Page 60 of The Damsel
“How the hell did you get into my rooms?” she growled, reaching up to begin unfastening the cloak.
“Are you the Masked Menace?” he countered.
He did not seem intimidated by her anger or the threat of her stare as she tossed the cloak and her pistol aside before reaching for the dagger in her boot.
“Answer me,” she demanded. “How did you get in here?”
She approached him, her gaze fixated on his hands holding the mask. He had no business here, no right digging up her secrets.
He scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. “You know as well as I do that enough coin placed into the hands of the right person can earn a man quite a lot. I have roamed all over London looking for you, only to follow your trail here. As I’ve resolved not to return to Suffolk without you, there seemed no need to rent my own suite. I am not leaving, not until you tell me what is going on, not until you agree to come home with me.”
Her patience with him came to an end, and she closed the distance between them with a few quick strides. He dropped the mask when her knife came up against his throat, hands falling limp at his sides.
“I thought I’d made myself clear,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him. “You meant nothing to me aside from what I could gain from using your body. You have no right to make demands of me when you are nothing more to me than a hard, warm prick.”
Despite the press of her blade against the vital arteries in his throat, he met her challenge head on. “You may lie to yourself as much as you please, but you cannot fool me, Cass.”
She stepped closer, until the heat of his body seeped beneath her skin, sending a flare of potent desire through her in a heady rush. The sight of him on the end of her knife stoked something dark and primal within her, making her want to hear him beg and plead before unleashing every ounce of her pent up rage onto him.
“I will hear none of your sentimental drivel,” she snapped, trailing her knife down his chest.
She paused just over the top button of his waistcoat. He’d removed his coat and left it slung over a chair, so the brocade garment and shirt were the only things separating the tip of her blade from his vulnerable flesh. He stiffened when she cut away the button with a flick of her wrist, sending it flying across the room where it clattered to the floor.
“Cassandra—”
“Your cock is the only thing I hold any interest in,” she interjected, meeting his gaze as she lowered her dagger to the second button. “So, if you aren’t here to fuck, then you ought to leave. Now is the only chance you will have to escape before I’ve taken what I want from you.”
Flick. Another button gone, skittering across the floor to join the other. He raised his chin and met her stare with an unflinching resolve.
“I told you … I am not leaving. Do what you please to me, but know that it will not be enough to chase me away.”
She gave him a hard, humorless smile while cutting away his third button, then his fourth. “We’ll see about that.”
Tearing his waistcoat open she sliced his shirt down the front. She parted the mangled garment to reveal the expanse of his chest, her mouth watering at the smooth, unblemished skin just waiting to be tortured. He drew in a sharp breath as she skimmed the tip of her knife from the point of his pulse, over his collarbone and across one of his pectorals. His stomach clenched, his gaze growing unfocused and heavy-lidded, his breath racing as she circled the point around his nipple before teasing the nub with light flicks of her blade. It hardened against the sharp edge and he whimpered, though did not dare move as she continued tracing the weapon down his body, tickling the soft, curling blond hairs running down into his breeches. The outline of his erection showed through the fabric, and she detected the heavy thump of his pulse in the hollow of his collarbone.
He trembled as she tore at his fall, yanking his breeches down until they met the resistance of his boots. His cock jutted out from his body, hard and straining toward her. She took it in her fist and squeezed until his knees buckled and he had to lean against one of the bed’s four posters for balance. He gritted his teeth to hold in a scream, bending at the waist and panting for air. His cock remained hard, pulsing with want and need as she eased her grip.
She released it and then took hold of his chin, forcing him upright so she looked him in the eye. His head fell back against the post, chest heaving as his breath rushed through parted lips.
“You have forgotten your place,” she declared while yanking his waistcoat off and tossing it aside. “I supposed you need reminding. As I’ve told you countless times, I am not yours to save. I am not some helpless damsel who does not know what she is doing or what she wants.”
“You do need saving,” he argued as she peeled his shirt off his shoulders and used it to entrap his wrists. “From yourself.”
He grunted when she used the garment to tether him to the bedpost by his hands.
Taking up the cravat that had fluttered to the floor, she balled it up into a wad and forced it into his mouth. He offered no protest, but glared at her while clenching his teeth around the fabric. He presented the perfect offering for her—body bared, hands and feet trapped in the strategic snare of his clothing, cock arching toward her from the nest of hair between his thighs. Strands of hair fell into his eyes, shadowing the brilliant blue orbs.
Leaving him bound to the bed, she strode over to the mess he’d made of her belongings, the tip of her riding crop peeking out from within the sack. She took it up and turned to face him, her pulse racing as he contemplated using the crop on him the way she might a beast. What better way to remind him he was nothing more than flesh to her?
His eyes widened as she approached, stroking her fingers over the shaft of the crop. The fear and uncertainty she found in his eyes only added fuel to her growing anger and arousal. As always, the need to hurt and derive her pleasure from him overwhelmed her all at once, making her head spin. She settled on punishment first, his recent behavior demanding that she put him back in his place—the place she needed him to remain in if she were going to keep a tight hold on her sanity.
“You do not question me,” she ground out while pressing the tongue of the crop beneath his chin. “You do not come barging into my private rooms and ransack my things, then think to demand answers from me.”
She punctuated her words with the flick of her crop, landing the tongue against his left nipple. He squirmed and growled, the skin around his nipple flushing pink. He arched his back when she did it again, his eyes squeezing shut and his breath huffing through his nose. She swung the crop three more times in rapid succession, alternating nipples and making him dance, his feet shuffling as he tried to angle himself away from her blows. The red blush spread over his chest, making her want to lave his abused skin with her tongue, bite him and push his pain toward a crescendo until he’d gone hoarse from screaming.
But, not yet. Wielding the crop gave her such a heady rush of satisfaction, she could hardly stop now. There was so much of him to torment, so much perfect, smooth skin to mark.
He trembled as she smoothed the tongue of the crop down the center of his chest and stomach, ending right at his groin.
