Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
IMOGEN
The pungent smell of hay, saddle soap, and dusty horse hair assaults my nostrils as I stroke Lottie's nose and offer her a piece of carrot. Velvety lips barely touch my hand as she snaffles the treat.
“Good girl.” I scratch the white blaze on her forehead. Riding was out of the question today. Doctor Carter’s “slightly sore” on Sunday morning was a vast understatement. For the last two days, my arm has felt as though it weighs a hundred pounds, and every time I touch the vaccination site, it’s like pressing on a bruise.
Will must be off today. I haven’t seen him around, nor have I asked any of the other grooms where he is. I still haven’t had the conversation with Alexander about warning Will to stay away from me, and until I do, it’s best I don’t draw attention to our friendship.
Since leaving Alexander’s office on Sunday morning, I haven’t seen him, and as today is Tuesday, he’ll lock himself in his office when he returns from wherever he goes, and Richard the Bulldog will stand guard. But tomorrow, we’re having a conversation about Will, and about what happened after the ball on Saturday.
Since he kissed me, I’ve hardly slept, the beautiful thing he said to me afterward running on a loop, making it impossible to drop off. Would it be so bad if I gave into temptation? Sleeping with my husband wouldn’t change anything, although getting pregnant would, and I can’t exactly ask him for contraception. Making babies is part of the contract.
But if I time it right, when I’m least likely to conceive…
The sound of horses’ hooves on the concrete prompts me to turn around. The shock of seeing Alexander enter the stable block riding a chestnut stallion when he shouldn’t be here startles me. I press my body closer to Lottie. Maybe he won’t see me. This isn’t the place for the conversation we need to have. There are too many people around, and besides, I haven’t thought it through properly. I’m not ready.
Dealing with Alexander when all I can think of is the feel of his lips on mine and the hardness between his legs pressing against my stomach isn’t a good idea. When we’re sparring, I can hold my own. But when it comes to sexual matters, he’s far more experienced than me, and knowing him as I’m learning to, he’ll use that to his advantage.
A groom appears from outside, but as he takes hold of the horse’s reins, Alexander’s clipped English accent echoes through the stable block.
“Leave it. I can manage.”
The groom scuttles off, leaving just the two of us. The only way out is to walk past him. Alexander hasn’t looked toward the end of the rows of stables, where I’m standing outside Lottie’s stall, and with any luck, he won’t. He’ll unsaddle his horse and go, and I can slip back to the house without him knowing I was ever here. Then I can tackle him on my terms, once I’ve figured out the right thing to say.
My breath comes in little sips in anticipation of what, if anything, he’ll do if he sees me here. A pulse thrums in my throat when he dismounts, his boots hitting the ground with a heavy thud. He unsaddles his mount, placing the saddle over the loose box door. Removing the bridle, he whacks the horse on the rump, and the stallion enters the loose box by himself. Alexander follows him. He’s only in there a couple of minutes, probably rubbing the horse down, when he reappears, shuts the door, picks up the saddle and bridle, and leaves.
My shoulders lower on my exhale. I’ll give it ten minutes, then head back to the house. I barely get time to let relief sink in before he’s back. What’s he doing now? He removes his phone from the pocket of his smart, black riding jacket and taps on the screen. Half hidden by Lottie, I run my gaze over him. Is there anything that man can’t wear? He even makes breeches look good. I look a disaster in proper riding gear. It’s why I prefer jeans and ankle boots. On Alexander’s frame, he’d fit right in with Great Britain’s Olympic showjumping team.
His head comes up, and his eyes lock right on to me. My heart rate shoots through the roof, the noise of blood speeding through my veins sounds like river rapids. Neither of us speaks. The tension is almost unbearable, and there’s a moment, a second in time, where I want to bolt, but my feet won’t budge.
Eventually, I find my tongue. “What are you doing here? I thought you were wherever it is you go every Tuesday.” I open the door, leaving him a chance to tell me where that is.
“Change of plans.” One by one, he tugs on the fingers of his leather riding gloves, his gaze never leaving mine. He sets both gloves on top of a feed bin and stalks toward me. “The real question, Little Pawn, is what are you doing here?”
He leans in close, running the tip of his nose along my cheekbone. A faint trace of whisky lingers on his breath, and I can’t help it, I inhale deeply. Drawing back, his eyes flare. If this was a scene from a romance novel, the author might describe him as having cold, flat eyes. Dead, like a shark. But Alexander’s eyes aren’t like that. They’re shining with malevolent intent.
I rack my brains, searching for the kind of sharp wit that comes so easily to me, but this is one of those sexually charged interactions, and I can’t think of a single sarcastic response.
“I-I-I like horses. You know this.”
“Indeed I do.”
He tugs a riding crop out of his boot and draws the lash across my clavicle. The leather is warm and soft, yet I shiver as a fragment of ice enters my veins. His eyes drop to my cleavage. My chest heaves, and with every inhale, my breasts thrust out. It’s as if they’re saying, “I’m here!”
“It appears you like one of my grooms, too. I’ve watched the two of you in the paddock. He’s quite the fan, and, so it seems, are you.”
My heart crashes to the ground. He’s been watching me with Will. Our interactions are purely platonic, and I have nothing to hide. Too late, I realize my mistake. I should have told him Will was teaching me to ride English style and dealt with the ensuing argument out in the open.
“He’s been showing me the ropes and how to ride English style. Saskia suggested I ask you, but I knew you’d be too busy to teach me. ”
“But you didn’t ask, did you, wife? You didn’t give me the chance to agree or refuse.”
He’s furious. Oh, he’s hiding it well, but it’s right there in the depths of his amber irises. A shudder runs through the length of my body, despite the warm temperatures.
“I should have.” He’s brought it up, so I may as well call him on it. “I know you warned Will to stay away from me. It’s unacceptable, Alexander. I can speak to whomever I choose.”
“No, you can’t.”
His voice is low, almost agreeable, but it’s a front. Beneath the cool exterior, he’s raging. Using the tip of the crop, he lifts my chin.
“Want to know the reason you can’t?” He angles his head to one side. “Because you’re mine, and I don’t share.”
My stomach tilts. I’m equal parts thrilled and appalled at his statement. Even with flattened lungs, I somehow make words.
“People aren’t possessions.” I risk meeting his eyes. His pupils are dilated, and he’s breathing faster than normal. Not panting like me, but still faster. He pauses for a second, his eyes flicking between both of mine. When I don’t look away, he dips the crop between my breasts.
“You have a beautiful body, Imogen. I can’t stop thinking about it.” Removing the crop, he draws the tightly wound leather across my parted lips. “I’d like to spank you with this. I’d love to bend you over my lap, exposing your beautiful backside, and watch as it pinks with each lash.”
Every muscle in my body clenches in unison. Why is the idea of him demeaning me so exciting? Is there something wrong with me? I have no frame of reference to draw upon, but what I do know is that every time Alexander says something dirty or degrading, it’s as though my internal temperature controls go haywire, and I burn up from the inside.
The feel of leather against my nipple makes me cry out in surprise. He’s barely touched me, but my body is craving release so badly that the lightest of touches has me on edge.
“Tell me to stop.” His voice is low and husky, filled with a yearning that mirrors my own feelings. He wants me as much as I want him. More, maybe.
I shake my head in answer to his question.
“You want this, Little Pawn? You want me to strip you naked, to whip your greedy little cunt, to make you come until your knees buckle?”
Air leaves my lungs in a rush. I nod.
He shoves the tip of the crop in my mouth. “Suck.”
I do as he asks. The leather touches my tongue. It’s unpleasant, a dry, almost dusty flavor, like an old, worn book, but the way his eyes flare and his pupils dilate is enough for me to continue. This is turning him on, and it’s turning me on, too.
“Such a good girl.”
Rightly or wrongly, I yearn to push him, to take advantage of this momentary weakness. He wants me, but if I’m reading him right, he doesn’t want to want me. My fingers tremble as I reach for the first fastened button on my shirt.
He tsks. “No, you don’t. The only person who gets to unwrap my prize is me.” He reaches into the right-hand pocket of his riding jacket, withdrawing a pocketknife. My eyes widen, my breath coming in shallow bursts. My thigh muscles lock as an instinctive fight or flight reaction surges through me. Alexander won’t hurt me… will he?
“Hold still, Little Pawn.” His smirk holds more than a hint of savagery. “I wouldn’t want to slip and cut this beautiful, unblemished skin.”
My heart beats faster, pummeling my ribcage. With one swipe, the first button snaps free. The second follows, then the third, until my shirt is gaping, and my nipples protrude through my lacy, cream bra. Alexander draws the crop over one peak, then gives it a little flick. I cry out, not because it’s painful, but because I feel the sensation between my legs where I need his attention the most. My core aches, desperate for a resolution to the heat pulsing through my veins.
He slides the knife between my breasts. Every muscle freezes.
“Alexan—”
“Shh.”
He flicks his wrist, and my bra splits in two. He puts the knife in his pocket and pushes my bra and shirt off my shoulders. Heat rushes to the surface of my skin, and my nipples bead as he stares at my naked chest.
“It’s better than I remember,” he rasps. “Stunning.”
Embarrassment forces me to drop my gaze. The breeches he’s wearing leave nothing to the imagination. He’s impossibly hard and big. So big. I’ll never fit that inside me. He’ll tear me in two. Even tampons hurt some months.
He tips my chin up with the crop. “Where’s my combative wife gone?”
My mouth opens and closes, but nothing comes out. I don’t understand my silence any more than he does. I have no problem arguing with him ninety percent of the time, but whenever sexual tension explodes between us, I can’t think of a single thing to say. All my usual comeback lines flee, my brain to mouth connection severed.
“I’m not sure which I prefer. The disobedient one, or the submissive one.” He flicks the lash of the crop against my nipple again, harder this time. It stings, but the pleasure is glorious. Another cry spills out of me.
“I like to hear your cries,” he says, lashing me for a third time.
I’m so up in my head that I jump when he slides his hand inside my jeans. I don’t even remember him unfastening them. I tense as he runs a finger through the wetness.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “Soaked. My wife likes a little pain with her pleasure, it seems.”
Do I? Is that why I’m so turned on by what he’s doing to me? Every interaction is a learning opportunity, and I’m learning that I like this. I like this very much.
He yanks my jeans and panties down over my hips and ass and slides one finger inside me, quickly adding a second, stretching me. It’s uncomfortable, but as he works them in and out, the discomfort vanishes. It’s good. So good. I’ve never felt anything like it, but when he bends his dark head and sucks on my nipple, I realize he’s barely scratched the surface of what he’s capable of making me feel.
Gripping his shoulders for balance, my head lolls back, and my jaw slackens. He licks and bites and nuzzles me, and my pleasure climbs and climbs. My lungs work overtime, sweat beading across my brow. I clasp the back of his head, digging my nails into his scalp and thrusting my chest out, pushing him on to me. He groans. It’s the best sound I’ve ever heard. I want to hear it over and over.
“Jesus,” he mutters against my skin, blowing on my nipple before moving his attention to the other one. As he latches on, he flicks the crop against my clit, once, twice, a third time, and I can’t hold on another second. Pulse after pulse of pleasure rockets through me. My knees give way, but he catches me, locking a supportive arm around my waist to hold me upright.
As I come down from my climax, and my vision clears, I blink, blowing a stream of air through pursed lips in an attempt to slow my heart.
His fingers are still inside me, and my muscles are still quivering. Eventually, they stop, and it’s only then he pulls them out. I feel empty and exposed now that I’ve come, and acutely conscious of my nakedness.
“Suck.” He presses his fingers to my lips, and when I open my mouth, he runs them over my tongue. It feels dirty, yet at the same time, I can’t deny the effect it’s having on me. My face burns, embarrassment engulfing me.
I shift away from him, pulling up my underwear and jeans, then dropping to my haunches to pick up my tattered clothing. He’s destroyed my bra and my shirt, but at least I can pull the two parts over me, keeping some of my dignity intact. I only hope I don’t bump into anyone between here and the privacy of my rooms.
“What are you doing?” he asks in a clipped tone.
“Dressing.” Horror bleeds into my chest as his question hits home. “Oh. Oh, God. You… you want your turn now, don’t you?” I bite my lip, but as I start to take off my ruined shirt, Alexander’s hand closes over mine.
“No.” He slides his jacket off and places it over the door to Lottie’s stall. Next, he removes his shirt and puts it around my shoulders. I’m too busy drinking in the sight of his bare torso, with its rippling muscles and defined shoulders, not to mention the ridges across his abdomen, to realize what he’s doing.
“Imogen.” His commanding voice demands attention.
I force my gaze to his. “Yes? ”
“You’re shivering.” He buttons up his shirt over my ruined one, fastens my jeans, then puts his riding jacket around my shoulders. “Come on. I’ll walk you back to the house.”
“And then what?” If he isn’t planning to take his turn, why is he accompanying me? Alexander doesn’t do chivalry. He made me come, but wants nothing in return? If this is some kind of mindfuck, then consider me well and truly fucked.
“Then…” He shrugs. “The night is yours.”
I frown. Sometimes I’d rather he was dour and crass and thoughtless. When he behaves as though he cares, it makes me want things I can’t have. “I don’t understand you at all.”
A flicker of sadness crosses his face, disappearing as fast as it came. “Few people do.”