeth?” He squeezed her nape. “I did not plan to go this far with you,” he threatened, “but if you continue to resist my orders, I will. Cease this mad defiance, woman, cede to me this instant.”
“Do your worst,” she spat as Milton stepped back, stunned.
Why would she not—break?
Without thinking, he strode to his desk, reached for his ruler, and then raised his arm, heart pounding, to silence her for good. Only she lost it on the third strike, puddling into tear-filled pleading, the slim wooden tool too harsh for her highborn flesh. He let it drop to the floor in disgust at himself.
Screams, smells.
Crushing weight pressed his chest, smothered all air, as a voice laughed low in his head:There ’tis, Jasp. I taught yer well, didn’t I, lad?
He couldn’t breathe, could barely see.
Milton fled the room. Reeling.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
