Captured by Time Page 3

  She screamed—or tried to—just as loudly when he tore her gown as she had while he'd been spanking her and it surprised him, until he realized that the cost of another one might well come out of her take. "I'll leave you more than enough to cover this," he whispered by way of apology against her bared breasts, just before taking a pert pink nipple into his mouth.

  Chapter Three

  Cimmy couldn't believe what was happening to her. Not only had she just been very thoroughly spanked, but now this man was suckling at her breast as if they were lovers! If it turned out that this was one of her rare sex dreams, she wasn't at all sure she liked it—well, she wasn't sure she wanted to like it, anyway.

  And what had he just said about leaving her enough to cover…

  He thought she was a prostitute! How could he possibly have come to that conclusion? Wasn't he another guest at the hotel? She didn't much care whether or not her questions were answered. She just wanted him to stop!

  And that was, in large part, a lie too, because this man—this stranger—was stirring feelings in her that she had never felt with another man. Leave it to her to become aroused by someone who was at best either drunk or badly mistaken, or at worst, a complete lunatic.

  But her frantic efforts to ward him off had just about as much effect as when she had been trying to stop him from searing her behind; absolutely none. She might as well have been a housefly buzzing around him for all the good she was doing, whacking away at him as best she could and as hard as she could, but she couldn't seem to put the slightest dent in his enthusiasm. For all her flailing around, she rarely managed to make contact with anything other than herself or the bed.

  And worse, much, much worse, was the fact that her body was melting beneath him, quickly eroding her resolve to fight him to the death to preserve the innocence he didn't deserve to take, and she was—intellectually, anyway—unwilling to yield to him.

  "Let go of me! Get off me this second!" She screamed the words but the gag captured them from where they came.

  Cimmy was fighting a losing battle and she knew it, not that she gave up the fight. Instead, the ignominy of her position—and the fire that still raged in her backside—spurred her on until she had no strength left to lift her arms.

  Throughout all of her valiant efforts, he had—with an annoying calm and languorous determination—made his way from peak to peak, using those big hands to squeeze her breasts from the base so as to present them to his mouth at their fullest as he continued to massage them rhythmically while his mouth devastated her defenses, making her want to hug him to her rather than smash her fists into his face the way she ought to.

  He seemed to know when she had to surrender, when she could no longer actively fight against him, and he took quick advantage of her resignation, slipping the nightgown that had been completely split down the front off her shoulders, and rendering her naked beneath him.

  That seemed to reignite her interest in fighting him, but she was even less successful this time around, when her arm muscles were already so sore she could barely convince herself that she needed to lift them, and her haphazard attempts were even easier for him to ignore.

  But what she couldn't ignore was the way he felt against her; his rough cotton shirt abrading nipples that had been brought to achingly anticipatory peaks, unused to such raw treatment but unable to deny the sparks both he and his clothing were creating between her legs, where he settled himself as though he'd been there many times before. Cimmy could feel the prominent bulge of his jeans against her very vulnerable self, and she couldn't keep herself from staring into his eyes as he very deliberately dragged himself back and forth against her.

  That was when she noticed that his eyes weren't really blue. They were almost purple in their darkest depths. As she stared helplessly up at him, she felt caught like a butterfly on a pin, unable to look away as he chafed himself against her, almost smiling at her sighs of pleasure.

  "You don't need to worry that I'm going to hurt you, Miss… Miss…"

  The handkerchief in her mouth prevented her from answering even if she'd wanted to, which she didn't.

  "Well, I'm just going to call you missy. I'm going to do the exact opposite of hurting you, don't you worry. I don't imagine you've experienced a lot of pleasure, even though it's your job to give it to others, but I'm the gentlemanly sort, and I heartily believe that you should enjoy this too. So you just lie back and let me love you, and we'll both walk away happy."

  As much as she wanted to be reassured by his gentle words, her internal moral compass knew she couldn't allow that, so she did her best to resurrect her battle against him, but her jabs again missed their mark or fell futilely against it, so much so that he was chuckling as she tried. And that was the first thing that had her crying since he'd stopped spanking her, although she did her best to stifle it. Dream or no dream, her body was betraying her. No matter how much she struggled, her body demanded more, demanded that he do just that; pleasure her, love her, take her.

  "I know some women prefer to be restrained—it adds a little spice for them—and I'm only too happy to oblige a lady's interests," he said, fastening her wrists to the mattress as if they were bolted there by the mere presence of his fingers around them, holding them still. "I like that you are in the mood to be feisty."

  Then, agonizingly slowly, he dragged himself down her length, his tongue flicking and licking and wetting her here and there, wherever the whim took him to taste her, right down past the thicket of her pubic hair and boldly venturing between lips that were undoubtedly fully swollen and quite damp.

  But he stopped short of actually pressing his tongue to her clit, which was something she realized she was holding her breath expecting—not in terror, as she should have been, but in desperate, raging anticipation—to feel that exquisite heaven for the first time in her life.

  Instead, he pulled back a little, making Cimmy stifle a groan of protest that should never have formed in her throat, and skipped right over it on his way to the part of her body that, at this point, was the wettest she owned.

  After avidly lapping up as many of her juices as he could with his tongue, he moved back up a little and addressed her, although at first she steadfastly refused to look at him.

  "My, my, my, you are just a fountain down here, aren't you? I see my guess was right about you liking to protest and fight, hmmm? And if I was pressed, I'd have to guess that the spanking I gave you was what started all this in the first place, hmmm?"

  Although she knew she was lying, Cimmy shook her head in vehement denial.

  But he merely nodded. "I understand, I do, missy, and it's fine with me. I love it that you so obviously enjoy what I'm doing to you. There's a lot more where that came from." Then he cleared his throat and the boyish enthusiasm he had just exhibited melted away as if it had never been, and the timbre of his voice changed such that she had to suppress a shiver. "I'm going to let your wrists go right now, and I expect that you're not going to raise them off the bed. Knowing what I do about you now, if you do move them so much as an inch, I'm going to put you over the edge of the bed and use my belt on your backside. And I won't go nearly so easy on you as I did when I was spanking you. I know you like it, and it's going to take just that more effort on my part to teach you a real lesson. If you move your hands, missy, it won't be a spanking. It will be a good ol' whoopin'."

  He let go of her wrists then and didn't even look to see whether she obeyed him or not, as far as she could tell. He assumed she would, and to her deep shame, he was right. He was obviously going to enjoy himself regardless of what she did—he was only too eager to take his belt to her behind, if that was what she made him do.

  Although she kept her hands where he wanted them, Cimmy wailed behind the gag, knowing she should be brave enough to tackle him, to risk bodily injury—or at least a very severe strapping—in order to preserve her sovereignty over her own body, but she just couldn't convince herself to do it. Especially not with the intimate
glimpse he'd given her into just how unbearable it would probably be.

  And he was already back in place, this time using the fingers of one hand to splay her open while the other reached up to pluck her nipples, pinching them much harder than he had before, making each one of them hurt before he moved on to the other, treating them rather cruelly—and there was nothing she could do to stop him. With her rear end already singeing the sheets beneath her, she had no interest at all—well, very little anyway—in finding out what it would feel like if he actually did to her what he'd threatened. There was absolutely no doubt in her mind that he would, either.

  Surprisingly, worry about being punished faded quickly from her mind, to be replaced by the unbearable aching sensations he was creating with his mouth as it settled slowly, very slowly, over the clit he had already completely exposed, laying his unmoving tongue flat over that throbbing bit, surrounding it by all that moist heat, passively stimulating every single molecule of it. She had thought that him suckling on her nipples was bliss—that was nothing compared to this.

  Chapter Four

  He could hear her sighs and moans from behind the gag and knew he was on the right track with her. Too bad she was a floozy—her tastes in the bedroom and his went hand in hand. Maybe he could take her with him for a while… but then he chided himself inwardly. He couldn't believe he was even thinking like that. The life he was leading now wasn't fit for man or beast, and definitely not for a woman, regardless of her profession.

  But he had her right now, and he intended to enjoy her to the fullest.

  So he moved his tongue; barely, literally dragging it over flesh that he knew was ultra-sensitive even when it was dormant. He knew he was creating deep, hellfire needs in her that she thought he would never bother to satisfy, but she was wrong.

  Although he took his time doing it, and she probably thought she was going to die before he allowed her her pleasure, he definitely wasn't going to leave her hanging. He could well imagine what her other gentlemen were like—he'd wager a year's pay that none of them had ever shown any interest at all in her desires. They were probably just as eager as he was to get inside her.

  That thought had him frowning fiercely, and he stopped what he was doing to look up at her for a long moment as a rage the likes of which he had rarely felt ran through him. But he knew he was going to have to ignore it. She wasn't his. She didn't belong to anyone, except perhaps Madam Belle.

  And he knew he had to stop thinking about all the men who had come before him. They didn't matter here and now, anyway. He was going to give her the night of her life, even if it cost him his freedom, which it damned well might.

  He liked to control his woman very tightly, especially in bed. He liked to drive her insane to the point where she thought her heart was going to stop beating before he let her fly, and he had a feeling that that might be just exactly what she liked the most—to be controlled, as much as she might protest against the idea. And he loved to punish them. To find one who actually became aroused by being spanked… she was a rare gem indeed, and if the circumstances were different, he might even have been able to look beyond her past in order to have exclusive rights to her—and he would make damned sure they were exclusive.

  But that was a pipe dream and he had to content himself with having her, right here, right now, and he would stay with her until the very last possible minute, fucking and fingering and lashing her until the last thing he did before he slipped out the window was to force her to come helplessly in his mouth. He knew he'd carry that memory with him for a very, very long time.

  With those thoughts, he began to move his tongue.

  And she was already right there, right on the edge. He recognized the pleading sound of her groans and whimpers, but he would not allow her to peak that quickly. It went against his grain. So he carefully timed both the rhythm of his mouth and tongue and his hold on her breasts—using that to back her off or move her further towards his goal for her, guiding her, tempting her, almost training her by the judicious, and vicious, use of pain and pleasure until he could hear that there was going to be no return from this last foray.

  He lifted his head for the first time in a very long time and said, "Come, missy, come. Quickly. I'm just itching to take my belt to your behind if you delay."

  He felt her hips jerk at his threat, and despite the fact that he could hear her muffled chant of, "No, no, no!" seconds later she was a mindless mass of writhing ecstasy, the breath hissing loudly out of her lungs only to be dragged slowly back in, her every muscle taut with the rigor of the intense pleasure he had brought her to, her head whipping back and forth against the pillow.

  Before she had a chance to recover much at all, he moved to position himself, pressing his overeager head against an opening he could barely find for all of the wetness surrounding it. And as much as she seemed to still be in the grips of her own bliss, she apparently had the presence of mind to have decided to fight him again, but he wasn't going to have any of that.

  Since he knew he would disgrace himself entirely if he disciplined her again, he instead pinned her wrists to the bed, one on each side of her head, and commanded, "Look at me, missy."

  She whipped her head back and forth in protest until he reached down and twisted a nipple until she complied, and that was the first time he came face to face with the stark evidence of her tears. Had she been crying all along, he wondered. How could he not have noticed it before if she had? Was it the spanking? Was he too hard on her? Surely not. He hadn't spanked her any harder than he was sure her pa had done as a child many times. Was it the sex? But how could it be? She was a whore, and, judging by how wet she was, clearly enjoying it. So why?

  He had her eyes now; they were locked with his, and although he wanted to be a good enough man to stop at this point because she was so obviously upset, he knew he wasn't that good a man. Especially now. Maybe he never had been, but events of late had stripped away a lot of his veneer of civilization, and he guessed this was just one more strip of flesh off his hide.

  At least she'd had her pleasure, he knew that without a doubt, and he'd apologize when he was done and tip her extravagantly. That would ease his conscience—for a while, anyway. And maybe this was her game. This little vixen liked to pretend she didn't enjoy it, but her juices coating her inner thighs gave away her carnivorous delight. Yes, this whore was unlike any whore he knew. She was special, she was by far the most beautiful, and she was also the most mysterious. So tears in her eyes, yes, but the hunger behind them pleaded for more.

  And when she tilted her hips toward him, silently urging his cock to possess her, he surrendered to the dictates of his body and flexed his hips forward, wanting to claim her in one swift motion, knowing that some women liked that, or at the very least, figuring that it might well trigger his own release.

  But he couldn't. Something was preventing him from claiming her, although he couldn't imagine what it could possibly be. He leaned into her further, determined to overcome whatever obstacle this was, and as he glanced up at her, the stark realization of exactly what was stopping him came into his head all at once.

  This whore was a virgin.

  He wanted to reel back. He wanted to disengage entirely and release her hands and hold her to him. He wanted to gather her things and take her with him, no matter what the hardships that would cause, so that they could do this again in a much nicer place, when he could take his time and be sure she understood what was going to happen and make sure she wasn't afraid of it.

  But he knew, even as the realization dawned on him, that none of those things were going to happen. And when she nodded her head ever so slightly in approval, he reached down and held her hips still while thrusting his own as hard as he could against her, driving himself up inside her partially, knowing he had torn her defenses a bit but not completely, before making a second, successful attempt that had him buried within her to the balls—seconds from losing himself completely within her.

  And h
e forced himself to watch her face the entire time. It was the least possible penance, considering what he was doing to her, even though he knew it was her first time. Their eyes connected, and they never looked away. A joining, a magnetic pull, a locked in stare.

  He ought to say he was sorry. He ought to leave her and apologize and beg her forgiveness as he did so.

  But what he did was fuck her—hard and mindlessly.

  And shamefully.

  He wasn't the kind of man to worry much about what anyone else thought. He always tried to do what he thought was best in any given situation, even the worst ones. Guilt about sex was a particular waste as far as he was concerned, and that was an opinion he'd had ever since he could remember. But she was getting the short end of the stick because of how degraded his situation had become, and how angry he was about his own lack of control over his own life.

  He was deeply ashamed to realize just how far he had fallen. That his rage had shredded his control and his own code of honor in other areas of his life, like this one. And she happened to—quite literally—be in the wrong place at the wrong time, it seemed. He wondered how she'd come to be here. Was she just new to the life? Perhaps she'd been recruited or imported for a client who had specifically requested a virgin? Or was this lady beneath him truly as innocent as she seemed?

  But the ecstasy she wrought within him—however reluctantly she played—was something he couldn't deny. Parts of him wanted it to last much longer than it did, but other parts wanted it to be mercifully short for her. In reality, it landed somewhere in the middle, with him burying his face in the pillow next to her in order to stifle his bellow of such pure satisfaction that he felt weak and drained afterwards, so much so that he actually collapsed on top of her, which was something he rarely did since he was so much bigger than the women he'd had beneath him.