Page 43 of The Duke’s Unwilling Bride

CHAPTER 21

Teresa

His words barely register as I lie there, unable to move. It’s not because of the ropes. No, it’s not that at all. In fact, I cannot even get my mind to process the very idea of being bound.

Reaching into my brain to pull my thoughts up to the forefront. It’s as if they are stuck in molasses. Normally, my need to analyze and over-analyze keeps my mind moving, constantly turning. But for now, I cannot find it within myself to even question what type of rope it is that holds me there, tethered to earth, so I can’t fly away. I am languid, adrift, as if floating on water. When was the last time I have ever felt such calm, such completion?

Foxford rustles about, but I pay him no mind. It’s as if, for the moment, all of my anger is leached from my body. I know all too well it will come back, but for now, I want to bask in the tranquility as my heart begins to slow back down.

“You look so peaceful, my darling bride.” Such a sweet sentiment.

Or it would be if the bastard actually meant it. Opening one eye, I glare at him, noting the smirk of smug satisfaction. I hear the sarcasm as it drips from his lips. And then, as if I never had a release at all, I’m back to being angry.

It doesn’t matter that he can twist and turn my body at his will. He still has no right to treat me like this. The only way to make him see reason and force him to let me go is to scream. It’s the one thing that drove him to action earlier.

I open my mouth, prepared to let out yet another blood-curdling yell, when he looms over me, his hand slapping against my lips to prevent the sound from letting loose.

“You pull a stunt like that again, and I will burn every single one of those books in the library. I know how much you cherish them, so do not tempt me on this.”

Tears fill my eyes as I stare up at the horrid man. For him to threaten me with this, it’s beyond reasonable. The moment he lifts his hand, I jerk my face away. “You’re a monster,” I hiss.

“Yes, but I’m your monster now.”

Any burgeoning feelings I had for the man are now squashed. I hate him with every fiber of my being and will always hold on to this moment whenever I have a time of weakness. It doesn’t matter that even now his hands skim my body, stirring up those tendrils of pleasure I long to lock away.

It’s not fair. None of this is fair. Turning my head, I refuse to look at him as he kneels between my thighs. “Eyes on me, Teresa.”

Just him mentioning my name has my body rippling beneath him. Try as I might to resist him, I’m helpless. Still, I refuse his command. It’s not until he growls that I’m forced to turn once more.

“You will look at me as I take my pleasure.”

Conflicting emotions fill me as his fingers slip deep inside me once more. I want to ignore what he’s doing to me. I want to cut off that part that feels any of this. But then, why should I? Why should I suffer when I can take whatever pleasure it is he can give me?

A sly smile eases over my lips as I give into the sensations swirling through my body. “Yes, Your Grace. Your wish is my command.” It’s my own little secret; my own private joy.

He growls at me again, forcing more of that wetness to gather between my thighs. Perhaps it’s not as shameful as I first thought, seeing as his face lights up every time he glances down between my splayed thighs.

“So fucking wet,” he murmurs, once more teasing me with his lips.

But it’s too much. The sensations overwhelm me as another release looms over the horizon. It’s uncomfortable, an intensity I never expected. Whimpers claw from my throat, but I do my best not to let them spill from my lips. I can’t chance him thinking I’m trying to scream again.

Those poor books. Just the very thought of them going up in flames stills all sounds of discomfort. For them, I will suffer. And yet, even as those thoughts flutter through my mind, the sensations morph into a burning need. Could it be I can find completion again?

My body squirms under his ministrations as I war within myself. It’s still far too intense—pain and pleasure intermingle until I’m unsure of which is which. The feelings flood my body, twisting and turning it as I buck underneath him.

“Please,” I manage to gasp, the word spoken on a moan.

“Please stop, or please continue?”

“I- I don’t- I can’t- I-”

“You can,” he growls, his tone absolute, “and you will.”

Before I can beg him again, he curls his fingers, hitting a spot deep inside me. Lightning races through my body, bowing me up as pleasure slams into me. This time, however, it’s tinged with that hint of discomfort. It should ruin it for me. It should make me want to wrench myself away somehow, but I find that the bite actually makes the pleasure that much more.

It steals my breath as I once more lie there, limp and lifeless. His fingers continue to pound into me, keeping my nerve endings singing. The pleasure he forces into my body is something I cannot quantify. I cannot put it into neat and tidy words or definitions. In fact, it seems to defy all logic.

Eventually, he pulls his fingers out of my body, and though every inch of me is sore, every muscle screaming out for relief, I find that I miss him. I miss feeling him move within me. But I dare not ask for more. I don’t think my body can take it.