Authors: Elle Q. Sabine
* * * *
Get on with it.
Abigail approved of the sentiment. They’d had a cup of tea and had risen together, climbing the stairs in unison. Betsy needed no more than a steadying arm now, which Fiona provided, even so late in the evening, and Meriden hung unashamedly onto Abigail’s hand.
Fiona glanced at them curiously as Abigail calmly turned away from the other two women, her fingers wrapped in his in trusting companionship. Betsy simply snorted and forged ahead, shaking her head. “She’s got a head on her shoulders,” Abigail heard Betsy say to her sister firmly. “After this day, he’s not one to just let her out of his sight.”
She glanced up, as Meriden looked down at her, and his eyes lit with a growing intensity. “No, I’m not going to let you from my sight,” he agreed, his voice already lowering to husky tones. Between them, Abigail could see him shedding the veneer of civilisation, and she shivered. His body was unmistakably hardening, and he appeared even taller than usual. He firmed his hands around Abigail’s when she caught her breath.
He stopped at the door to Abigail’s boudoir, pushed it open, then stepped across the hallway to his own sitting room and did the same. “Annie, Robert,” he spoke firmly. Both immediately popped out into the corridor, and Abigail blushed hopelessly. “You both know when to come up in the morning. Annie, Lady Abigail will want a hot bath and some time before any others arrive under the guise of being helpful. But other than that, from now on, we won’t want you sitting around waiting for us—we’ll ring for you if we have need. Mornings and evenings.”
Annie bobbed and a blank-faced Robert bowed, then both turned and scurried away.
“They must gossip. Every house has its gossips,” Abigail murmured, staring after them.
Meriden looked down at her blankly. “Why?” he asked. “There’s nothing to gossip about.” He reached over and pulled the boudoir door shut, ushering her firmly into his sitting room.
Abigail looked around. The room was lit by lamps and the fireplace, and the curtains were drawn against the oncoming frosty October night. The same Boucher painting hung in its place of pride. Abigail studied it closely but it no longer seemed as shockingly carnal as it had that first evening. After the last few nights in Meriden’s bed, it seemed almost tame.
She turned to Meriden and smiled. He raised an eyebrow. “That won’t get you out of trouble, little girl,” he growled.
Blinking, biting her lip and holding her breath as a nervous flutter settled in her stomach seemed perfectly natural and almost arousing. Her eyes widened when he took a step forward. She held out her hands a little helplessly, as if to say she couldn’t help it, but he shook his head.
“I gave you three rules the other night, and said that you could manage me to your heart’s content while those rules were in effect.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “One, you were to sleep in my bed. Two, you were to come to our bed in nothing but that mind-numbing delicious skin. Three, you weren’t to lock doors against me. I think on other nights I’ve pointed out that I will demand and insist on time for me. I’ve asked you to call me Charles, as we are on exceedingly intimate terms, and I’ve insisted that you behave sensibly with regard to your health and your safety. I’ve made any number of other demands, once even insisting you acquire the mysterious skill of obedience. Have I quite covered my arrogance up to today quite thoroughly?”
Abigail shivered and nodded, her eyes now locked with his.
“All of that, Abby, all of it falls under what I said this afternoon.
Mine
. I don’t give a damn about society, about lords, about the price of tea in the Caribbean.
Mine.
My honour and my duty and my privilege to love, mine to cherish, mine to protect, mine to nurture, mine to treasure, mine to comfort. Mine to find pleasure and pain with, argue with, challenge.” Even as he spoke, the tenor of his voice changed from simply husky to a low, rasping tone that caused Abigail’s heart to beat harder and faster than ever. “Your strength calls forth all of my aggressive and possessive nature, and your tenderness soothes me. I need all of you, here with me. I will not
ever
allow you to even contemplate any other reality.”
He stalked forward and she stepped back, gasping.
“If you ever again imply you are not
enough
for me, in any context, you had better damned well be prepared for my conqueror to come roaring out, because just
thinking
about what you said earlier still makes me want to
rage
. Now take off that damn gown, or I will rip it in half.”
Why wasn’t she afraid? She ought to be, Abigail knew. He was in a fury, she realised, methodically unfastening the long line of buttons at her bodice. His indignation and outrage was palpable, but it wasn’t the drunken tantrums of a spoilt man. No, he’d been confined by their guests and by circumstances to cloak his earlier reaction until such time as he could address it. Abigail shuddered.
He was indignant and outraged
on her behalf
. Yes, it was directed at her, at her self-recriminations and lack of faith in him, but he wasn’t intent on crushing her or breaking her spirit. Charles wanted to build it back up. He’d said it himself.
He needed
all of her
.
It was almost a dizzying realisation, that he could so thoroughly control the power and violence ingrained in him. It meant, she suddenly understood, that she could trust even her argumentative, managing self to his care, that he was being honest when he claimed she could manage him as much as she wished. Abigail
knew
she would sometimes draw out his beast and tempt him into showing her all that he was and could be, and he wouldn’t endanger her because breaking her—truly conquering her spirit and soul—would destroy all he needed her for.
Abigail let the jacketed bodice drop to the floor and reached behind her to untie her skirts.
Now he stood and watched her, leaning back against a wall, his nostrils still flaring. His gaze was on her breasts, which were straining against the chemise as she bent forward and pushed down the skirts. Stepping out of them, she picked up both and draped them over a chair, and stood proudly before him again.
Oh, Abigail knew he would hurt her. But she’d experienced enough at his hands to know that whatever pain he caused would only make her burn higher and longer and collapse more thoroughly sated in his arms.
She wasn’t afraid of the pain any more than she feared his temper. Right now, she craved both of them. Already, her body was clenching, tightening in sensual, needy arousal and telltale liquid was forming between her labia.
“Take down your hair,” he said huskily, still watching with possessive intent. Abigail recognised it, and with a heartfelt rush of gratitude, welcomed it. That possessive desire had claimed her and made her safe. She could trust in it. She reached for her pins and dropped them to the floor in total disarray, watching his eyes darken as the waves of reddish-brown curls settled around her face and flowed down her back.
Meriden motioned for her to lift one of her slippered feet onto the chaise. “Stockings down, then off. Slippers too,” he grunted. “One at a time.”
She followed his directive, lifting her left leg and pulling the garter loose before rolling the silk down to her ankles. It was quick work to dispose of the entire slipper and stocking, and on a whim she ran her hands back up her leg as she straightened.
Beyond her, Meriden hissed and Abigail’s clitoris ached
as her vaginal walls contracted in recognition.
Just as deliberately, she lifted her right leg and repeated the movements, hardly surprised when Meriden came up behind her as she straightened. He was stiff behind her, everywhere their bodies brushed together. Then he sat on the chaise and pulled her over his lap, bottom up.
His hand, as he rained smacks harder and harder onto her bottom, was just as she’d remembered it. Arching and twisting, she both wanted him to continue and wished it would stop. The pressure between her legs seemed to be building, and at one low, hard smack to her lower rump, Abigail moaned.
Silent now, Meriden dropped his fingers to between her legs and swiftly pushed two of them inside her hard, until Abigail cried out at the sensations. He pushed them in and out, again and again. Wordless sounds came from her mouth as sensations of pleasure rushed up and down her spine, then settled in her groin. “Good,” he encouraged. “Go over the edge, Abby-heart. Show me bliss.”
Abigail couldn’t resist Meriden’s words. The sensations in her groin exploded and saturated her consciousness.
Meriden let her rest for a minute, but then he spanked her again, and this time it hurt. She let out a helpless cry.
“Yes, Abby-heart, it hurts more if you’re greedy and have the pleasure first,” he said clearly, his voice now hard and uncompromising.
Abigail whimpered, and he pushed up the chemise higher, rubbing the small of her back even as he continued to land heavier smacks on her rounded rear.
It seemed to last forever, but Abigail finally let out an agonised whimper. “Please, please stop.” She started to shake.
Meriden said nothing, but gentled his hand and rubbed the burning, sore globes of her bottom. Abigail moaned again, a helpless, aroused noise, and lifted her bottom up to meet his hand. He allowed his fingertips to dip between her legs and stroke the leaking, liquid fire, then rubbed the juices tenderly into the sore flesh along the bottom of her rump.
“What did I tell you earlier that I was going to do?” he said in a heavier, darker voice.
Abigail barely recognised it, but she responded to the command nevertheless. “Paddle me,” she whispered.
He sucked in a harsh breath. “Oh, I’m going to,” he whispered, pushing Abigail to her feet. She felt a little lost, but he jerked a hand towards the chaise. “On your knees, with your knees apart and your shift off,” he rasped out, stepping back and watching.
Abigail looked at him nervously as she faced the head of the chaise and spread her knees, allowing the chemise to flutter to the floor.
“Scoot them back,” he said shortly, and after she had, he grunted. “Now lean forward, hands on the top of it.”
Her lips suddenly parched, Abigail bent forward, gripping the top of the cushioned back in front of her. She shook, starkly aware of her breasts swinging beneath her and her bottom bent out.
Meriden was silent. She looked around and caught sight of his face. At one time, she might have called his expression savage, but now she thought he looked as though he were in intense pain. Perhaps he was.
“Keep looking at that upholstery, Abby. Think about it. Think about holding yourself in just that position while I paddle you until you cry. Think about just barely holding on, because when it’s over and the tears are running down your cheeks and my marks are on your body, I’m going to carry you into the bedroom, lay you down in our bed, spread those beautiful thighs open, and teach you just how much heart you have inside you to give me. So keep looking at that velvet, Abby.”
At his words, Abigail’s body heated to an intensity she could hardly stand. She arched, tensing and releasing in a vain attempt to stimulate the hooded, throbbing clitoris between her legs.
She thought it was an eternity before he moved closer and stood beside her, reaching one of his hands beneath her to cradle her stomach gently. She whimpered and tried to shift up against his hand, but a hard whack to her bottom had her squealing and rocking forward.
“Back in position,” he demanded instantly, and Abby gasped, following the command. Whatever he held in his hand was hard, with a large, wooden face. It was probably nothing more than a damned hairbrush or an old paddle from the nursery, she thought, but it hurt.
The pain radiating through her skin made her want to flee in anguish, but the man beside her, by his very presence, made her want to stay and be conquered.
This time she knew what to expect, and stayed in place when the searing pain slammed into her behind. He slid his hand up and caressed her ribcage for a moment, then smacked again, and she cried out in helpless reaction.
Soon he was cupping her breast, thumbing her nipples, even as he continued his regular, hard smacks to her rear. The sensation rocked her forward, then back, pushing her until the pain was no longer separable from the pleasure in her breasts.
And it wasn’t enough. The place Abigail wanted—
needed
—to go seemed just out of reach. One touch, one more, and she would fly.
He wouldn’t take her there.
The realisation hit her suddenly. This
suffering
was a clamouring war on her senses, and one in which she was totally defenceless. Meriden could grant her the release or torment her indefinitely. The helplessness of it almost made her sink in defeat, and she clung to the velvet desperately, sinking her fingers into the upholstery.
“Charles,
please,
” she begged now, anxiously. “
Please
. I can’t anymore, it’s too much.” The tears leaked from her eyes and streamed down her cheeks.
“Yes, you can and you will,” he rumbled beside her, squeezing her nipple firmly and spanking her hard. “You’ll stay just like this, Abby, for me, just to please me. It’s not about your pleasure, Abby-heart. Remember, we’re establishing just how
good
enough
you are for me, how much you can give me.”
She shuddered violently and let loose a low moan. He continued to smack the low edges of her rump, murmuring endearments and encouragement now, just loud enough for her to hear. She
strained
to hear, wanting the sweet words he was gifting her. “Mine, Abby love, such a good girl, my girl, you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, Abby.”
Then, finally, the paddling stopped, and he reached to support her collapsing body. “I’m so proud of you, Abby-heart, so proud,” he whispered, trying to bring her up against his chest.
She was still digging into the velvet with rigid desperation, and he had to loosen one arm from around her to prise her fingers loose. He physically moved her hands to his shoulders, then lifted her up against his chest, possessively grasping her bottom cheeks.