The Pearl (The Godwicks #3) - Tiffany Reisz Page 0,36
cunt.”
“I serve at your pleasure,” he said almost reflexively.
“Yes, yes you do.” She put her hands on his shoulders and leaned back, smiling at the portrait of Lord Malcolm. “Did you hear that, Malcolm? I’ve turned your great-grandson into a whore. Who are you prouder of? Him or me?”
Arthur sighed. He really wished she would stop talking to the painting. It wouldn’t be good if it started talking back…
She cupped Arthur’s crotch. “That’s more than a third. I suppose having Great-Granddad here isn’t as much of a mood-killer as you thought.”
She kissed him, and no amount of wounded male pride could keep from kissing her back. She wasn’t cruel to him so much as she was just…cold. And the colder she was to him, the more he wanted to warm her. And the more he wanted to warm her, the colder she was to him. Even this, hanging his great-grandfather’s portrait was cruel, made him feel vulnerable, exposed. She alone knew how much he loved being exposed.
He returned the kiss, pushing his tongue into her mouth, tasting her.
“You like this so much,” she murmured against his lips, laughing between kisses. “You like being treated like this and I love it. I love it and you hate it.”
“I hate that I love it,” he said soft as a penitent giving his confession. He wrapped his fingers around her long pearl necklace and lightly, lightly, oh-so lightly tugging on it to make sure he had her attention. “But I like that you like it.”
If only she liked him a little. Maybe? She smiled, a real one, not mocking and it was gone as fast as it had come. “Get on your knees,” she commanded.
She said it, so he did it. He released his grip on her pearls and went down onto his knees. As soon as he was there, he realized this is where he’d wanted to be all along.
“You whore,” she said, tilting his chin up so he faced her. “Did I make you like this? Or were you like this before me?”
“I was like this before you, but I don’t want to be like this after you.”
“Why not? You’re enjoying it as much as I am.”
“I just… I don’t.” If he could have waved a wand to make it go away, he would have waved it like a drowning man signaling for help. Once Regan was done with him, who would treat him like this? Who could he trust to tell that he needed it? How would he find someone who made him feel the things Regan made him feel?
“Who told you this was wrong?” she asked him.
He shot her a confused look. “I don’t understand.”
“Someone must have gotten it in your head that this, what we’re doing, is wrong, bad, the sort of thing real men don’t do? Who was it?”
“Nobody. You know the Godwicks. We’re one big happy whoring family.”
Regan stared him down, but he refused to be goaded into answering. “Do you want to keep glaring at me,” he asked, “or do you want me to make you come?”
“Well, when you put it that way,” she said and finally smiled. Then she grabbed him hard by the chin, hard enough he knew she’d leave red marks from the rough grip of her fingers. “But make it good.”
He met her eyes. “I’ll make it good.”
Gently, he pressed his mouth to her stomach and felt the soft muscles fluttering. His hands found her ankles, fragile and birdlike. He stroked up her bare legs, up her calves, up her thighs, under her little black dress to her little black lace pants underneath. He held her soft small arse in his hands, kissed her stomach through her dress and slowly pulled her knickers down. When they were at her ankles, she lightly kicked them aside. Then she stepped back and sat on the edge of the bed.
She crooked her finger and he crawled across the floor. It was only a yard, but it felt like a mile on a public street, just from the humiliation of it. The delicious humiliation.
It was worth it for the reward at the finish line, to push her thighs apart and press between them. He lifted the skirt of her dress and tucked it under her to keep it out of his way. There she was, the soft light brown hair on her mound and the seam he’d touched and fucked but hadn’t tasted yet. He buried his face against her warm thighs, inhaling the light