2Rakehell by Debra Glass

remained.
    He anchored her by placing one hand on her shoulder as he
pushed farther into her folds, farther into—
    She let out a yelp of mingled surprise and satisfaction as
his index finger slipped into her body.
    “Did you touch yourself this way when you recalled those
sordid events?”
    She wanted to lean against him, to spread her legs to give
him greater access. She did not want to discuss her shameful habits with him.
    “Tell me, sweet wife. There should be no more secrets
between us.”
    She swallowed thickly. “Yes.”
    “Mmm,” he voiced. “Describe your fantasy to me. In detail,
mind you.”
    She couldn’t look at him and do this, so she gave in and
leaned into the rock-hard wall of his chest. Her fingers clutched at the folds
of his shirt. “In…instead of Lady Beckham, it is I who is…bent over your…legs.”
God, she couldn’t think with that finger burrowing inside her channel. It felt
so wonderfully, sinfully good.
    “Go on,” he urged as his finger plumbed her lazily.
    “My…my dress is up. My drawers are down just far enough to
bare my…my bottom. Oh…” His finger worked with more insistence, robbing her of
the ability to think clearly.
    “And then…” he encouraged.
    “You call me names.”
    “What sort of names?” he asked.
    “Naughty girl. Naughty…naughty, that’s all I can think of.
Oh please…” His languid touch was propelling her toward orgasm.
    “Isn’t there more?”
    The words came easier now. “You tell me I must be punished,
that I must be…spanked.”
    “Would you like to be spanked now?”
    She mewled. She could never request such a thing. Never! He
was mad. She was mad for letting him do this to her, for allowing him to coerce
her to admit things no sane woman should. Her body rocked against his finger,
seeking, wanting.
    Needing.
    “Let me die,” she pleaded. “Let me die on your fingers.”
    His pace slowed. She gritted her teeth in frustration.
    “Would you like me to spank you?” he asked again.
    “No…” Her voice was uncertain.
    “Shall I stop then?” he asked, threatening to remove his
fingers again.
    “No, no.” She was on the verge of tears.
    This time he did remove his fingers. He traced her bottom
lip with one so that she tasted her own sweet essence. Disappointment threaded
through her as she kissed the pad pressed to her mouth. This was improper.
Everything about him was indecent.
    And damn her to hell, she wanted dreadfully to be a part of
it.
    He thumbed back a strand of hair that had escaped her
chignon. “To hell with it,” he muttered and with one pop of the pin holding it
all in place her locks tumbled down around her shoulders, swinging to caress
the skin of her back. “Tell me what you want, Primrose. Tell me how you want me
to dominate you. Give me your consent and I’ll take you to the height of
pleasures you could never imagine.”
    Searching his eyes, she stared.
    “Give me your will and in return, I’ll give you permission
to feel, to know arousal and desire.” His warm breath fanned her cheeks.
    Drawing in enough air became difficult. Her mind clouded
with the need for culmination.
    “Sexual indulgences beyond your comprehension,” he
continued. “They can all be yours with one simple word, darling.”
    Need blossomed so strong a tear rolled down her cheek.
    “There is nothing to fear,” he promised. “You will see that
what we will do together is an intricate dance with complex steps. Boundaries I
will push you toward but will never cross—unless you so desire it.”
    He tipped her chin up and his lips brushed across hers. He
hadn’t kissed her since their wedding day. There’d been a time when a chaste
kiss from him was all she dreamed of. Not now.
    No.
    She wanted far more than kissing from him. She drew back.
“If these are your terms then let’s be perfectly clear. What do you require of
me?” Her voice was terse as she struggled to keep it from betraying her equal
emotions of lust. Of