Any Wicked Thing (10 page)

B
ut of course he was not done with her tonight, unless he'd received all his pleasure by tasting her in such a forbidden spot. He couldn't possibly be satisfied. She felt the scrape of the dark bristles on his jaw against her thigh as he pulled back. She was still open, too languid and liquid to arrange herself in a more seemly position, but now Sebastian moved her limbs for her. She closed her eyes as he swung her legs onto the bed, turning her so that she was centered on the satin. The mattress pitched as he joined her on the bed, and she expected him to plunge inside her without further ado. She was drenched, still pulsing with the aftershocks of his delicious assault. But suddenly he gripped her right wrist and swiftly wrapped something around it. Her eyes flew open.

“What are you doing?”

“Exactly what I want, Freddie. I gave you what you wanted, did I not? It's my turn now.”

He was knotting the length of cording to a ring set into the bedpost. Surely his father could not have placed such a thing there! She tugged on the tie, only to tighten it. She fumbled at it with her free hand but Sebastian snatched it away and fastened her arm to the other bedpost. The braided ropes had been there all along, all through the most amazing moment of her life, waiting like silent snakes to imprison her. She gave a futile kick but soon he was encircling her ankles, binding them to the bed as well.

“This is not necessary, Sebastian,” she said in irritation. “I won't run off. We have an agreement. This—this is uncivilized. Almost cruel.”

He said nothing, but disappeared into the shadows, returning with two long strips of silk.

“I suppose it's too much to hope that you're going to tie yourself up as well,” she said tartly.

The expression on his saturnine face told her it was useless to argue, but she tried anyway, only to have him cover her mouth with the soft fabric. Frederica gave him a vile look before her eyes met the same fate.

She was bound, mute and blind, not to mention furious. If this was how Sebastian garnered his reputation—taking advantage of helpless women—he was very much deluded if he thought such methods would work on her. Although it was clear from her last glimpse of his rigid cock that he was in an excited if not euphoric state.

What sort of man was he? She'd thought him merely conventionally wicked. This went far beyond regular rakish behavior, or so she imagined. She really had little to compare him with.

“Perfect. I have a little project in mind, Freddie. Something that should please us both.”

She groaned. He could do
anything
to her and she had no recourse. Water splashed. At least he'd not put cotton batting in her ears. The sounds in the room became her universe. The ticking of the clock. Sebastian's footfalls as he moved something across the room. His breathing. His sinful chuckle as he examined her in this indecent state.

“You told me earlier you would not let any man have authority over you, Freddie.”

She remembered. It was why she would never marry. Why give a man power over her body and her money when she could take care of her needs herself? Not that Sebastian hadn't given her enough orgasms just now to cherish for a lifetime. But she would not cherish this degradation. This violation. He had spoiled their night with his peculiar need to see her humiliated.

“I'm afraid you underestimated my wickedness, my dear.”

She heard the clink of metal against porcelain, the slide of something on a tray. She had been too drugged from his kiss to notice much about the room when they entered. Was he going to carve her up like some mad butcher?

“I want you to understand what this next month will entail for you, Freddie, if you want to get your hands on my castle as well as my cock. And you do want my cock, don't you? You're soaked for me, even though you wish me to the devil right now. You're going to change your mind.”

Never! When he untied her, she'd hit him on the head with the nearest chamber pot. Their deal was at an end. She'd rather burn Goddard Castle to the ground than submit herself to another minute of this—this—She had no words for what he had done. She thrashed on the coverlet as much as she was able.

“You have spirit. I like that. But relax now. I'm not going to hurt you. Unless, of course, you want me to. I'm quite skilled at causing pleasurable pain. But,” he said, sounding thoughtful, “it's a bit too soon for that.”

He was mad. When she was free—

If she could have, she would have jumped a mile as he covered her mons veneris with a warm, wet cloth. She smelled her soap, then felt the foam as he lathered up the area. Perhaps he had found her feminine scent offensive earlier, and she felt a blush deepen on her cheeks.

If he meant to kiss her there again, she supposed she could endure being washed like a baby. Tethered like a dog. But then she twitched as a cold blade smoothed over her skin. He was shaving her! She cried in protest beneath the stifling silk, but his strokes didn't falter. For all she knew, he was about to slit her throat. She bucked her hips.

“This is traditional for your sisters in the East. Be still. I wouldn't want to cut you.” His voice betrayed no emotion, as if he spent his days barbering one woman after another. Frederica had never felt more vulnerable.

This was her own fault. She had placed herself in this inconceivable position, all because of an odd mixture of sexual curiosity and the desire to grow old in the castle library, hunched over papers that made her sneeze and itch. Who was more ridiculous, the madman who tied her up or the bookish demivirgin? She was afraid she knew the answer.

There was nothing for her to do but feel every slip and slide of the razor and his hands as he stretched her folds. Her world was reduced to his careful, warm touch, the snick of the blade as it lightly scraped her skin, the sound and feel of his breaths as he labored over her. Time passed in slow motion, measured by deft, invisible lines. Her blood pooled low in her belly and she felt a gush of moisture that had nothing to do with the cloth or soap.

“Even more perfect.”

He said it almost reverently. She could only imagine the display she made, lashed to the gilt bedposts, every inch, every freckle exposed. This was absolutely unnatural. Absolutely wicked. Absolutely . . . interesting. My God, what was he doing to her?

She knew when he finished. He swiped her thoroughly with the wet cloth. The mattress shifted and the cool air prickled her core. He padded away, silent. How long would he keep her in this state? Aroused, yet unable to articulate her desire? Best that he didn't know how much she wanted him right now. It shamed her that she had fallen so easily under his spell, but she knew she was just one of many. Who traveled with silken blindfolds and gags and rope? A man who was used to getting a woman just where he wanted her.

God of Sin. If she had ever doubted, he had convinced her.

He returned to plop something cool on her belly. A scented cream. Lemons and oranges, a slice of Mediterranean summer in the cold Yorkshire spring.

“I'm going to explore you again now, Freddie. You are mine for a while, and I mean to know you. Everywhere.” He coated her with the fragrant salve, massaging every curve and indentation, tracing the veins from her wrists to her elbows, circling her nipples, brushing across her bare mons. He lifted her, kneading the globes of her bottom, teasing the cleft of her arse with more of the cold cream that was soon warmed by the friction of his gentle rubbing. She was boneless beneath his clever hands, her head filled with citrus and sin.

Thoughts of escape were fading. He stopped for a long moment, fiddling with something on his tray. She wanted more. And then she got it. Shockingly, he slipped a creamy slender object into her anus with slow, exquisite care, then brought her to orgasm again with a few fingers and more of the slick unguent. She shattered quickly, desperate for him to take her. Cover her. Make her complete.

So this was what he meant by making her a slave to him. She cried into her silk, almost grateful he had deprived her of speech, for she could not make sense of the barrage to her body and her mind. When he cupped her cheek and slipped the fabric from her mouth, she kissed him with thirsty fervor, not wasting her tongue with words. His hands glided to her breasts, thumbing her peaks, and then his lips followed. This she remembered from ten years ago, the tender suckling and fondling, only now she was not shocked and half giggling from her boldness. She'd been so ignorant then, but in the short time she'd spent in Sebastian's room she felt as wise as Sophia, wisdom incarnate.

When he raised himself over her, she braced for the pain that never came. He entered in one long stroke, the cream and her own honey easing his way. And then he took his own ruthless pleasure, guaranteeing hers, deep and deeper as she shuddered around him, each brush of him against her skin a dart of fire. She was filled to completion, the little object in her back passage making his every thrust more scandalously thrilling. She imagined him, his head thrown back in the candlelight, his body glistening with balm and sweat, his dark eyes closed in bliss. One day she might see for herself. Tonight it was enough to dream of the perfection that truth might reveal as something less.

He swept down to kiss her again, his mouth more demanding, devouring, as he crested toward his climax. She matched him, equally close. And then suddenly, he withdrew, spurting his hot seed on her belly and wrapping her tightly to him. Sebastian rocked against her until spent, his heart thudding so hard she could feel it.

“Christ,” he muttered.

It was far too late to pray, Frederica thought. “Please untie me.” The silken gag was tight at her throat, the ropes chafing when she'd struggled to hold him.

“I shouldn't. I like you this way.” He didn't move except to sweep the blindfold up to her damp forehead. The firelight was dying, the candles guttered. He was still beautiful in the shadows, like a golden statue. She felt wrecked, wet and foolish.

“Please, Sebastian.”

“I did not hurt you?”

“Of course not. I imagine you have all this down to a science, knowing precisely how long one can be tied without getting pins and needles, don't you? It would be inconvenient to kill any of your victims.”

He snorted. “I see a good fuck has not sweetened your tongue.”

Good? How very inadequate a word. But she was determined not to praise the man who'd made her a captive to his lust. Let him see how he liked it when she turned the tables on him. Which she would. She had thirty days to do so.

F
reddie had the audacity to stick her tongue out at him. And what a tongue it was. Pink. Plump. Perfect.

“Baggage.” Sebastian refrained from leaning in to nip it, struggling instead with his expert knots. For some reason his hands trembled a little as he tried to untangle the skein of braided silken rope. He'd had the rope made to order in Italy—an indulgence he currently couldn't afford—and he was down to his last few pounds of it. How pathetic it was that he couldn't simply slice it with a knife, since he needed to reuse it. And often. Freddie looked so spectacular spread upon the crimson coverlet that just standing over her made him hard again. His seed glistened white on her belly, the rest of her flushed pink with temper and orgasm.

Perhaps it was too soon to release her. He had half an idea she'd rise from the bed like a Valkyrie and point her finger at him, choosing him for death. But death in battle with Frederica Wells would be well worth a trip to Valhalla. Sebastian could not recall a more fulfilling evening.