Wicked Games (29 page)

Remembering how it felt thrusting into her, Rose closed her eyes and moaned.

“Rose.”

She opened her eyes and looked at him. He'd stepped closer, so close his cock almost touched her. She felt a violent need to caress it, and clenched her bound hands. “Alan, let me go. I want to . . .”

“Tell me what I want to know.”

Rose gritted her teeth in frustration. “I can't, damn you! I've got a duty to . . .”

“So have I,” he growled. He caught his big phallus in one hand. “Do you have any idea what I could do to you? What I want to do?” Almost unconsciously, his hand began to move, stroking the thick shaft. “You look so lusciously helpless, hanging there like that. I want to throw you down and fuck you.”

She started; he'd never used that word to her before. Mesmerized, she stared at his slowly moving fist. His own eyes were fixed on her breasts, on the nipple that still wore a coat of wax. “I didn't expect to like this,” he growled. “I didn't think I'd love listening to you gasp and whimper when that wax hit your pretty little nipple.” His hand began to move faster and his face tightened.

Rose swallowed, taking in the way he looked standing there with his shirt hanging open, his pants unbuttoned to reveal the big cock he fisted in long strokes, his polished boots set wide.

“I think I'll go out and get a strap for that tempting ass of yours. Tie you spread-eagle . . . and watch your bottom turn pink . . . as I give it lick after lick with that strap—and my tongue.” He grimaced through set teeth. His back arched, and she could see his thighs begin to tremble. “I wonder if . . . I'll love that as much as using that candle . . . And then . . . And then I'll fuck . . . ARRRRRRGHH!”

As she watched in dizzy hunger, a jet of sperm shot from his cock to splash on her belly.

•   •   •

A
ftershocks of climax still sparked along Alan's nerves as he walked to the drawer and took out a long rope. Going back to her, he pulled his penknife. Two quick passes of the blade freed her wrists, but before she could get away, he forced her back on the bed.

“Alan, what are you . . . ?”

“I've got business to attend to, and I'm not going to leave you running loose.”

As he looped the rope around her chest to bind her arms to her side, he noticed how the cord caught under her nipples. Alan licked his lips and wound the rope around her again so that the rosy little crests were pinched between the lengths of hemp. She squirmed in discomfort as the fibers tormented the delicate flesh.

He made a few fast passes around her wrists to tie them off, still eyeing the saucy tilt of her nipples imprisoned in the rope. Looking up, Alan found her dark eyes locked on his face, wide with a combination of desire and fear.

Unable to resist investigating the depth of her passion, he reached between her smooth thighs, smiling at her gasp. She was very wet.

Nostrils flaring, he thought about leaving her tied in a way that would maintain that sexual excitement. Maybe with something buried deep in that creamy little pussy . . .

He remembered the candle. It lay on the floor next to his boots. Alan bent to pick up the candle and gave it a frowning look. It was too long for the task he had in mind for it. With an easy twist of his big hands, he broke the taper in two and leaned over her again. His fingers parted her, and the tip slid into her wet flesh easily. He smiled and drove it in and out.

“Alaann,” she moaned. “Don't. That's humiliating.”

His mouth pulled tight, and he removed the candle. “So is the way you used me.”

Come to think of it, he owed her a little humiliation.

In the nightstand was a bottle of oil he'd used the day before to massage her slender back. Now he used it on the second half of the candle, intent on giving Rose a lesson in shame she wouldn't soon forget.

She yelped in alarm when he rolled her over and spread her cheeks to gain access to the tight little hole between them. Ignoring her protests, Alan presented the blunt end of the candle to her anus and bore down. He had to use force to drive the candle into her exquisitely tight ass, particularly when she began to groan and struggle against her bonds. “Damn you, Alan!” she gasped. “Stop that!”

Involuntarily, he imagined what it would be like to shove something even larger into her tight rear opening. His spent phallus stirred and lengthened. Perhaps after he got back . . .

Inserting the pointed taper into her creamy vagina, Alan passed the end of the cord up between her cheeks and lips, making sure that the cord pressed her clitoris while trapping the candles within her. He looped it once around her hips to keep it there, then dragged her ankles up and roped them together.

Finished binding his prisoner, he straightened and looked down at her. She looked delicious, her nipples pouting around the tight bite of the rope, her sex wonderfully spread and stuffed.

“You,” she told him, glaring up at him with snapping dark eyes, “are a bastard.”

He grinned at her. “Yes, I am. Maybe you'd better keep that in mind.”

Whistling in satisfaction, he turned his back on his pretty captive and sauntered out.

•   •   •

R
ose writhed as the twin candles rubbed together inside her vagina and anus. What a clever, vicious bastard Alan was, knowing just how to tie her to drive her mad.

And to stand there and caress himself while she watched, dying for him . . . She gritted her teeth and tried to ignore the hemp gnaw- ing at her tender breasts.
Just think about something else, Rose
, she told herself.
Don't remember the way that hard phallus feels when he pushes it into you, don't think about his mouth and his tongue and his
hands
.

An escape plan. That's what she needed, a way to escape. Maybe the ropes around her wrists . . . Rose pulled and twisted her arms, hoping Alan hadn't been as careful as he should be.

All she got for her trouble was the rasp of the harsh rope over her aching clit. Growling, Rose subsided. Her sex felt so swollen, so engorged with blood, so hot and aching that just squirming made it worse. If only she could free herself. She wouldn't run. She'd lie in wait for that bastard, Alan, and then she'd . . .

. . . Tie him spread-eagle on the bed and impale herself on his massive organ until they both screamed in pleasure.

Dropping her head back against the mattress, Rose moaned.

•   •   •

A
lan strolled down the street, ignoring the curious stares of passersby no doubt wondering why he wore his uniform overcoat in such warm weather.

It concealed his huge erection.

He kept picturing the tiny dark opening of her anus spreading around that candle. He'd ordinarily never consider sodomy, but now it seemed ideal, a sweet punishment to torment Rose while sating his need to drive his cock hard and deep into her. Over and over.

He knew Rose's erotic hunger was one of the best weapons in his arsenal. If he could keep her trembling on the edge of orgasm, sheer frustration might loosen her tongue where no amount of torture ever would.

On the other hand, a little torture couldn't hurt, either. He had several things in mind that should prove very effective in bringing Rose to heel. All he needed were a few tools. And he knew just where to get them.

Robinson's was a tack shop that catered to wealthy gentlemen, but it sold a lot more than saddles to those savvy enough to know about the store's back room. Alan had never felt a need for its stock, but he'd heard rumors about it from various dissipated sorts with adventurous mistresses. Now he was glad for that knowledge.

Walking into the shop's expensive interior, Alan took a deep breath of air, scented with leather, and walked over to the proprietor. “I'd like to see the stock in the back, please.”

Robinson, a rotund little man, shot him a single sharp look and came around the counter to escort him through a heavy oak door in the rear of the room.

To Alan's surprise, he found Captain Michael Taylor looking over a selection of light riding crops. The captain, a tall, muscular blond, quirked a brow at him in surprise. “McReynolds. Somehow I never expected to meet you here.”

Alan's smile was dry as he moved over beside the other man. “I've recently acquired a mount who needs a firm hand.”

Taylor grinned, his handsome face taking on a deeply masculine expression of anticipation. “Yes, I have one of those myself. It can be very rewarding.” He paused delicately. “Is this the first occasion you've had to discipline a . . . filly?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” He eyed the crops and frowned. “These seem a little heavy. I don't want to cut her.”

Taylor nodded at Robinson, who stepped behind a counter that was a replica of the one in the front. Bending, the shopkeeper pulled out a long narrow box and flipped it open.

“This should be more what you want,” Taylor said, gesturing at the box. Alan, moving closer, saw that it held a series of light whips with lashes made of woven silk. “They won't inflict any real damage, but the reaction from your mount should be highly satisfactory.”

Alan nodded and selected one. Turning, he propped a foot on the lower rung of a chair standing to one side, brought his arm up, and slashed the whip hard across his thigh. It stung, but he thought Taylor right about its relative harmlessness.

“This should do nicely,” he said, and he handed the whip to Robinson. “At least for a start.” He cocked a brow at Taylor. “This particular filly is a bit difficult.”

“If you find that further discipline is called for,” Taylor suggested delicately, “I can suggest several devices that may accomplish your ends.”

“Oh?”

Taylor nodded at Robinson and the man reached behind the counter again.

•   •   •

R
ose moaned, feeling the candles torment her as she shifted. God, she wanted Alan so badly, longed to feel that thick, hard organ digging into her eager flesh. Unfortunately, she knew that he would never give her what she wanted unless she told him everything
he
wanted. And she couldn't do that. People would die if she gave in; Alan would see to it.

Frowning, Rose clenched her fists. She had to maintain her silence, no matter how her lust tormented her. She wouldn't be responsible for those deaths.

The bedroom door creaked open, and Rose twisted her head around as Alan strolled in with a long brown paper package tucked under one arm. He dumped it carelessly on the leather armchair and walked toward her, hands busy on the buttons of his coat. “Miss me?” he asked, grinning down at her.

She was tempted to say something unladylike, but bit her lip. “Nothing to say? That's not very wise of you.” He settled a hip on the bed beside her and reached for the thatch of soft curls between her bound legs. She gasped in outrage, but there was no way to keep him from worming a finger between her thighs and probing at her candle-stuffed sex. “MMmm.” His smile was slow and wicked. “Poor Rose. So hungry. So wet. Would you like to come?”

Her eyes flared wide, then narrowed in suspicion. “I thought the idea was to keep me hungry.”

He reached into a pocket and pulled out that penknife again. “Well, yes.” Taking her bound ankles in one big hand, he sawed carefully at the rope until it began to drop away from her in loops. “But I think maybe you could use a little relief. Not much, though.” The curve of his smile deepened. “Just a taste.”

Her feet sprang apart as he released them, tingling, though he hadn't tied her so tightly as to block circulation.

Before she could move, he took her ankles in his hands and dragged them over his shoulders. With a hungry growl, Alan buried his face against her sex, pushed aside the coil of rope that still trapped the candles, and began to lick. She gasped. The sensation of his long, hot tongue rolling skillfully over her wet flesh seared her right to the bone. Her thighs jerked, the muscles beginning to spasm almost at once. She'd been so hot for so long. Helplessly, Rose began to pump her hips against his face, twisting at each talented tongue stroke, each lingering suck. She was going over . . .

He stopped.

Her hips strained upward against his powerful grip, but Alan had withdrawn, lifting his head to watch her with eyes that burned.

“What's the name of your spymaster, Rose?”

“BASTARD!”

“I'm sure he is, but I doubt he answers to that. What's his name?”

Fighting a wave of rage and desire, Rose spat, “I'm not telling you anything, you Yankee son of a bitch.”

Even in her present mood, she found his smile chilling. “Interesting choice of words, Rose. I think it's time you found out just what we Yankees do to pretty little Rebel captives.”

•   •   •

S
o hard he thought he'd burst, Alan stripped out of his shirt as he stared at his prisoner's lifted ass. She'd given him a hell of a fight when he'd cut her free of the ropes and bent her over the rail at the foot of the bed, but she might as well have saved herself the effort. There was no way she could stop him from tying her ankles to the frame, lashing her wrists together and tying them to the head of the bed with a three-foot length of rope until she was stretched hard across the bed. Then he stuffed three pillows between her stomach and the rail. It was a deliciously arousing pose, one that spread her sex and displayed the rosy little hole he was dying to stuff. He took a half step toward her . . .

Clenching his fists, Alan managed to stop. Later. Right now, he had to do his job. He veered toward the paper package he'd left on the chair and ripped it open with shaking hands. Several objects fell out, but it was the whip that interested him. He picked it up and turned to her.

She was watching him, brown eyes wide in alarm. “What are you going to do with that?”