He tried to recall every repugnant image, every gruesome picture in his memory, he tried counting in German, mentally recited the alphabet in Greek. But the pressure and rhythm of her fingers slowly increased, her scent accosted his senses, her warm body half covered his, and in brief moments, he was in heated rut, his erection rock hard, lust pulsing through every nerve and muscle in his body.
'I don't suppose you're saying no… with this,' she whispered, tracing a delicate path around the swollen crimson crest of his penis. 'You must set records.'
'Like you,' he rudely retorted. 'Have you found stripping naked has predictable results?'
'It depends on the man,' she flippantly replied. 'Or do you prefer a single style of woman?' She knew better; the only thing Crewe preferred in a female was availability.
'I'd prefer to be untied,' he ground out.
'But then I'm not witless. The only freedom you're allowed is with this deliciously rampant penis. Do you think you might be interested in putting this'she lightly squeezed the pulsing tip'inside me?'
'No,' he said through clenched teeth, his refusal taking every shred of willpower at his command.
'You
He groaned, every muscle taut with restraint.
'Such self-control, Crewe. Your vicar would be proud. Perhaps I'll have to exert myself more. Can you feel this?' Her closed fingers slid downward again, her grip tightening, the pulsing veins of his erection graphic in high relief as his penis reared higher. His breath caught in his throat and he arched his back against the exquisite sensation. 'Damn you,' he grunted.
'And damn you, Lord Crewe. But then, this isn't an amorous interlude,' she murmured, her fingers sliding up his erection, 'so we needn't like each other at allonly procreate. Something you're very good at.' She watched his arousal swell larger, disturbed by her own flaring desires, irritated that she could be aroused, that the throbbing between her legs was immune to his venom.
She should thank him, she supposed, for making it so easy, for being so virile and male, for exciting some sordidly voracious need she didn't realize existed. Such pulsing anticipation was reminiscent of her youth when the first, tremulous stirrings of carnal urgency, inexplicable and illicit, had overwhelmed her senses. She hadn't felt like that for a very long time, the men in her life no more than idle distractions.
'When this is over, I'm going to find you both,' he panted. 'Keep that in mind.' Anger pulsed through him with as much vehemence as the lust bombarding his senses, revenge a powerful craving.
'If a child comes of this,' she said, suddenly wanting to expedite the proceedings, uncomfortable with her feelings, with feeling anything at all in this hideous drama, 'it won't matter what you do. Because it'll be too late,' she grimly added, moving to straddle his thighs.
'I'll take the child away,' he brusquely muttered, his pulse pounding in his ears.
'Why?' Shocked, she sat motionless on his hard thighs, her green gaze on him. 'You never have before.'
'Who knows if any of the children are mine with married women?'
'How is this different?'
'You said yourself your husband wasn't interested in women.'
She shrugged. 'I have many lovers. Does that put your mind at ease?'
He struggled against his bonds, his frustration monumental. 'Fuck you,' he whispered, his body twisting against the silken cords.
'At last we agree,' she murmured, rising on her knees enough to position the crest of his erection on her throbbing labia. 'Tell me how this feels,' she insolently murmured, taking note his breathing had stopped, her own breath momentarily in abeyance, the exquisite wash of pleasure rippling up her vagina so intoxicating, a moment of pure personal pleasure overrode the repellent coercion.
He suddenly heaved his hips upward and drove into her, his body's responses automatic, necessity, blind instinct operating.
She cried out as he rammed into her, stretched her, thrust so deeply inside, it felt as though he were in her throat. 'Oh, God,' she breathed, impaled, his enormous erection buried to the hilt, her tissue taut, pulsing, a dizzying delirium burning through her brain.
'And now I'm going to fuck you,' he growled, embittered, an unreasoning need for retaliation driving his lower body deeper and deeper, the drumming urgency of both vengeance and orgasmic release a heedless tumult in his brain, the powerful rhythm of his carnal lust forcing her wider and wider until she was gasping, panting, hysterical, frenzied, meeting each surging thrust with a passion as rapacious as his.
It was a mating, pure and simple.
When she first climaxed, he swore, and when she climaxed again he called her whore, slut, wanton, but he lived in a world of double standards, and when his orgasm came rushing down, filling her sleek interior with a white-hot river of semen, he forgot deviations of morality, overlooked impropriety and self-denial and ejaculated the blue-blooded sperm so coveted by the lady's husband.
The Marquis of Crewe had performed as required.
But then, Prince Marko had counted on the young lord's well-developed sexual drive.
When it was over, he called her every vile name in his extensive repertoire, and after extricating herself from his still-rigid erection, she coolly said, 'Your cooperation was greatly appreciated.' Then she leaned forward and carved a bloody path down his cheek with the nail of her forefinger. 'I understand retaliation, too, my lord,' she murmured. 'And if cursing would help, I'd add mine to yours.' Sliding from the bed, she picked up her robe and slipped it on. 'Your next scheduled orgasm is after breakfast,' she remarked. 'Pleasant dreams.'
She disappeared through the door into an adjoining room, and, minutes later, Pierce entered through a door on the opposite wall. 'Were you a spectator, too?' the marquis heatedly inquired.
'Not likely, sair. Such piquant sights are raffled off in the barracks. There's only so many observation points and the lady closed most o' them.'
'Like slaves in a breeding shed,' Hugh disgustedly spat, although he'd performed for spectators in the occasional orgy common to young, hot-blooded London bucks. 'Get these bindings off so I can punch a hole in the wall.'
'I wouldn't recommend it, sair,' his batman gently responded. 'Seein' as how you might need that there hand'his voice lowered to a whisper'for riding or shooting later, if you know what I mean.'
At which point, the men's conversation continued in tones pitched too low for those listening outside the room.
The Princess Sofia dismissed her maids immediately as she entered her rooms and, lying on her bed, mentally checked off the first of sixty required encounters with the Marquis of Crewe. There was no point in bursting into tears, although she was very close to losing her composure. But her family depended on her, her mother in the most dire peril at the moment under her husband's guard, so she must see that this month with the marquis ended successfully.
Conception was a requirement. Once it was certain, her mother would be freed, and after that, there was always the hope in the following eight months she herself might find a way to escape. She had no intention of leaving a child under Marko's supervision, and she desperately hoped the world was large enough for refuge once that time came.
Morning arrived too early; she begrudged the sun shining into her room, and no matter the glory of the spring day, her mood was dismal. She slowly dressed herself, unable to face the necessity of talking to the servants. And she wondered what would happen if she didn't appear in the breakfast room as scheduled. But her mother was a pawn in this dangerous game, so she did what was expected of her.
The marquis was in a glowering mood, the wound on his face prominent even against his tanned skin.
'You'd think in this pile of rooms, we wouldn't be required to eat together,' he growled as she entered the sunny chamber.
'Take your complaints up with my husband. He has a droll sense of humor.'
'He's a sadist, you mean.'
'How astute, my lord. You noticed. Although I see, your sullen mood hasn't affected your appetite,' she insolently added. His plate was piled high with bacon, kippers, ham, eggs scrambled with mushrooms and tomato. He was buttering a croissant, not his first apparently from the debris of crumbs at his plate.
He looked up from his buttering, his mouth set in a grimace. 'Let's hope you start puking soon and this charade
