“Who you will not kill,” Helen insisted.
“We’ll see, little gnat. I may cut off his fingers one by one for touching you.”
Oh, that was quite savage.But also made a hard ache start up between her thighs, twisting and fluttering. Her nipples beneath the chemise tightened into peaks.
“You cannot and—oh god, that feels marvelous.” He rolled one nipple between his forefinger and thumb, the cotton of her chemise scraping almost painfully. His other hand wandered down between Helen’s thighs, urging them to part so that he could stroke her.
“Please,” Helen panted, pushing her hips upward.
“Not yet,” Fletcher whispered into the skin of her throat. “I want to hear you scream my name, this time.”
Oh. Dear. Well, does sound rather splendid.
“Do your worst,” she challenged him, barely able to form the words. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“You should be.” He lifted Helen, her back to his front, and dragged her to the bed. Pushing her onto the mattress, he loosened his hold to pluck forcefully at her chemise.
“Don’t rip it. Please. I haven’t another. Nor,” she whimpered, as he tore at her underthings. “Anything else.”
“I can buy you whatever you want. Pretending to be Roxboro was a profitable venture.” He flipped Helen on to her stomach, mouth gliding down the length of her naked back while one hand kept her in place. Fletcher licked at her skin, every notch of her spine, nibbled on one buttock while his hand slid between her legs.
Helen writhed beneath him, impatient for the pleasure only he could give her.
“Lay still,” he said, swatting her backside before dipping a finger inside her. Holding her down, he stroked deep inside her until—
Helen jerked at the sensation, so wildly different from before when he’d given her that erotic kiss in Galway’s garden. But this….
Her body quivered, toes flexing, Helen bit into the quilt covering the bed, moaning as he teased at that spot inside her. The pressure built until Helen was sure she’d break apart, moaning in anticipation of the pleasure that would soon crest over her skin.
Fletcher only laughed softly. “Not yet, my love.”
Love.
Her heart ached at the word. Because Helen knew she loved him and hoped….
Another string of kisses along her spine, finger gently caressing that spot inside her, a place she hadn’t even known existed.
Why would I?She wondered dreamily, drunk on sensation.Owen never touched me like this.
Fletcher retreated once more.
Helen begged. Pleaded. But he only laughed quietly once more before the torture resumed. Her skin was pulled tight as a bowstring, muscles taut, sweat beaded at her temples. Fletcher held her at a peak for what felt like hours.
“Fletcher,” she sobbed. “End this, I beg you.”
The finger inside her curled with agonizing slowness, softly stretching back and forth.
Dear God.
Helen screamed his name. More than once. The entire tavern below, despite the noise, could probably hear her. She exploded in a brilliant flash of light while he kept her pinned and thrashing on the bed. Moaning and sobbing in the most unladylike fashion. Gasping for breath.
Once the ripples started to fade, Fletcher dragged her body close to the end of the bed, legs partially dangling off the side. A pillow was placed beneath her hips, raising the lower half of Helen’s body up in the air. He repositioned her limbs without a word of protest from Helen.
The sound of his boots hitting the floor matched the beat of her heart. His belt. The shirt still bloodstained, floated before her eyes.
“I’m not a maid,” she whispered. “You don’t have to be careful.”
“Good. I don’t plan to be.” Fletcher turned her head and pressed a kiss to her lips. “We’ll talk about who else I must kill later.”
