Chapter Twenty-Eight
Skipping with a tent in his trousers was no easy task. Blasted miserable, if truth be told. Since his concentration was rubbish, the rope scraped the top of Edward’s bare foot. He halted to mumble a string of blasphemies, then picked up where he left off.
“Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty—” The rope slapped his ankle. This time he sucked up the sting because he deserved any suffering this rope inflicted. Flogging was a fitting punishment for a demented devil who fantasized about tying up women. Well, just one woman. But still…
“Fifty-one, fifty-two…” Franny counted as her rope circled her. Her unbound bosom bounced with each jump.
Hours ago, he’d been devouring her delicious nipples, and now if he meant to display decorum, they were off-limits.
Her gymnasium was not a boudoir. More importantly, her determination deserved respect.
She must overcome her demons so she could confidently face her opponent in the ring.
She needed to concentrate. She did not need some lecherous rat tying her up so that he could ravish her.
He brought the rope around behind him, resumed his count, and watched Franny. Her eyes glimmered like priceless emeralds, and her cheeks glistened with sweat. At least he no longer gawked at her breasts.
“One hundred seventy-five,” Franny said as her toe caught on her rope, and she tripped over it. “Bloody bollocks,” she grumbled.
She quickly resumed her rhythm, eventually calling, “Two hundred,” to Edward’s, “One hundred and eighty-four.”
“I won. I won,” she chanted as she twirled about.
Usually, his competitive nature did not take kindly to losing, and yet, he could not begrudge her a joyful victory. It wasn’t her fault he was too randy to control his coordination. Although you might have won if you weren’t so bloody goatish, he berated himself.
He dropped his rope where he stood. “Congratulations. What’s next?” He expected her to say they would hit the sandbags or lift the heavy dumbbells arranged on the corner rack.
“Shall we spar?” she asked.
He couldn’t even skip rope without taboo fantasies, so how in the devil was he to be an arms’ distance or less from her? “Yes,” he said against his better judgment.
Franny popped onto her toes and clapped.
Since he could not extend his arm to punch while wearing a shirt, he undid the buttons and tossed it onto the floor. Arrogant fool that he was, he took advantage of his disrobing and flexed his pectoral muscles.
Showing off had the desired effect; Franny’s gaze slid over his torso, and she swallowed. He reached his arms high and stretched, enjoying the way she unconsciously licked her lips. It seemed his newly deflowered virgin was having as much trouble controlling her lust as he was.
Chuckling, he climbed into the ring. She avoided his gaze as she slid between the ropes. Hoping she was now watching, he strutted to the center of the ring and faced her.
“We will pull the power from our punches,” she said.
He should pull the power from his punches. “You can punch me as hard as you want.”
She rolled her eyes. “Have you looked in the mirror today?”
“Fine,” he said. “We will both pull the power from our punches.”
She dropped into her stance and lifted her fists. One protected her chin, and the other was poised to strike. His heart thumping erratically, he settled into his stance.
“Ding, ding,” she said.
His right foot slid backward as he moved out of her reach. Her front foot slid forward as she closed the gap. In and out they moved, as he played defense, doing everything he could to stay away from her jab.
Her footwork was fast, so he huffed and puffed after only a few minutes.
Her gaze intently locked on his, she lunged and jabbed his chest three times before he had the wherewithal to block her punches and back away.
She circled him and attacked again. He did nothing to evade the barrage because every punch set his tingling nerves on fire with a sinful burning so euphoric that he’d sell his soul to remain in the flames.
She stepped back. “Bloody bullocks, Edward. Have you forgotten everything?”
He inhaled, trying to cage the beast within him before it charged and took her to the ground.
Scowling, she reached out and flicked his cheek. “Wake up.”
His moan accompanied the sting as pleasure rolled over him.
Her eyes widened, and then, giggling, she pushed on his shoulder.
He growled.
She flicked his nose and then quickly backed away. “Come on.” She curled her fingers, calling him forward.
It seemed their game had changed, and he no longer knew the rules. Without rules, he was no better than an animal. “Franny, don’t,” he said, his words both a plea and a warning.
She stuck out her tongue.
Before he had a chance to prepare, she charged toward him and grabbed him around the waist. Assuming she meant to kiss him, he didn’t fight her.
Instead, she reached up and ruffled his hair.
She dashed to the other side of the ring so quickly that by the time he reached for her, she was already gone.
Her eyes gleaming with mischief, she hopped from one foot to the other. “Come on, Edward. Afraid that a chit will beat you up again?” Tucking her hands in her armpits, she flapped her elbows. “Bock. Bock.”
“You are playing with fire, Frances Valentine. You should be tremendously afraid of what I will do to you if I get my hands on your body. I’m giving you fair warning. I am not myself today.”
Her chicken wings dropped to her side. “Only if you catch me, Edward Robinson,” she said, her voice a sensual invitation.
He cannonballed across the ring and grabbed her. The slippery temptress broke from his grasp and slid between the ropes. Snarling like a bull, he leapt from the ring and tracked her across the gymnasium, his aching cock and balls weighing him down.
Franny dodged exercise equipment to hide behind one of the sandbags. Silly indeed, since he could see her slippered feet and hear her muffled laughs.
“You won’t be giggling when I catch you,” he called. She’d be screaming his name as he tupped her to death. He pushed the sandbag to the side.
She flicked him on the nose, then dashed to his clothing and picked up his cravat. Taunting him like a matador goading a bull, she circled it overhead.
He plowed toward her but halted to pick up the extra-long rope with the blue dot. She bit her lip as she considered her next move. Seconds later, her eyes lit up and she grinned. Stampeding toward him, she slapped him with his cravat, then whizzed right past.
Whirling, he faced her.
“What do you plan to do with that rope?” she asked. Her chest heaved with her panting, her pebbled nipples poked through her chemise, and her eyes glazed over with ecstasy.
“Tie you up and fuck you senseless,” he said.
Closing her eyes, she brought his cravat to her nose and inhaled.
His cock banged on his falls, begging to be set free.
She opened her eyes and fluttered her lashes. “Only if you catch me.”
“Oh, make no mistake. I will catch you.” Rope in hand, he stalked to her.
They stood nose to nose, their heavy breaths mingling.
Her muscles tensed, and he knew she would flee the second he reached for her.
He’d also guessed her little secret; she wanted to prolong the chase.
Unfortunately, he was ready for the capture.
And then, she flicked his nose for a third time.
His nose had suffered one too many indignities at the hands of this woman.
He reacted with lightning-fast reflexes, grabbing her around the waist.
Franny squealed as he tossed her over his shoulder. With the rope looped around his wrist and hanging to the ground, he carried her toward her office.
“Put me down.” She slapped his arse half-heartedly.
“The hell I will. I’m claiming my prize, darling.”
“But I won,” she said, in her squeaky, incredulous voice. “Glory,” she whispered.
He kicked her office door open.
*
Edward deposited Franny into her office chair, where he loomed over her, giving her his best I-am-man-you-are-woman glare.
“Your nostrils are flaring,” she said.
“Your nipples are reaching for me,” he retorted.
She peered down at her decolletage and frowned. “Stupid tingly nipples.”
“Tingly.” He smirked.
She lifted her chin indignantly. “Are you going to tie me up or stare at me all afternoon?”
“I am in charge right now.” Even as he made his declaration, he knew how foolish he sounded.
A man in charge would not have to announce it.
The only reason he hadn’t overpowered her was because he didn’t want to hurt her.
However, if she was going to be incorrigible, he should tie her up and walk away.
It would serve her right if she had to rub an aching, damp cunny on the chair.
“Yes, you are in charge,” she said.
Damnations. She was humoring him because, even tied up, she would always be in control.
Perhaps he was insane, but he didn’t want that to change outside this office.
He adored the stubborn Franny. It was just right now, for a half hour or so, that he wanted her submissive, but only so she let him gift her with untold pleasure.
That, and he needed to rid himself of his damnable fantasies so they could concentrate on her mill.
Walking away with a hard as stone cock would only serve to torment him, so he went to work, securing her to the chair, wrapping the rope around her a few times. She was so passive that he naively let down his guard. Unfortunately, she wrenched her arm free and tickled him under the chin.
He growled.
His precious brat licked his cheek.
He snarled.
She squirmed, trying to pull her other arm free from the binding.
“Hold still, darling,” he growled in her ear.
Gods above, the wriggling, giggling Frances Valentine went as still as a statue.
Grasping her hand, he shoved her arm beneath the rope. He circled behind the chair and tied the final knot. Coming around in front of her, he stepped back to take in his erotic artwork.
Franny’s locks had come loose from her plait and hung about her shoulders like fire.
Her cheeks were deliciously flushed as if she’d already been ravaged.
The bindings lifted her breasts so high that the full mounds threatened to spill out over her chemise.
Somewhere along the way, she’d lost a slipper, but she still clutched his cravat in her hand.
Grinning like a cocksure fool, he grabbed his cravat.
“What are you doing?” Franny asked, her voice breathy with desire.
He placed it over her eyes.
Her breath hitched.
Taking his time, he secured it behind her head. Bending close, he whispered, “Can you see, darling?”
She let out her breath. “No.”
“Do you want me to continue?” he asked.
“Please.” And then Frances Valentine, his feral redhead, moaned her submission.