Page 52 of A Tale of Two Dukes

“Seems as if my little kitten likes to play dead. I didn’t realize theatrics were in your repertoire. Come, my little actress. Let’s see what happens when my lash is applied to your backside.”

His words should scare me, terrify me. And yet, slick gathers at my core, soaking into the thin shift. It’s mortifying. Thankfully, I’m unable to see Birchleigh’s face or that would make this even worse.

As it is, the scent of his arousal blooms around me, enveloping me. He must know his effect. Groaning, I cover my eyes with my hands as he shifts me, holding me at his side like a bolt of fabric or some other trifle.

I don’t even have to look to know when we’re in that infernal room. The scent is different here, spicy, tangy. It’s not quite the thick, heavy incense that filled The Rose and Thorne, but there’s still an undercurrent. Sex and lubricant, that’s what it is.

All of it mixes with his potent scent, making my head spin. Setting me on the floor, he turns toward the door, locking it behind us before I can so much as move. With a grin, he takes the key and walks over to the mantel, placing it high up where I cannot reach it.

Wrapping my arms about my waist, I look at the room, noting the blazing fireplace and piles of fabrics and blankets. The servants must have prepared this for us. Again, that sense of humiliation washes over me, flooding my cheeks with heat.

It’s bad enough that I must go through this process, but for everyone else to know about it too? If Birchleigh is feeling any sort of embarrassment, however, he doesn’t show it. In fact, he stands there by the fireplace, scenting the air, the front of his breeches stirring as his cock jerks.

He, at least, seems to have no issue with any of this. I’m the one with reservations. Glancing back over to the pile, my fingers itch with the need to set them to rights.

It’s haphazard, an eyesore, especially in a room as neat and pristine as his dungeon. With another look over at him, I inch my way forward. When he doesn’t move, I quicken my pace until I’m close enough to feel impending relief settling through my veins.

However, as I reach out to grab the first piece, again, he encircles my waist and draws me back against his hard chest. I struggle to free myself, the need to touch the fabrics, to seek out what about them smells so good clawing at my insides. He’s immovable, a band of iron around my midsection.

“Awww, poor little kitten. Do you wish to make your nest? To find ease and comfort as you manipulate the fabrics as you choose?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” I wail, my fingers clawing through the air.

The need is greater than any I’ve ever known. It’s as if my mind is convinced I’ll die without a proper nest.

“Poor thing,” he croons in my ear, his hot breath sending shafts of an altogether different type of need through me. “I wish I could allow you to do that. I really do. But what I have planned wouldn’t be a punishment if you enjoyed it, would it?”

Tears dot my eyes. He’s going to force my hand. How will I be able to refuse him? I was daft to think I even stood a chance. Sagging against his arm, I allow him to take my weight.

This time, I’m not attempting a ruse. I just want all of this pain to be over with. Gathering me into his arms, he turns me so that I can look at him.

“My pretty little kitten,” he murmurs against my lips. “This is going to hurt you so much more than it will hurt me. Don’t worry though, your suffering makes me hard. So very hard. But you like that, don’t you, my little omega? You like seeing the reaction your tears have on me.”

Unfortunately, he’s right. I love the savage way he treats me, crave it even. In the same way my suffering stirs such a reaction in him, the same is true with me. The more he applies himself to causing me discomfort, the more aroused I become.

Just the fact that he’s denying my right to make a nest cuts me to the quick. Part of me can’t even imagine what else he has in store. And yet, knowing there’s even more to come has my body vibrating with need.

Scooping me up, he pads across the floor, his boots clicking on the wood the only sound save the crackling of the hearth. My heart pounds in my chest as he takes me over to the cross in the corner.

So far, it’s the one piece we haven’t used. Whether it was by purpose or accident, I haven’t a clue. I’m meek, compliant even, as he sets me down in front and turns me so my back brushes across the plump leather.

We both are silent as he reaches behind me to pluck out a knife. With slow, steady movements, he saws into my shift, dragging the blade down. The sound of ripping fabric floods my ears, drawing a moan from my lips.

I should be frightened, quaking in fear, and yet, the sheer eroticism of him holding that implement, coming so close to scoring the tip into my flesh, overrides everything else. For a few moments, I want him to prick me, to show me just what it would feel like to bleed for him. But those thoughts are better left in my mind where no one else can see.

It’s ridiculous that his destruction should cause even more slick to flow from my body. He doesn’t comment on my state as he pulls the remaining pieces from me, leaving me in just my garters, stockings, and my sister’s necklace. Tonight is so reminiscent of that first night together, and I cannot help but wonder at the irony of it.

Just like that first night, he leaves my stockings on, rubbing the front of his breeches as he stares at my legs. Heat curls through me at his blatant appreciation. Almost as if he’s touching me, I can feel his gaze as it roves about my body.

“Such a pretty little kitten,” he groans, pulling his cravat from his shirt. “Hands out front.”

Lowering my gaze, I extend my arms. With swift movements, he wraps the fabric about my wrists and pulls them up, connecting them to a bit of chain strung between the two top points of the cross.

His scent overwhelms me as he grinds his body against mine. I feel the proof of his arousal as he juts against me, pleasuring himself with my body. Desperation lances through me as my own need continues to climb.

“Do you know how desperately I want you?” His voice is thick, raspy with need.

“You have said as much, Your Grace.”