“Wicked Lady” by Nia Farrell
Length 5,147 words. Release Date July 1, 2017
Amazon e-book http://mybook.to/WLady (ASIN B072KFNBGD)
Blurb: In Restoration England, Catherine Fanshawe is a young widow without the means to run the estate that she has inherited. Driven to desperation and inspired by her namesake (believed to have been a notorious female highwayman), Catherine decides that the Wicked Lady will ride once more.
Her target is Lord Leighton, James Devereaux, a scandalous bounder, handsome as sin, and rich as Croesus. When she stops his carriage, she punishes his attempt to distract her by demanding more than money.
James resists, at first, until he realizes the masked highwayman is a woman. When she leaves him bound to a tree and unsatisfied, he vows revenge. Being a confidant of King Charles adds a world of privilege to his rank, and resources at his command. He will not rest until he finds his Wicked Lady. Whatever it takes, her crimes against him will not go unpunished, even if he must take the law into own hands.
Catherine doesn’t know it, but the tables are about to be turned.
A sizzling hot short story, written for ages 18+.
Lady Donnelly did not protest when James took her arm and bade her accompany him to somewhere more private where they could…talk.
Both of them knew there would be little of that—at least in the near future.
Alone in his private chamber, he took an inordinate amount of pleasure in the way she trembled before him. She should be frightened. Her fate was in his hands.
“Nice mask,” James remarked. “Much nicer than the plain one you wore in Hertfordshire. Purchased with my coin, no doubt. Take it off.”
Her hands shook as she did so, revealing a pert nose and smooth cheeks. Her pale complexion contrasted sharply with her ebony hair and emerald eyes. Framed with a thick brush of absurdly long lashes, they were stunning to behold.
“And the dress.”
She blinked, hard. “What?”
James’s smile held no humor. “You heard me. The dress. I know damned well it was purchased with my coin, too. Be glad I do not choose to strip your brother, or make him privy to your shame. Test me, and you will not be the only one who pays the price for treason.”
“When you accost an officer of the King, you attack your sovereign. Did you think that there would be no repercussion for your crimes against me? Fortunately for you, Charles has agreed to let me handle this myself. Now, I can order a hanging, but I have much more appealing uses for rope. Your choice,” he said simply. “Be taken, naked, to the Tower or submit freely to me. Tell me, which is it to be?”
“I have no choice,” she whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears. He’d remedy that soon enough.
“Nor did I,” he reminded her curtly. “Your dress is still on.”
“I am sorry. I need help, Sir. Without a maid, I am afraid that I must beg your assistance.”
James used his considerable experience to dispense with her dress and underpinnings, leaving her clad only in her shoes and stockings, corset and chemise. He circled her, judging her attributes with a critical eye and finding himself well pleased. She was healthy, at least, with a soft curve to her belly, enough hips to hold onto, and creamy breasts that swelled above her stays. With her height a good foot shorter than his, it would make for some interesting dynamics when he took her to bed.
He went to sit upon it. “You shall lie across my lap with your head here and your arse here.” He pointed to each in turn. “I am going to spank you, blister that bottom of yours. You will keep count, and thank me for each blow. Lose track, and we begin again. You are not to speak otherwise. When you are allowed to do so, in private, you will call me Master. Nod if you understand.”
Mortification stained her cheeks. She jerked her head and wrung her hands.
“Good. You are intelligent, if unwise. We shall see how biddable you are. Now come.”
She approached him with as much eagerness as a convict did a hanging tree. Stopping by his knee, she bent over it, settled herself, and waited for him to begin.
James grabbed a handful of soft, fine linen and pulled up the back of her chemise, not stopping until the fabric was bunched above her waist and her bottom was bared. And what a lovely bottom it was. He palmed each cheek in turn, squeezing, molding, warming the tissue, preparing her for what was to come. She stifled a moan and clenched her thighs. He could smell her arousal.
His Wicked Lady was proving a lusty wench.
“One,” she gasped. “Thank you, Master.”
Smack! A matching strike on the other side.
“Two. Thank you, Master.”
He kept going, alternating sides, keeping his strikes on the fleshy globes of her buttocks. The flesh pinkened, then reddened, as she counted the cost. He did not stop until she had dissolved into tears, gulping breaths between her choked responses, and her nether lips were swollen and slick with dew.
James thrust two fingers into her breach, pumped his hand, and pulled it out, licking his fingers and tasting her essence. Delicious. She moaned, no doubt feeling the emptiness and aching to be filled.
He pushed her off his lap and let her crumple on the floor. “Kneel,” he rumbled, reaching to open his breeches. “I am going to fuck your mouth. If you know what’s best, you shall keep your teeth away and your claws sheathed—and you shall swallow anything that I choose to give you. Nod if you understand.”
The dark head bobbed.
“Have you done this before? Taken a man in your mouth?” He had discovered too little on her late husband to know his true measure as a man, let alone a sexual partner. “You may answer me.”
She pushed herself up, keeping her eyes down, never raising her gaze above his chest. “No, Master.”
For some reason, that pleased him, to learn he would be her first. “I shall teach you,” he said, taking out his cock and stroking it fully erect. “Show you how to give the greatest pleasure. There are sensitive spots here, here, and here.” He pointed to the base of his shaft, the whole of the crown, and the place underneath that could bring a man to his knees. “The rim and the first few inches are the most sensitive. You shall learn to take me down your throat—oh, yes, you shall do that, too. Use your tongue to tempt and tease, the suction of your mouth to bring me to a satisfying end. Swallow my seed, and I shall reward you. Fail in any of this, and you shall suffer the consequences. Now, begin.”
James fisted her hair and guided her to him, pushing his way between her lips and relishing the feel of her mouth and tongue. He forged deeper, his glans rubbing against the ridges of her palate, pushing against the back of her throat. She fought not to gag.
He drew back a little. “Suck,” he ordered. She obeyed, cheeks hollowing with her efforts. He grabbed his sac and squeezed his testes, jacked his hips and deepened his strokes. He fucked her face, pleased with her first efforts. Feeling his balls draw up and his cock swell, he growled a warning. “Get ready. Here it comes.”
James exploded, pouring himself into the warmth of her mouth as she fought to swallow the volume. When he had finished using her, he let go of her hair and let her sit back on her heels. Her green eyes were tear-smacked, her nose red, and her lips swollen.
Her eyes widened when he grabbed her biceps, hauled her to her feet, and tossed her onto the bed. He stripped her, bound her, spread her wide and secured her wrists and ankles to the four corners of his world. Here, in this room, he was king. He was her sovereign. Lady Donnelly was here to serve his will and be the receptacle for his lust. His to do with as he pleased. To discard or to keep.
Power was intoxicating. More so, when he could see her fear and smell her arousal. He thrust two fingers into her slit and pumped until she climaxed.
Shedding his clothes, he climbed onto the end of the bed and crawled up her body, dragging his chest on her front, letting his thatch of hair abrade that incredible skin of hers, sensitizing her breasts, and teasing her nipples into tight, hard buds. He took one in his teeth and plucked it, making her body arch and writhe beneath him.
Taking himself in hand, he parted her folds and found her opening, notched his head, and thrust inside, a primal claiming that tore a cry from her throat from the sheer force of it. He pulled back and thrust again, just as hard, just as deep, hips flexing, finding his rhythm and maintaining it. She was as perfect as he remembered. Tight. Wet. Responsive to his touch and willing to do anything he wished.
Nothing was sacrosanct. Everything was within his grasp. The only limits were his imagination and the whim of mercy that would eventually surface, when she reached her breaking point, if not before.