Naughty Bits 2 (4 page)

I moan into his kiss, pleasure sluicing through my loins, rising through my body and my soul and soothing my aching heart. He touches me so tenderly, coaxing me to the peak again and again. As I twist beneath his touch, I realize, distantly, that I'm clinging on to him for the dearest life, yanking at his dark shirt and digging my nails into his back, perhaps inflicting a tiny percentage of the pain I've just experienced.

Finally, we both lapse into silence and stillness. He holds me. I hold him. We're two breathless survivors of a whirlwind.

How long we sit like this, I have no real idea. My entire world is his strength, his scent, his sure, steady breathing and the beat of his heart in his chest where I huddle against it. After a while, though, another physical factor begins to impress itself on me.

I'm on the marquess's lap, and in the cradle of that lap there's the hard knot of an erection.

I start to feel hot again. My cheeks flush with shame at my own selfishness. This spanking was something he wanted to do, but it was really as much my idea as his…and I've had the pleasure of it—several times—and he's had nothing in the way of sexual release.

He's been stiff all through this strange interlude and I've made not the slightest offer to do anything about that. Even though he's seen to
my
satisfaction…repeatedly!

I wonder how to broach the subject. He seems to be quite content for the moment just to hold me, despite the fact that he must be in a fair degree of discomfort. Something that's dramatically illustrated when I shift my position slightly and he draws a swift, sharp breath.

“Um…Your Lordship…er…shouldn't we do something about that?”

Not exactly eloquent, but I drive my point home by moving again, cautiously rubbing my sore bottom against the solid bulge that's stretching his jeans.

If I've been expecting a positive response and an enthusiastic segue into the next delicious stage of the proceedings, I'm completely wrong. He remains silent, perfectly silent, for several long moments, and when he does utter a sound it's a soft, regretful sigh.

“That's a sweet offer, my lovely Rose, and I'm very tempted.” I gaze into his face and suddenly discover that he looks quite sad. “But perhaps it's not the best idea…not really.”

“Why not?” I demand, my submissive role suddenly a thing of the past. His eyes widen, and for a moment I wonder whether I should apologize and grovel a bit, but then he smiles and shrugs, the movement of his shoulders transmitting itself to me more through his erection than anything else.

“I…” He looks away, distant for a few seconds, and then returns his gaze to me. He looks rather sad, almost wistful, and
then he smiles again. “I prefer to just touch and play and give pleasure, rather than receive it.”

What?

“But…um…don't you need to come?”

He laughs. “Of course I do. But I'll deal with myself later, Rose.” He tips his head back, as if looking heavenward for inspiration, his night-black hair sliding away from his face with the movement. “It's hard to explain, but basically, if I get too intimate, I want too much…and I'm not really a good prospect for relationships.” A heavy sigh lifts his chest. “I'm a widower, but I wasn't much good as a husband. Or even a boyfriend. Too wild…too selfish…. I've settled down a lot now, of course—” he makes a vague gesture as if to encompass his responsibilities at the manor “—but now I'm saddled with debts and commitments, and anyone who takes me on takes all that on, as well.”

I can see what he means, but suddenly, in the midst of that thought, a bright revelation shatters the gloom.

Oh, God, even though he's expressing his shortcomings and his wariness of relationships, the fact that he's actually mentioned a relationship—marriage even—must mean that he feels more for me, and sees me as more than a temporary employee and a casual spanking playmate.

Mustn't it?

“Look, please, let me…let me touch you…or maybe we can even fuck? I won't expect more than just that. All it'll be is a bit of pleasure with no commitments. Um…just friendship with a little bit of extra, really, nothing more.”

It's out before I've really thought about it. But thinking about it, I know I do want more, despite what I say.

Even though it's possibly the stupidest thing I've done in my life, even crazier than agreeing to be spanked by my temporary boss, I've only gone and fallen head over heels in love with the marquess, haven't I?

And he's right, there's no future in it, is there? None at all…Soon I'll be leaving for the Caribbean, to take up my chance-of-a-lifetime job.

He looks at me, and his dark eyes are still sad, but strangely yearning. It's as if he's just read my thoughts, and feels the same bittersweet emotions that I do.

“You're a wonderful girl, Rose.” He touches my face, the same fingers that punished me now a tender, caressing curve. “You're far too wonderful for me. If I take more from you, I'll just want more than that. And more…and more…and that's not fair of me.”

I could weep and scream. He
does
bloody well care!

Acting on impulse, I turn my face into his gentle hand and kiss his palm. He groans and mutters, “No!”

But I know I've got him. His whole body shakes finely, and beneath me, his cock jerks and seems to harden even more, if that were possible.

“I shouldn't…I shouldn't…”

“It's all right. It'll be ‘no strings,'” I whisper against his palm, then inscribe a little pattern, a promise, with my tongue.

“Oh, hell,” he almost snarls, and then he's kissing me, tilting me back on his lap and going deep with tongue and lips…and heart?

I embrace him, writhing on his knee again, the discomfort of my spanked bottom forgotten. Wrapping my arms around him, I try to silently say all the things that are too difficult and irrational to say.

Like…

To be with him just a little while, I'll pay any price, do things his way and never ask for more.

Like…

I'm prepared to take my chances on his lack of prospects and commitments.

Like…

Who needs a fucking job in the Caribbean, after all?

This last one shocks me, but just as I think it, the marquess deepens the kiss even further. His arms slide around me, holding me tight, and yet with delicacy, as if I'm precious to him.

And then, somehow, we're on the rug, and he's lying over me, great and dark, like a shadow that's so paradoxical it's also light. The light of revelation…

His hands rove over my body, exploring with reverence this time, and great emotion. And the touch is a thousand times more sexy than when we played. With a gasp, he straightens up momentarily and rips open his shirt, sending buttons flying in his impatience. Then he embraces me again, skin to skin.

His body is hot, feverish and moist, with a fine sheen of sweat that seems to conduct electricity between us. I moan, loving the communion, almost feeling that this might even be as good as sex in some mysterious way. But then my cunt flutters, reminding me I want more.

Still kissing me, the marquess deftly unbuckles his belt and then unfastens his jeans. But just as he's about to reveal himself, and allow me to feast my eyes on that which I've been fantasizing about since the moment he cordially and quite impersonally welcomed me to the manor and the work team, he lets out a lurid, agonized curse.

Then says, “I don't have a condom. I wasn't expecting to need one.”

A part of me thinks, whoa, he really did mean all that stuff about not fucking! But another part of me gives thanks for the fact that hope always springs eternal.

“Er…I've got one. It's in the pocket of my skirt.”

He gives me a look that says he thinks I'm a saucy, forward minx, but he's more than glad of the fact, and then he scoots gracefully across to where my skirt landed, and locates the contraceptive in my pocket.

Back close again, he hesitates, and gives me a beautiful,
complex look, full of hunger, compassion, yearning again…and a strange fear. I nod. I feel just the same.

And then he reaches into his jeans and reveals himself.

Involuntarily, I make a little “ooh” sound.

He's big. Stunning. Delicious. His cock is as handsome and patrician as his face, magnificently hard and finely sculpted. He's circumcised and his glans is moist and stretched and shiny. I've never seen a prettier one, and it's almost a shame when he swiftly robes it in latex.

I reach for him, expecting him to move between my splayed thighs. But with all the authority of his centuries-old title, he takes hold of me and moves me into his preferred position. With his arm around my waist, he scoops me up and places me on my hands and knees and moves in behind me.

It's not what I would have chosen, but I'll take what I can get. And I understand his reasons. This way is more impersonal, not too intimate and less dangerous to his emotions and to mine.

At least I think so, until he moves in closer, pressing his condom-clad penis against my still-tingling buttocks while he leans over me and molds his bare chest against my back so he can reach to give the side of my neck a soft kiss.

I sway against him, loving the kiss, loving his skin, loving his scent…and loving him. His weight is on one hand, and with the other he strokes me gently and soothingly, hot fingertips traveling over my breasts and my rib cage, then skimming my waist before finally settling over my sex. He cups me there, not in a sexual sense, but in a vaguely possessive way that's almost more intimate than a blatant attempt to stimulate me.

Then his long finger divides my labia and settles on my clit.

I moan, long and low, already fluttering as he rubs in a delicate, measured rhythm. He's trying to make me come first, I realize, and perversely I resist for a few seconds, holding out for our union. But he's far too clever and too skilled, and I crumble, coming heavily and with an uncouth, broken cry.

As I'm still pulsating, he pushes in, the head of his cock finding my entrance with perfect ease.

Oh, God! He's big! He feels even bigger than he looks, so hot and imposing. I pitch forward onto my folded arms as he ploughs into me, making a firm foundation from which to push back at him.

The impact of his penetration shocks my senses for a moment, and pleasure ebbs while I assimilate what's happened to me.

I've got the marquess's cock inside me. I'm possessed by this strange, elegant, deeply personal and mysterious man that I work for. We are one, for the moment; joined by flesh.

But when he starts to move, I'm back in my body and the pleasure reasserts itself.

We rock against each other and he thrusts in long, easy, assured strokes. At first he grips my still-tingly bottom cheeks, but as things get more intense, he inclines right over me, taking his weight on one hand again while with the other, he returns his loving attention to my clit.

Somehow he manages to stroke me in exactly the way that suits me, a firm rhythm, devilishly circling, but not too rough. God alone knows how he manages it. Maybe it's pure instinct or something? Because, judging by the way he's gasping and growling, he's just as out of it as I am.

Sublime and miraculous as all this is, I can't hold out for long. And I don't. Within moments, I'm growling, too, like some kind of she-wolf, and climaxing furiously. Dimly, I sense the marquess trying to contain himself, conserve himself as long as he can, to increase my pleasure. But I'm not having any of that—I want
his
pleasure, too!

I milk him hard with my inner muscles, and he lets out such a string of profanities—in his immaculate upper-crust accent—that I find myself laughing just as wildly as I'm coming.

Then he laughs, too, pumps hard and fast and shoots inside
me. I feel the little bursts of his spurting semen even through the condom, and despite it being very stupid, I suddenly wish the rubber protection wasn't there. As we both tumble forward in a gasping, sweating, laughing, climaxing heap, I have fleeting but dangerous thoughts about one or two or three little marquesses or honorables or whatever, all running around the place looking as dark and aristocratic and beautiful as their daddy.

Lying on the rug, wrapped in his arms as he cradles me spoon-style—his still partly clothed body warm and protective against mine—I fight with a huge case of genuine postcoital tristesse this time.

This is all there is, Rose, I tell myself. A couple of weeks of this. A bit of naughty spanking and sex play by mutual consent. Maybe a friendly, but not too personal, fuck or two.

And then you're off to your lovely new job and a new life of opportunity.

While he stays here, in the heart of England, tending to his great house.

Outside, I hear it start to rain again.

 

Two weeks later, it's still raining. In fact, there's a raging thunderstorm outside and it's really scaring me.

But in a way, this is a good thing. It's taking my mind off the fact that tomorrow, I'm supposed to be leaving. And though I won't miss this cold, English rain one bit, there are a lot of things I am finding very hard to leave.

This funny old house has really grown on me, and I wish I was going to be here to see it finished.

I'm going to really miss being spanked and tied up and given mock orders in a mock-stern, beautiful cut-glass English voice. Oh, I'm sure there'll be a man somewhere in the Caribbean who'll oblige me, but it won't be the same. It won't be the same.

And pleasure, oh, how I'll miss the pleasure. Not just any
pleasure, but the bliss gifted to me by a man who seems to know my every thought, my every response, inside out.

I'll miss the sex, too, even if I never do get to see his glorious face as he comes inside me. But even if he won't face me, I still don't think I'll ever find anyone with his finesse, his strength, his sweetness, his consideration…and his mastery.