Indiscreet Page 7

  He gave her rounds of somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty to twenty-five smacks—each of them very much like the previous ones he'd given her—thoughtful, well placed—if you weren't on the receiving end of them, that is—spanks, calculated to deliver the maximum result with a minimum of effort.

  Each time, when he paused between sets, he asked her one question. "Will you marry me?"

  The first two times, her answer was a loud and defiant, if very watery, "No!"

  When he stopped the third time, he waited for her sobbing to calm down some before asking, but she didn't even try to answer him verbally.

  She just moved her hand—which had been grasping at nothing on the well-polished wood, desperately looking for a way out of the unbearable position she found herself in, or, barring that, something to ameliorate the increasingly untenable burning ache of her bottom and thighs—just enough to raise her middle finger.

  Doyle had to admire her guts, but he decided that this had gone on long enough, and that he was going to end it, now. In a way, she was lucky that he was dressed for dinner rather than for cowboying. If he'd been in his jeans, he would've been wearing a much thicker, much stiffer belt. But his dress one did the trick, anyway, in the end. He sliced it down onto her—doubled over, the buckle trapped securely in his palm—ten times, leaving livid, raised welts that stood starkly out against a sea of angry carmine.

  With the belt still held across her cheeks, ready to administer more, he didn't ask this time. He commanded, "Marry me."

  He waited while she wept, gritting his teeth against the sounds of her sobbing, but she was making no effort to try to answer him in the least. So he gave her another agonizing round, then stopped again and issued his command.

  It took her a long moment, but just when he'd raised the belt to send it crashing down again, she nodded her head, very slowly, and with obvious reluctance, then began to cry as if she'd just condemned herself to a fate worse than death.

  He opened his hand and let the belt fall to the floor, forgotten, as he scooped her up into his arms and, taking the stairs two or three at a time, brought her to his room before she came to her senses enough to protest his bold move, although she didn't look as if she was capable of doing so. Rissa had been hanging limply in his arms, not even crying anymore. He leaned her against him in his big bathroom long enough to wet some of his hand towels and washcloths in cold water, then picked her up again and brought her to his bed, where he spread her out on her tummy and began to raise her skirts for the second time that day.

  That was what had given her the impetus to act. Doyle swallowed hard when Rissa's head snapped up and she reached down reflexively to try to shield her bottom with her hands or push her skirts back down; she didn't really care which one.

  "No, sweetheart, you don't have to do that. I'm going to help you feel more comfortable. Put your hands at your sides, Rissa. Do as I say." He kept his tone firm, but nonthreatening.

  Too exhausted to do anything else, she let her hands fall away from her bottom, whimpering and moaning as the voluminous material sometimes touched her scorched flesh.

  But then she felt him placing those cool, wet towels over the painfully throbbing crests of her buttocks and down the backs of her thighs, and her head came to rest—somewhat uneasily—on his pillow.

  Chapter 6

  Once he'd done that, knowing it would give her some relief from the pain he'd caused her, Doyle busied himself removing her bloomers from where they were hanging off her ankles, then her shoes and stockings, finally unhooking her dress and reaching in to loosen the stays of her corset so that she could breathe more easily and be more comfortable.

  Rissa knew she should have been protesting the liberties he was taking, but then he'd taken so many of them with her by now that she knew it was a losing battle. And she was rapidly reaching the point that she no longer cared. Especially since she had already agreed to marry him, and she knew that he planned for them to be married in a few days—married, she thought to herself in shock—and she was now, technically, she supposed, his fiancée, and the social conventions for committed couples were a bit more relaxed.

  Granted, not this relaxed. She knew that a real lady wouldn't be making excuses for why she was doing something like this—although, really, when it came down to it, who besides the two of them was going to know?

  She had to admit that the towels were a nice touch—if highly unexpected. He removed them after a while, and the coolness of the air as the lingering dampness evaporated raised goose bumps all over her body, tightening her nipples painfully.

  She hadn't seen him return and started when she felt his hands on the flesh of her now hyper sensitized thighs. "Easy, now," Doyle soothed, and she felt as if he could just as easily have been speaking to Sheba but then he managed to redeem himself a bit. "It's not the most feminine of scents," he apologized as he began to rub lotion over her skin with the gentlest of touches. "It's mostly sandalwood, I think, but anything would smell good on you. I know from previous experience that even wearing a man's blue jeans doesn't dampen your femininity in the least."

  If she felt better, she would be blushing, but she couldn't even manage to summon her usually ever present feelings of embarrassment at the moment. In fact, she felt herself relax completely and was able to just enjoy the relief he was bringing her—and even the feel of those big strong hands on that very intimate part of her body.

  She was very nearly asleep when he rubbed his hands together to wipe them off, asking, "Do you think you could stand, my lady?" as he did so himself.

  "Do I have to?" Rissa asked, her tone betraying her reluctance.

  Doyle chuckled. "Well, I just want you to get more comfortable, and I can't think that heavy dress and the corset are conducive to that, so I want to get you out of them."

  Rissa opened one eye and looked at him. Somewhere along the line, he'd relieved himself of everything but his shirt and pants—minus the belt, she noticed, which reminded her how much her butt still hurt, despite his very kind ministrations—and he was standing there looking impossibly handsome in the candlelight.

  "Oh, all right," she agreed ungraciously, sliding gingerly, awkwardly, on her tummy towards the edge of the bed.

  But she needn't have gone to that effort. Doyle simply reached down and picked her up, setting her down on her feet directly in front of him, so that she faced away from him, letting her lean back against his strength as he peeled the dress and corset away from her, revealing one of the most beautiful, most delightfully feminine bodies he'd ever seen.

  She was gorgeous, all beautiful curves and valleys that he couldn't wait to explore with his lips and tongue.

  "Doyle," she whispered shyly, using her arms and hands to cover herself. "I'm naked!" she said innocently, as if surprised to find herself that way as a result of him removing all her clothes.

  He chuckled darkly, kissing the side of her neck before quickly removing the pins from her hair, then tucking her under the covers so she'd be warmer and feel less exposed. He'd spend time later getting her more comfortable being naked in front of him. They had time. A frown crossed Doyle's face. He hoped. But that's what he'd assumed about Laura, too.

  He ruthlessly shoved that thought to the back of his brain in order to concentrate on her, watching her watch him as he unbuttoned his pants and smiling softly when he saw her discreetly turn her head as he shucked his pants and drawers off, then inserted himself under the covers, crowding her over a bit, but not letting her get very far away from him before he hauled her back against him, to join him where he was lying on his side, facing her.

  "Blow the lamp out, please."

  He raised an eyebrow at her, fully prepared to say no, but she looked up at him so beseechingly, and he remembered how new all of this was for her. He turned over and extinguished, then turned back quickly, saying, "All right, this time, but never again. We won't be together again until we married, and once we are, I will want to see you—all of you."

>   "Really?"

  He couldn't see her in the darkness until his eyes adjusted, but he could hear the wonder in that one word, and when he answered her, it was with the sincerest of tones. "Oh, yes, Clarissa Dayton, soon to be Caldwell. I'm going to make you stand in front of me gloriously naked, and then I'm going to touch you and kiss you everywhere."

  She shuddered at the thought, and he loved how shy yet responsive she was to him.

  And then she yawned and apologized profusely for having done so.

  "Shh-shh-shh. No need for that. I'm not surprised you're tired—getting your backside whipped is exhausting business—must be all that weeping and wailing you do while I'm decorating your behind."

  Rissa was glad that, for once, he couldn't see her blush. "Doyle, stop that!"

  "Well, don't fall asleep yet. I'd rather wear you out with this." He guided her hand to him, letting it fill her small hand to overflowing.

  She knew she should have recoiled from touching him like this—that it wasn't at all ladylike to be as interested in touching him as she was, but she had always been curious, an explorer of sorts—that's what had gotten her into this situation in the first place!

  He was much too big for just one hand, and so she naturally took ahold of him with both, until she heard him groan, which had her immediately removing both, holding them up by her face as if he was robbing her.

  "Oh, dear, I'm sorry! Did I hurt you? Did I do it wrong?"

  "Rissa, quiet," he said authoritatively enough that he felt her relaxed a little. "No, you didn't hurt me or do anything wrong. I groaned like that because it feels that good when you touch me. This one of the most vulnerable points on my body, so you could hurt me really badly—I'm as sensitive there as you are here—" He reached out and slipped a finger between her legs before she could stop him—as if she ever could stop him—and over her clit. "But I can't imagine you being rough enough with me to hurt me. I don't want you to worry about that. Just remember that your hands on me feel magnificent, and that, if I could, I'd have them on me like this all day long."

  The pictures that his fervent wish brought to mind made her laugh, but then she got caught up in touching him, closing her eyes and just letting herself feel everything about him there—how strong he was, how hard yet soft—she even reached boldly below his erection encountering his balls, cupping and hefting them just a bit, then rolling them gently in her fingers, which made him gasp loudly

  "Good God, you're dangerous!"

  Rissa stopped what she was doing and withdrew again, because that did not sound like something he would want her to be.

  But his vehement, "No! Don't stop!" encouraged her to try again as he did his best to soothe her obvious concerns.

  "Sorry. I should have said that you're dangerously good at that, sweetheart," Doyle breathed raggedly, his hands coming down to remove hers, so that he could concentrate on something other than how amazing she was making him feel, because if he didn't, he was going to go off like fireworks. He didn't know if he had developed a hair trigger lately, or if it was her, but he was ready to go, all the time, it seemed.

  Until last night, it had been damnably uncomfortable, which had definitely contributed to both his prickliness around her as well as his more…inappropriate tendencies.

  He had always had excellent vision at night, so he had a feeling that he could see more than she could, more quickly than she could. And what he saw was the very picture of loveliness. Not that he didn't use his hands to explore her, too. He did, thoroughly enjoying her little squeal when he reached out to cup her breasts.

  She tried to crane herself away from him, but he tsked at her, moving a hand from her breast to run it slowly down her back and over her rear end, which he noticed with no small amount of satisfaction was still quite warm, even with the help he'd given her.

  "No, Doyle, please," she pleaded, her hands suddenly landing, tentatively, on his clearly defined chest muscles.

  He squeezed a cheek just slightly, making her groan and try to shy away from his touch. "Stop trying to get away from me, Rissa. You'll not be punished, as long as you behave and obey me—which is pretty much one and the same thing."

  So she remained where she was and let him touch her, telling herself that she was just obeying him to avoid another spanking, but her body knew better. It loved everything he was doing to her, everything she knew she shouldn't like—that a proper lady would simply endure but definitely never allow herself to enjoy in any way.

  But how could she not? He lingered for a long while at her breasts, massaging and palming them, occasionally squeezing them a bit tightly in his big hands, so that it almost hurt. Even that made her want to gyrate her hips and groan in a terribly unseemly fashion!

  She might not have remembered all of what had gone on between them last night, but she did remember every single second of the times when he was touching her, thoroughly embarrassed by how wild and uninhibited she had been. But now, she was discovering that, because she thought she had a pretty good idea how this was going to end, it was even harder to ignore those impulses to move and mewl and even grind herself against him!

  And he seemed to be encouraging her to do so, although she didn't understand how he could. Didn't he want a wife who was a real lady?

  Moments later, when her eyes had finally adjusted and she saw him lower his head to her breast, then heard and felt it when he began to suckle strongly at her nipple, she knew that any claims she had towards being a lady were a sham at best, because she never wanted him to stop. And without a single thought about it, the fingers of one hand buried themselves in the hair at the back of his head, gently holding his mouth where she wanted it.

  His guttural groan when she did that made her shudder in response.

  Then he leaned a bit away from her, his eyes on hers as one hand found the nipple that was still warm and slick from his mouth and the other slipped two fingers into her folds, crooking the tips of them repeatedly over her clit and watching her dissolve before him.

  "Doyle, no, you shouldn't!" she protested weakly, reaching down to push against his wrist weakly.

  The hand that had been at her nipple slipped around the back of her head instead, holding it still and tilted up at him as he continued to stroke her and watch her closely at the same time.

  "Why shouldn't I touch what's mine, Rissa?" he asked, those fingers of his deliberately making it hard for her to marshal her thoughts enough to answer him.

  "B-because," she panted, "What…you…what I feel, what you're m-making me f-feel…because it's n-not proper f-for a lady—"

  "Oh, you and I disagree completely about that, my darling Rissa, and you know who's going to win that argument." His smile—the flash of white teeth she could clearly see—was decidedly wolfish. "I love to hear—and feel and see—you react to what I do to you. It spurs me on and makes me want to hear you scream."

  That was not necessarily a good thing, as far as she was concerned, and did nothing to assuage her concerns. But then he quickened the pace of those tantalizing fingers and bent his head to her nipples again and she was given no choice but to stop worrying about it—for the moment, anyway—and was simply his.

  Apparently, it didn't take alcohol for her to overcome her long-standing inhibitions—it just took him.

  And he took complete, unabashed advantage of his hold over her—whatever it was that held her in thrall to him—pulling a slender leg over his hip and holding it there as he drove her mindless with a pleasure he at first refused to fulfill, chuckling at her frustrated efforts to encourage at first, then demand that he allow her completion, as if her little fists pounding on all of those muscles could actually hurt him or get him to do anything he didn't want to do.

  And when, in a fit of highly frustrated pique, she sought to disentangle herself from him completely and quit the game altogether, he suddenly grabbed her to him and held her there, more tightly, more forcefully than he had been before, staring down at her as he continued to tease he
r, holding her helpless and still for it, forcing her to endure it, until at last, he relented and made her come apart in his arms, five, six, seven or so times—until she no longer had the breath to beg him to stop.

  When he was so desperate for her that he would have simply stabbed himself into her, he stopped himself, using all of his willpower to do so, and asking, "Are you all right for me to do this?"

  Still trying to recover, Rissa shrugged. "I thought you said it would only hurt the first time?"

  Doyle frowned. "I was drunk. If it does hurt at all, it won't be nearly as much as before, but there might be some residual soreness."

  Tentatively, she said, "We won't know until you try, right?"

  "Yes."

  "And you want to try?"

  The breath blew out of him raggedly, and with it, this stark admission, "With every fiber of my being, I want to bury myself deep, deep inside you."

  And again, she amazed him by trusting him, putting her arms around his neck and opening herself to him even further. He felt her relax against him as she hadn't before.

  "You'll stop if it hurts?" she asked when he was about to surge forward into her.

  "Yes, baby girl, I surely will," he vowed, sinking himself into her slowly—so slowly that he thought he was going to come well before he made it all the way in, doing his best to remember to watch over her and keep track of her reactions, hoping that he could learn to anticipate them so that he would know when he was hurting her before she even had had a chance to tell him.

  So far, she was moaning a bit, but he didn't think it was out of pain—her eyes were closed, head back, breath puffing out of her as if she was climbing a mountain, her small hands clutching at his shoulders rhythmically like a cat kneading a sweater.

  She gasped every time he surged forward, but again, he couldn't see any signs that it was in distress.