Knight's Mistress (6 page)

‘You’re not Abby Childers.’

Liza suddenly sat up, a little pout on her lips. ‘I
might
like it.’

‘No.’

‘That’s not very nice.’ A spoiled young lady acting spoiled.

‘Come, darling,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Abby Childers likes to be tortured.’

A wide-eyed look. ‘Tortured?’

‘There, you see, you don’t want that.’

She nibbled on her bottom lip for a moment. ‘You could just whip me a
little
.’

He softly sighed. ‘If I do, is this conversation over?’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’

‘Very well.’ He pointed. ‘In that drawer over there. Bring me one of the whips.’

She leaped up and a moment later was back. ‘Will this one do?’ She held out a red leather quirt from which hung three knotted strands of black braided silk.

‘That one’s fine. It won’t leave marks.’

She half turned and glanced back at the bureau.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ he muttered, ‘or I’ll send you home. It’s not a competition.’ Reaching out, he took the whip from her, rose from the chaise and helped her lean over the chaise so she was face down over the curved back. Then he tied her hands to the wooden legs, raising her pink bottom into a perfect target.

‘I intend to make this unpleasant.’ He lifted his arm. ‘I don’t want you to ask me to do this again. You’re not Abbey Childers.’ He brought the whip down with a crack.

A gasp went up in the crowd as the lash struck the lady’s plump flesh.

Another when she cried out. Then another and another as the young man wielded his whip and the lady shrieked
and moaned. Ignoring her cries, he smacked her soft rump, the inside of her thighs, the pink pouty lips of her sex – those blows in particular eliciting little frenzied screams that soon morphed into frantic whimpers.

Was she really in pain? Kate wondered. Would he stop if she was?

Kate forced herself not to openly gasp but it was impossible to stem her feverish reaction to the lady’s punishment. She was wildly aroused, desire coiling deep in her core, spreading outwards in hard, forceful waves, spiking through her senses, making her edgy, making her skin tingle.

Her gaze on the actor’s huge, upthrust erection, she imagined it deep inside her, could almost feel it slide in and out, wanted it, needed it. O
r perhaps someone else’s
, the little voice inside her head whispered as Dominic Knight’s recognizable scent filled her nostrils. His physical presence beside her was like an irresistible force, like a hot brand on her consciousness. Primal male, oppressive, blatantly arousing.

Lord, she’d had too much champagne if she was fantasizing about sex with him even with people around. Stop! Stop! Stop!

But he was only inches away, his hard, muscled thigh warm against hers, his brute strength even more potent in the darkness and she was so crazily turned on, she was trembling. Clenching her thighs against the raw ache throbbing deep inside, she wished it hadn’t been so long since she’d had sex, frantically prayed that the
play would soon be over, tried not to look at the lewd scene on stage.

But the pretty blonde tied to the chaise was panting loudly now, the man moving into position behind her and, sexually mesmerized, Kate waited, breath held, for the stark moment of penetration. Seconds later, Ned swung his hips forward, his enormous erection disappeared from sight and a widespread moan rose from the audience.

Since the couple was positioned so everyone could see his huge dick sliding in and out – over and over and over again – the ensuing performance provoked a low, rhythmic murmur of commentary and approval. As if in response, the man’s erection lengthened, swelled to gigantic proportions, and the actress’s cries intensified – whether in pleasure or pain was uncertain.

Kate was squirming now.
She should have worn panties, she was ruining her dress
, she thought in one of those housekeeping moments quite separate from the tumult in her brain. Could she escape?

Not unless Dominic Knight moved.

Fuck, she was trapped.
No, no, no, wrong word. Don’t even think it.

Seated beside Kate, his arm on the top of the banquette, Dominic had been watching her, not the play; he’d seen the tableau before. So he was aware of her increasing discomfort. Aware as well of her volatile passions. Miss Hart was a hot little thing. Impatient, too. His nostrils flared slightly at the thought.

He wanted to take her to one of the private rooms and fuck her till morning, his libido loudly seconding the motion. Her job was finished; why not? Although he’d have to decide quickly. She was at a point where his intervention was required or she was going to come right here in front of everyone.

Sliding out of the banquette, he stood and held out his hand. ‘I’m taking Miss Hart home,’ he said to no one in particular. ‘It’s getting late.’

Desperate to escape, Kate grabbed his hand as if he was her lifeline in a storm.

He ignored her feverish gasp as their fingers touched, ignored his surging dick, pulled her to her feet and quietly said, ‘Let’s get your coat.’ He deliberately caught her by her shoulder as he guided her from the room, needing to touch her.

She tried to pull away.

He tightened his grip. ‘It’s dark,’ he said, his breath warm against her ear. ‘We don’t want you to stumble.’

He was too close, his body heat like flame to her senses, his voice in her ear melting through her like original sin. Oh God, could she withstand the relentless tremors driving her to orgasm? She had to, had to,
had to!
But all she could think of was the scene on stage, all she wanted was Dominic Knight doing to her what the actor had been doing to the actress. She whimpered, a tiny, suffocated sound.

A room, he thought, shoving the padded leather door open.

Definitely.

But the moment they entered the foyer, she broke away and ran.

He smiled. There was something to be said for a game of pursuit. She wouldn’t go far without her coat and even an assertive woman like Miss Hart might think twice before travelling alone in the revelling crowds outside.

Quickly collecting her coat, he dipped his head to the concierge as he passed his desk, the man spoke in rapid Dutch and Dominic grinned. Then a servant opened the door for him, and a moment later he was out on the street.

She was standing to the right of the door, shivering, warily eyeing a crowd of young men coming her way. He stepped between the raucous group and her and held out her coat. ‘You’re cold,’ he said.

‘I wish,’ she whispered, turning to slide her arms into the sleeves.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, pulling her coat up on her shoulders, turning her back to face him. ‘That’s a lot to take in. Or rather too much to take in.’ He softly exhaled. ‘Sorry, poor choice of words. Would you like me to call my car?’

She drew in a shuddering breath, desire still raw, all-consuming, unsated and beating at her brain. ‘No, no – thank you. Does the office – staff do this … often?’ she stammered, trying to appear calm. Like him.

‘I’m not sure. I could ask Max.’

‘No – don’t.’ She noticed the young men gave him wide berth and wondered if he’d said something she hadn’t heard. ‘It really – doesn’t … matter.’

Such trembling innocence was the ultimate temptation. ‘We’re only a few blocks from the house. You don’t mind walking then?’

‘No, no … I’d prefer walking. It was hot in there.’

He suppressed a smile. ‘You’ll cool off now. It’s cold tonight.’

He hadn’t worn a coat but seemed immune to the temperature and to her carnal agitation. He carried most of the conversation on the way back, but then he spent his life being sociable to people he wouldn’t bring home to dinner. Not that Miss Hart fell into that category. She might look real fine across the table from him on occasion.

On occasion, the operative phrase.

But by the time they entered the town house, he’d sorted out all his uncertainties. Miss Hart was too innocent to exploit.

When they reached her apartment, he opened the door for her then stepped back. ‘Thanks for your help with the Bucharest problem. Max will have you flown home tomorrow. I enjoyed your company this evening.’ He turned to go.

‘Wait.’ A small frantic explosion of sound.

He turned back, his brows faintly raised.

‘I know I shouldn’t ask,’ she said in a breathy rush. ‘You
probably have women hitting on you all the time, but I’d kick myself later if I left without kissing—’

He moved in a blur, inhaled the word
you
as his mouth captured hers, felt a sudden, unnatural exhilaration, an impatience he hadn’t felt in years. He heard her small whimper as his tongue skimmed hers, her eagerness exciting him. He shoved her coat down her arms with a sweep of his hands, had her bottom in his grip before her coat hit the floor, and hauling her hard against his body, kissed her with a barely suppressed hunger.

She kissed him back with a rough urgency that surprised him.

It wasn’t a semi-virgin’s kiss.

But then Miss Hart had a no-holds-barred personality he was guessing might go with no-holds-barred sex. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered, moving one hand upward to rest in the small of her back. ‘I was trying to behave.’

‘Don’t.’

Her voice was a shimmering hum on his lips; he could even taste her smile. ‘Then we both thank you,’ he murmured, his erection surging higher at such welcome news. ‘Can you feel that?’ He moved his hips in a leisurely back and forth motion, offering graphic evidence of his capacity to please.

‘Clear down to my toes,’ she said with a small heated sigh, his massive erection thick and stiff against her belly. ‘And everywhere in between,’ she purred, curling her arms around his neck, melting against him, every muscle below
her waist quivering wildly in anticipation.

‘Now I felt
that
,’ he whispered.

‘You couldn’t!’

‘I did. Like this.’ Repeating his perfectly targeted slow and easy rhythm, he forced her closer, his fingers splayed on her lower back. Then he flexed his hips.

The fierce jolt of pleasure spiked through her body like an electric charge, her senses taut and needy after hours of waiting for him, for this, for satisfaction. Breathless, panting, she rubbed up against him, asking for more.

He glanced up, took note of Mrs Van Kessel’s absence. Not that he expected to see her standing there. He paid for her discretion. But they needed a bed. Miss Hart was on a short fuse.

‘I need to come.
Right
now!’

Her hot, throaty demand interrupted his internal debate. It also gave him pause; he didn’t take orders. On the other hand, he’d flown a helluva long way to do just that. He smiled. ‘Your place or mine?’

Perhaps it was the phrase ‘your place or mine’ that brought her treacherous little inner voice to life. Or the smooth assurance in his tone. Or the fact that he knew he could have any woman he wanted.
Don’t be stupid. This means nothing to him.
And in a terrifying flash of sanity she saw herself as he saw her: another casual conquest, another woman to be forgotten, a woman who paid him back in the usual way for gifts received.

‘Stop! Stop!’ Shoving hard against his chest, she broke his grip and lurched backward. ‘I can’t,’ she gasped. ‘I’m sorry.’ Maybe she was too proud – or foolish … she didn’t know which, but suddenly she didn’t want to be another of Dominic Knight’s faceless fucks.

Dragging air into his lungs, desperately trying to restrain himself, Dominic stared at her in stunned disbelief. Female resistance didn’t exist in his world. A strained moment passed, followed by another, the air crackling with his frustration and outrage. Then his rancour gave way to common sense and after a moment more, he slowly exhaled. Miss Hart was the least likely woman to be playing games. He should have known better. She was a novice and the fact that she did what she did was indication of what fucking a novice entailed. A lot of work and no pay-off. Lesson learned. ‘It’s probably just as well,’ he said mildly, his face expressionless. Bending smoothly, he scooped up her coat from the floor and moved forward to wrap it around her shoulders.

Less capable of impassivity, her body hopelessly immune to logic, Kate’s breathing turned ragged as he leaned in close.

Dominic was finely attuned to female arousal. Considering his vices, it was a valuable asset. He could have changed Miss Hart’s mind.

‘Good night, Miss Hart,’ he said instead. ‘Pleasant dreams.’

But he stood there for a moment after she shut the door, a ghost of a smile on his face.

Christ, who knew? He had scruples.

If he
had
scruples, they’d disappeared by morning.

When Kate walked into the dining room, shortly after eight, she came to a sudden stop. ‘What are you doing here?’

Dominic was seated at the small table by the window, eating. ‘I own this house,’ he pleasantly said, setting down his fork. ‘Would you care to join me?’

‘Don’t you have your own apartment?’

‘I do. Did you sleep well?’

‘No, as a matter of fact.’

‘Neither did I. It must be the weather.’ And he began eating again.

She could turn around and leave or she could join him and have some of the delicious-smelling breakfast spread out on the table.

It wasn’t a difficult decision. She was hungry.

Dominic rose as she approached and moved around the table to pull out her chair. Once she sat, he returned to
his seat. ‘Coffee or tea?’ He indicated two pots on the table.

‘Coffee please.’

He poured her a cup, then said, ‘If you’d like something other than what’s on the table, I’ll call Mrs Van Kessel and you can tell her.’

‘That’s not necessary.’

‘Would you like me to serve you?’

‘God no!’

He laughed. ‘Feel free to express yourself.’

Then he went back to his Dutch paper. She surveyed all the delicious options on the table and ultimately made herself her favourite sandwich. Piling crisp bacon on a piece of white toast, she substituted the Green Goddess dressing next to the cold salmon for her usual mayonnaise, placed another piece of toast on top of the bacon, smashed it down and happily took a bite just as he lifted his gaze from the paper. ‘My favourite,’ she said through a mouthful of sandwich because he was squinting as though seeing a bacon sandwich for the first time. Then she went back to savouring the fabulous flavours. Really, the bacon was first rate, the toast almost as good as Nana’s homemade bread, and she was hungry. Although she was almost always hungry. Like her mother, Nana had explained, and Kate had always liked the connection. From that point on, only the sound of turning pages and silverware audible in the ornate, posh chamber. Since her breakfast companion seemed oblivious to her presence for the most part, she took the
opportunity to contemplate God’s gift to women for the last time.