The King (The Original Sinners: White Years, #2)(75)

23


MISTRESS FELICIA UNHOOKED HIS CUFFS AND TURNED him so that he faced away from her now. She bent him over and cuffed his wrists to the footboard of the bed. Once again she gagged him with the crop. More pain came then. A cane that battered his thighs. A f logger that cut into his back. A whip that bit from his shoulders to his knees.

He glanced at the clock before she began her beating. He glanced at it again when she finished. She’d beaten him for a solid hour—an hour that had passed in seconds. His lungs burned from how hard he’d breathed during the beating. When Mistress Felicia touched his lower back, he f linched. His skin was so raw even the softest touch burned.

She laughed at his f linching, no doubt enjoying his pain. Any true sadist would. She kissed his neck above the tendon of his shoulder as she unlocked his wrists from the footboard.

Mistress Felicia took the crop out of his mouth again. “Do you need water?”

“Please.”

She brought him water in a wineglass, but when he reached for it, she shook her head.

“On your knees.”

He dropped to his knees, and Mistress Felicia cupped the back of his head. She brought the glass to his lips and bade him to drink. His male pride loathed this childish dependence even as his hunger for surrender and submission gloried in being treated like a dog at the mercy of his master.

The water cooled his burning tongue, though it did nothing to alleviate the pain that suffused his entire body. Mistress Felicia took the glass from his lips, set it aside and returned to him. She wove her fingers through the long hair at the base of his neck and let him rest his head against her stomach.

“I’ve never known anyone who took pain as well as you do,” she said, now massaging his neck. “You’ve pleased me more than I can say.”

“Thank you, Ma?tresse.” Finally he could trust his voice to speak.

“And I’ve never had a more beautiful man at my feet before. You are a prize.”

He closed his eyes. These were the words his soul needed. Once S?ren had whispered similar words to him. It was like drinking a single sip of the finest red wine and forever chasing that taste in every glass he raised to his lips.

“Merci,” he whispered. She caressed the side of his face. With the same hand that had hurt him, she comforted him. She reached up to her hair, and from the knot by her ear she pulled out the rose.

“This is a Felicia rose,” she said, tickling his lips and cheek with the petals. “Lovely, isn’t it?”

“It is, but not as lovely as you.”

“Well, what could be?” she asked, arrogant as any dominant he’d ever known—himself included. “All roses are traps, you know. The blooms are so beautiful everyone is drawn to them. And yet if you try to take one, and you aren’t careful…”

She turned the rose and let the short stem brush his cheek. One single thorn scratched, but did not break, his skin.

“If you want the petals,” she said, putting the bloom to his lips, “you’ll have to bear the thorns.”

She stepped away from him, reached into her bag, and from it pulled a square of folded wine-colored velvet. She carried the velvet to the side of his bed, unfolded the cloth and gathered its contents in her hand. With a toss of her hand she sprinkled something on top of his bedcovers.

“Come to me,” she said, and beckoned him with her hand. He stood and walked to her and saw what she had done to his bed.

A thousand rose thorns, sharp and shining, lay scattered across the sheets.

“Lie on your back,” she said. “If you want me, that is.”

He wanted her. He crawled over the bed and felt the bite of the thorns into his knees and palms. He lay diagonally across the bed wincing as they pricked at his bruised and battered skin. Once he settled into the sheets, Mistress Felicia raised a hand to her neck and took off the black lace choker. She reached down and removed her boots. She stripped herself of her skirt, then her corset. Off came her stockings and garters. And when she finally stood naked, she took the knot of her hair down.

Now she crawled to him.

“The thorns,” he warned as her hand touched the sheets.

“Have you ever met the rose who was afraid of her own thorns?”

She knelt at his side and took his wrists in her hands, pressing them into the bed by his head. The compassion was gone now, replaced by passion.

“Kiss me inside,” she said against his lips before moving to straddle his head. He grasped her waist. Her skin was so warm and soft. She pushed her hips forward so that her clitoris was at his lips. He licked it and kissed it, sucking it between his lips and teasing it with the tip of his tongue. Mistress Felicia let out the softest sigh of pleasure. He pulled her harder on to his mouth. He tasted her heat and wanted more of it, so he grasped her hips and moved her on him, opening her up with his mouth, lapping at every part of her lips, outer and inner, seeking the core of her while she gasped and moaned on top of him. She covered his hands with hers and squeezed his fingers as she orgasmed. Fluid rushed out of her and coated his lips and chin, and he drank her wetness. He couldn’t get enough of her.

When her shuddering ceased, she sat back on his chest and reached to the table at the side of the bed. He knew she reached for a condom, but he took his chance to capture her nipple in his mouth and suck on it. He circled her aureole with his tongue and sucked her breast deeper into his mouth. Two weeks… It seemed like a year since he’d had a woman’s body in his bed. He had to taste all of her.