Chapter 7 #2
“She would be bound and blindfolded. Her body mine to do with as I pleased. Yes, my mistress would suck my cock down her throat, but she would also endure fire and ice…that is, a ginger stick in her backside to make it burn, and her skin chilled with icicles. And the best part? Even if she begged and begged, my mistress would be denied orgasms until I decided to show mercy. Do you appreciate what is at stake?”
The blunt words hung in the air like bath steam, and Dalton inwardly cursed himself for letting his lips run wild.
That was his complete fantasy, something he’d never done with any woman: combining all the aspects of erotic play he enjoyed most. And he’d just blurted it out.
Christ, Frances might be naked, her wrists secured behind her back, but he was the one who felt stripped bare.
Vulnerable as hell. What if it was too much?
What if he was too much?
Abruptly his wife moaned, a low, guttural greedy sound that jerked his cock to full mast.
“Yes. I do,” she whispered. “When you spanked my pussy and rutted that toy into my backside, you showed me how pleasure and pain can dance together. I’ve never felt so alive.
But now you wish to take me to further heights, where pleasure and pain fully entwine.
If you take me like you said, if you hold me and mark me as yours forever, I would give you everything.
But you must give me everything as well, Dalt... Dash. Can you do that?”
Dalton swallowed hard. Stripped bare and vulnerable as hell did not even begin to describe the emotions now coursing through his body. He yearned for such a marriage. Craved it from the deepest, darkest depths of his soul. But while Frances had said everything, what she actually meant was love.
What the bloody hell did he know about that?
He’d never been loved. Admired, flattered, obeyed and envied, certainly.
But never loved. His parents hadn’t even liked each other, and once he’d been born, had scarcely spoken.
Yet the rest of the ton was no better; apart from the Warennes, the Kyles, and Frances’ own parents, they were mostly arranged matches. Civil strangers at best.
He’d mastered fucking. But how did one learn and master love?
“I…ah…” Thoroughly undone by yet another complete loss of rational thought, Dalton released Frances and stepped back. “Come along, Mrs. Jones, we need to get you dressed for breakfast. Noah and Juliette are generous hosts and always provide the most delicious fare.”
His wife’s shoulders drooped briefly, cutting him to the quick, but she soon rallied and sauntered around the bathing screen to where her green novice gown was laid out.
“I know I’m not permitted stays or chemise,” she said brightly, even as she shivered, “but what about stockings? Or a cloak? Oh, by the by, this is a new gown. Glory took the other one to the ragbag—alas, being covered in seed leaves frightful stains. I wish you’d come in me.”
Over and over until you conceived my child?
Dalton barely suppressed a groan. That damned thought again!
Was his mind at last starting to move away from the fearful shadows of his childhood? For now, he could almost imagine a future where an infant preferred his shoulder above all others. Of attending nursery princess parties for hair combing or teaching a little boy to fish.
Not securing the line, but creating a family. Their family.
With effort, he managed a shrug. “That would hardly be sporting,” Dalton said lightly. “I only come in my wife.”
Frances bit her lip, her hand actually sliding up to touch her mask.
Yes. Take it off.
To his everlasting disappointment, she didn’t remove it.
“My clothing?” Frances asked again.
“You may wear woolen stockings and a cloak. And when we go outside, gloves and muff. The sleigh ride and snow sculpting are supposed to be amusing activities, not something to make you ill.”
“Very well,” she replied, before perching on the end of the bed and spreading her thighs wide, actually daring to smooth her bush and lick her lips like a seasoned coquette. “Would you put on my stockings and secure the garters, Dash? It is such a tricky task.”
Dalton closed his eyes against a wave of pure lust.
This minx would be the death of him.
* * *
Dashford did indeed care for her, she sensed it to her very soul.
Perfect happiness might well be within her grasp…
if she could coax him into taking a chance.
Trusting her. Discarding the ducal mask like she would discard the demi mask and wig and instead embrace the kind of lusty, loving marriage that would suit them both.
Frances glanced up at her husband as they made their way down the stairs toward the dining room.
The amount of detail in his carnal punishment fantasy, the way he had visibly weighed and measured her offer of everything and so very nearly accepted, oh, her duke wanted a different future with her.
He needed it. He needed love. But clearly there was still some barrier, and the only key to unlock it was to remain as Mrs. Jones and provoke him with outrageous behavior until he revealed all his secrets.
When they finally entered the warm, loud dining room, Frances almost stumbled at the sheer amount of activity.
And bare skin. The vast room with cream-colored walls, heavy burgundy velvet drapes and blazing fireplaces either side had been divided in two by a row of embroidered bathing screens.
On the left side, a long, polished oak dining table dominated the space, and perhaps twenty fully dressed people sat around it eating breakfast, reading ironed newspapers, and accepting more tea or chocolate from hovering footmen.
But the right side…good heavens.
Maids in white Grecian gowns, one ample breast fully exposed, carried jugs of mulled wine between tables.
Footmen with oiled chests wearing very tight buckskins offered trays of freshly baked bread smothered in toasted cheese.
On a chaise, a novice wearing only stockings and her mask was moaning as two men, one of them Lord Warenne, pleasured her in front of a small crowd.
In another corner, Lady Warenne nibbled on a raisin pastry while fondling the erect cock of a naked gentleman currently serving as her table.
Beside her, two women were decorating a third woman’s breasts and belly with whipped cream, while a masked gentleman with a leather collar around his neck and his wrists bound silently observed.
It was like the most decadent, hedonistic play from Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens had set up in the Warenne dining room. Except it was real. And without fear or false smiles—everyone was having a marvelous time.
“We can leave,” Dashford said abruptly. “Go to the left side of the screen.”