Page 37 of The Villain
Her chest burned from the effort it took to draw breath as he forced his way to the back of her throat again, holding her there without mercy.
“Breathe,” he commanded, stroking her hair before taking it into his ruthless hold once again. “Through your nose … relax your jaw … take me in.”
She did as he suggested, tamping down the urge to fight against the rigid flesh demanding access to her throat, easing her jaw open and drawing air in through her nose. She swallowed the saliva pooling in her mouth, and he gasped, falling even deeper into her before withdrawing, then plunging in again. He stretched her mouth wide, his grip on her hair never letting up as he fucked her mouth, slowly at first, and then with mounting speed as she grew accustomed to it.
Squeezing her eyes closed, she surrendered to his control, let him use her, the way made easier by her nonresistance. Each breath she took through her nostrils flooded her senses with his scent, each thrust of his cock inside her mouth resounding through her body and causing a pang of longing deep in her core with every stroke. She needed relief, to press a hand to her clit and stroke until she spent, to ease the agony twisting in her womb, growing more acute with each rough sound she pulled from him.
“Shite, that’s good,” he groaned, his knees buckling as his strokes became wilder and less controlled. “Aye, little dove … God, you’re so perfect … so good …”
Her eyes flew open, and she stared up him, an unexpected triumph swelling her chest at the sight he presented. Eyes tightly closed, head thrown back to expose the thick cords of his neck, lips parted as he moaned his pleasure. Even as he used her, took from her, placed her in the demeaning position at his feet, she felt as if she had won this little game, nearly bringing him to his knees with nothing more than her mouth.
“Fucking hell, I’m going to come,” he panted, his knees buckling as he gripped her head with both hands, angling her the way he wanted. “Take it all, Daphne … every single drop.”
She made a little noise of acquiescence, staring up at him and watching as he fell apart, shuddering and shaking as he seemed to fight for more time. Yet, the moment he looked down into her eyes, he gasped, doubling over as he began spilling in her mouth. Hot spurts of his seed flooded her palate, each thrust of his hips bringing on more and more of the salty, tangy fluid. She swallowed every drop, just as he’d commanded, keeping him in her mouth until the last wave of it had left his body, until he went flaccid against her tongue and eased his way out of her.
Breathing heavily, he stared down at her with heavy-lidded eyes, the golden gleam hinting at satisfaction. Releasing her hair, he cupped her face, stroking his thumb over her lips.
“Such a bonny mouth,” he murmured. “And a wicked one, too. Well done, little dove.”
His words had a strange effect upon her, warming her chest and causing pride to lift her chin. He’d thrown her off-balance from the moment she’d arrived here; yet, for the first time, she felt as if she had gained some ground in their battle of wills.
Releasing her face, he pushed his cock back into his breeches and quickly buttoned his fall. While tucking in his shirt, he studied her with amusement dancing in his eyes.
“Look at you … as wanton a creature as any I’ve ever seen,” he teased. “And I’ve had my share of wantons.”
Glancing down at herself, she flushed, embarrassment heating her cheeks. The position on her knees had caused the skirt of her riding habit to ride up to her thighs, revealing her stocking-clad legs. Her blouse had become wrinkled beyond repair, the pristine white sullied by her proximity to the ground. She was certain the back had fared no better from being pressed against the well, the blouse likely ruined. The points of her nipples were visible through the thin shirt, with no chemise giving her the benefit of modesty. An unmistakable scent floated on the air—her arousal.
She glared back up at him in silence, shame washing over her as she realized he’d been right about her. If he tackled her to the ground then and there and plundered her body, she would hardly put up a fight. Just as she had every other time he’d touched her, she would go up in flames, consumed by desire and seized with an insatiable need.
What the devil was wrong with her?
“Why won’t you just get on with it?” she asked, shaking her head in disbelief. “I’ve agreed to give you my body … I am here day and night dressed like a prostitute and at your disposal. Why will you not simply put an end to this?”
She bit her lip as she realized her questions had sounded too much like begging for her peace of mind.
Adam flashed his cat-like grin at her. “Where’s the fun in that, little dove?”
With that, he turned and walked away, his long legs carrying him swiftly back across the courtyard. Then, he disappeared into the castle, leaving her sitting on the ground with an aching cunt and a muddled head.
The next few days passed with a sort of stillness Daphne found unnerving. She and Adam seemed to have fallen into a sort of limbo, leaving her on edge and wondering when he might strike again.
Each morning after her breakfast, she would venture to the gallery, sure to find him fencing with Niall. She would watch him spar with the butler, studying his smooth grace and the fluidity with which he moved—with the same surety and confidence he displayed in every other aspect of his life. When he was finished with Niall, he would take her on next, seeming to enjoy crossing swords with her. Upon being dismissed, the butler never failed to make his displeasure known, his disdain for her clear as he stripped off his fencing equipment all the while ripping her to shreds with his gaze. It sent tremors down her spine and settled a cold mass of dread in her gut. The man studied her as if she were no more than a loathsome insect he would crush beneath his heel if given half the chance.
However, Adam’s presence put her at ease, and a part of her seemed to innately understand that he would not allow anyone within the household to harm her. She was not dense enough to believe it could be due to any affection or care on his part. The man would simply wish to protect his thirty-thousand-pound investment. An investment he had yet to take full advantage of. He seemed content to adhere to his plan, to draw it out and leave her guessing when he would take from her the one thing she could never recover once he’d had it.
And so, in the days following the wager and his subsequent claiming of the spoils, she forced herself to relax and take things as they occurred. For a time, they came with alarming predictability—fencing bouts in the mornings, time spent reading in her room while Adam tended to business matters in his study, rides across the Scottish countryside, hours in the music room practicing the harp.
She’d been as rusty at the harp as she had at fencing, but a few hours on the little stool plucking the instrument and it was as if she’d never stopped. These moments were her favorites—the times she could closet herself away in the music room and touch her fingers to strings. The music would float around her, and she could close her eyes, imaging herself in some other place—perhaps on a grand stage with scores of people watching her, listening, soaking in every note she coaxed from the instrument. And a beautiful instrument it was—the heavy gold resting upon her shoulder like an old friend, its winged angels taking flight and carrying her music with them.
Before long, Adam began appearing in the music room, standing in the doorway or lounging about on the oversized furniture. One afternoon, he’d brought along a stack of ledgers and a quill, quietly settling in a corner of the room. When she’d paused in the middle of Charles Oberthur’sHarp Concertoto cast a wary glance at him, he’d met her gaze and smirked.
“Play, little dove,” he had urged, his voice low and quiet in the stillness of the room, sending a flush of warmth to her palms. “Do not stop on my account.”
She’d continued the concerto, keeping her eyes on him, certain he must have some ulterior motive for disturbing her solitude. Half expecting him to pounce on her and finish what they’d started the last time they had occupied this room together, she’d played with her gaze fixated upon him.
As she’d finishedHarp Concerto, flowing easily into Jean-Baptiste Krumpholz’sSymphony No. 1, it became clear he simply meant to sit and listen, his head lowered over his ledgers as he went about his work. Closing her eyes, she’d returned to her own private world—the space inside her mind where only she and the music existed, notes flowing from her fingers like feathers on the wind. One concerto had turned into two, then three, and before she knew it, she’d opened her eyes hours later to find him watching her, his ledgers closed, his gaze intent.
Breath quickening and pulse racing, she had clung to the harp, registering the beading of sweat on her brow and the fatigue in her hands. She had not played for so long or so passionately in ages.
