Chapter Thirteen #4
“Tell me to stop and I will,” he said, his voice raw not with ferocity but with heavy tenderness. “Tell me what you want.”
“More,” I whispered.
I heard his light chuckle. I wished I could see him.
After a moment, the whip touched my thigh, tracing upward, circling in ever smaller circles, until it rubbed against my swollen petals, petting me and parting the intimate curls to expose me, tapping lightly. The core of my body began to pulse along to his deliberate, measured pace.
I wished my hands were free, so I could grab him and hold him. I was ravenous to taste him, to take any part of his body into any part of mine. “Husband,” I whispered hoarsely. “Come close to me. I need to tell you something.”
He paused, as though considering whether to indulge my request. But then I heard movement.
He leaned to me and I could feel the heavy placement of his hands on either side of me, and the brush of his hair on my face.
He kissed my lips lightly yet with raw, openmouthed hunger; it was a kiss such as I had never experienced: wet, full of his dominance, laden with the promise of more to come.
His kisses trailed across my cheek, to my ear. “What?” he whispered.
“Take me now,” I said. “As your wife. Irrevocably. I don’t want to wait another eight days and fourteen hours.”
“Thirteen,” he corrected. He bit my earlobe sharply, kissing my neck, moving lower, availing himself to my body freely. “You know I can’t do that.”
“I don’t care about your vow. I want you to break it.”
“Nay, lass, I can’t. I don’t break vows. And we haven’t fully established whether or not you trust me unequivocally.”
I knew it was irrational even as I said it, but I didn’t care.
I was irate with my own deluge of feeling.
There were too many emotions, too much sensation, too much need.
“Your vows are foolish! I didn’t ask for you daft vows!
I need you. Please. Please. I want to feel you, husband.
Let me touch you and hold you. Let me feel something of you.
All of you. Anything. Anything. Please.”
“You want to feel me, wife?” he murmured, consumed by his own desperation, I could hear it in his voice.
And then I felt him. Exactly where I wanted him.
Not his hands or his mouth. The heavy, solid bulk of his manhood, pressing against me.
The massive, satiny touch parted me but did not enter me.
He held himself against me but did not give me the movement or the possession I begged for.
“Not yet, wife. You know you’re being punished. You know you have to wait.”
“Is that what this is? Part of my punishment? You punish me by withholding yourself from me?”
“Perhaps,” he teased, but then his voice took on a more serious tone when he said, “I just want to prove myself to you. That I’m true to my word. That you never, ever have to fear me or doubt me.”
At that precise moment, not only my body craved him with a desperation I had never known, but my heart seemed to swell with my desire to keep him and hold him close, forevermore, to love him and believe him. Aye, I would allow him to keep his word to me, as he had allowed me my hesitations.
But my body had other ideas.
When I began to writhe against him, he removed his touch altogether.
I almost wept from the sudden deprivation.
But he was rubbing himself against my stomach, between my breasts.
I was astounded by the joy this contact fed me.
I wanted him to use my body in any way, in every way.
I could feel his own need and his aggression in the gliding, thrusting assault.
Timeless and sublime. He was everywhere.
His low groan was followed by the warm beat of his seed raining across my tender petals, my cool stomach, my swollen breasts.
The light touch was immediately replaced by a more forceful one.
The whip flicked at me in rhythmic bites, piquing my flesh into an agony of ecstasy.
Without warning, it slapped against the bundle of nerves at the very heart of me.
The sensation was so overwhelming I thought I might explode.
It was too much. If he did it again, I feared I might lose myself, step over some sort of edge that I couldn’t control or understand.
But I had to have it, I didn’t care. My release simmered hotly, so very close, daunting with its promised magnitude.
“Again. Now. Please,” I pleaded, out of my mind.
“Patience, lass,” came his devil-edged reply.
The swell began even before the whip touched me.
I knew it was coming and my body responded, blooming and rising, so that when the strike hit me in that most sensitive, ready place, it fed an overwhelming torrent of pleasure.
Another tap and I was lost, swept away by a physical rush that washed through my core with violent, voluptuous bursts.
I was crying, writhing, begging. I was blind and bound, my only sensation this rich, rolling pleasure.
After a long, dreamlike swell, the waves eased and calmed. I didn’t know if the blindfold was removed; I couldn’t have opened my eyes.
I heard a soft murmur at the edge of my consciousness. “My wife is a goddess.”
* * *
AFTER THE THIRD—perhaps fourth—climax, I entered a state of physical transcendent enlightenment in which my body existed in its own realm, thoroughly base and primal.
My mind went dark and quiet, able only to comprehend the acute, drawn-out rapture.
Throughout the night, I was taken beyond any and every limit I had never known existed.
After hours of exquisite torture and unimagined bliss, I was vaguely aware that my ankles and wrists were being unbound.
A cool cloth washed me. I was covered by the warm weight of the furs.
And I awoke with my arms and legs wrapped possessively around my savage warrior husband.