Page 66 of Veiled Flames
I do this again and again, letting up on her button at erratic intervals, before rubbing or flicking it again without mercy. She reaches another climax. Her ass lifts high off the bolster and twists. But my arm, my weight and impalement, will never let her escape.
She continues to squirm, trying to evade my touch, but I continue to abrade her button and drive relentlessly into her softness, as her contractions abate. I’ve run out of leaves on the wyllow tree, so I start to count them again as she whimpers and moans.
She’s taking longer to reach her climax this time, perhaps she can’t find another. Which means my work here is almost done. Her nub is undoubtedly burning and sensitive, and her writhing and moaning—her cries each time I thrust hard—reveals anintolerable mixture of pleasure and pain. A build up that can only be relieved through another release. Her inability to reach another climax is frustrating for her. Good.
As I pound her small body, I continue the cyclical pressure on her nub, and each time I touch it, her body reacts as if thunder has rolled through her bones. I’m not sure I can keep this up much longer.
If my cock gives out, I’ll continue using my fingers.
This isn’t working. She’s not learning this lesson. She’s never going to change her mind about training, and I can no longer tell myself that I’m doing this for her own good.
Shame overtakes me, as I reconsider my motives. Am I doing this to punish her for choosing dragons over me? Am I punishing her disobedience? Hurting her for not reciprocating the deep feelings I have for her?
Rosomon explodes again, and I let my gaze fall from the wardrobe to her tiny perfect body.
Even under the force of my tight hold, her body seems to curl in on itself, as inside she convulses around me.
Tears paint her cheeks. “Stop. Saxon. Please. Stop.”
I spring off her.
Staggering back, I’m beyond shocked and ashamed. How did I possibly justify such harsh treatment? Turning away, I wince as I force my steaming, abraded rod into my breeches. I punished it too.
“I did this for your own good.” I lie to her and myself.
When I turn back, she’s sobbing quietly against the bed covers, her legs dangling over the side, her overused sex red and raw.
If my goal was to make her hate me—that mission was accomplished.
Rosomon willneverforgive me. And I will never forgive myself. Not ever.
Twenty-Four
Rosomon
Iwake, still folded over the side of the bed, my body limp from exertion, my cleft throbbing and stinging. No idea what time it might be, I slip off the mattress. When my feet hit the floor, I wince as the impact strikes deep, almost as if my landing punched me inside. When I straighten, I discover my legs have been reformed into jelly.
My mouth is dry, as if it’s been weeks since I had a sip of water.
Tea. I need to drink that tea. Because the only thing that could make what happened any worse, would be if Saxon’s seed should take root and he spilled it at least twice inside me.
I stoke the dying embers in the fireplace, then place the small kettle above the flames. Waiting for the water to heat, I retrieve the small teapot and a cup from the shelf. While the tea steeps, I wash all external evidence of Saxon from my body. The basin of water set out by Elly last night is now cold, but the damp flannel cloth feels good against my most tender places. I shiveras I banish every trace of Saxon from my skin. If only it could be so easy to wash what he did from my mind and my heart.
Saxon claimed that he treated me roughly on purpose, that he did it for my own good.
I will never, not ever, let Saxon touch me again. Not if he begs. Not if he has the last hard cock in the Seven Kingdoms.
What he did was cruel, butwhyhe did it was even more so. At certain moments, when I let myself forget his intent, the rough act became pleasurable—very pleasurable—but then I remembered his words, his motivations, and my hatred for him grew. Hatred that’s now lodged as a stone in my heart.
As I finish my courtesan’s tea, I focus on those emotions, pushing away all thoughts of my physical gratification, crushing my memories of our time in his tent—even how well I enjoyed his unrelenting hard drives last night—until I did not.
A loud bell rings from the courtyard. I have but fifteen minutes to arrive on the training field. Last night, Treacher made it clear that anyone tardy would be immediately exiled.
I gulp down the remaining tea and then scramble to don the new corset. I’m grateful Saxon brought it along with the tea, but that doesn’t dull my growing hatred. I’m furious with him. Furious at myself for ever thinking him to be kind or that he cared for me. Furious at how I was drawn to him, almost like we were two parts of a whole, reunited after a long absence.
All my misconceptions regarding Saxon are over, all my girlish fantasies that he might actually care for me. The man may have introduced me to carnal pleasures, but I’ll never let him touch me again. Not ever. I hope he lives up to his claim to have honor, because he’ll never again earn my consent.
The breeches that form part of my uniform have flaps not only in front but in back. But I find it easy enough to dress without Elly’s help. I expect the flap in the back is designed to be used if one needs to vacate their bowels, like the one in the braies I took from my brother, and I’m once again struck by all the practicalities built into men’s garments.
