She quaked in her shoes with fear and arousal. She'd never been with a man as beautiful as Malcolm and she would have walked barefoot across a pit of red coals to please him tonight … but he was right. Reason called to her, telling her to run from the pain.
She ignored its voice. It sounded too much like her own. She'd far rather listen to Malcolm's.
"Put your arms behind your head," he said. "Clasp your fingers and keep your elbows open. Like a butterfly's wings."
She did as she was told. The move made her arch her back, thrust her breasts forward. Malcolm stood before her, inspecting her.
"Legs wider," he said. He touched the floor with the tip of the riding crop in two places-here and there, showing her where to place her feet. She moved her feet wider apart, a foot and a half, and stood quivering in place.
"Very nice." Malcolm raised the crop and tapped her left nipple with it. Then her right. He caressed the underside of each breast with the triangle of leather on the crop's end. He ran the shaft of the crop down the sides of her body from each elbow to each ankle and back up again. It tickled and made her shiver. She would have given anything to feel Malcolm's body against her right now. She craved it and with every passing second she craved it more. No doubt this was the intention.
He stepped close again. It was torture to be so close without touching. He brought the crop up between them and pressed the flat side of the tip to his lips. Then he pressed the opposite side to her lips.
"Think of it as a kiss," he said when the leather lay against her mouth. "That's all it is. Just a kiss from me to you."
"Most kisses don't leave welts," she said. "I prefer French kissing."
"Well, I'm English. This is English kissing."
Then stepping back again, he brought the crop's leather tip between her legs and lightly tapped her sex. He turned it on its side and used the edge of the tip to pry her apart along the seam of her vulva. She felt the stiff leather corner against the entrance of her body.
"It stings more if it's wet," he said with his devil's grin and for a split second she wondered … what if Malcolm was the devil? With a riding crop in her cunt, she could almost believe it.
So what if he was? She wanted him all the same.
He dipped the riding crop's tip into her sex again, wetting it with her own fluids.
"Insult to injury," she said.
He held his arms wide, smiled, and bowed. "The name of the game, my darling."
She nodded her acquiescence.
"Here are the rules," he said. "You survive my crop, you earn my cock. A hundred strikes of this." He lifted the crop into the air. "For a hundred strokes of this." He pointed casually at his crotch and she could see the outline of his erection through the pale breeches. The trousers adhered so tightly to his body she could even see one long vein running from the base along to the shaft to the tip. She knew that vein. She'd licked it with her own tongue.
A hundred strokes of his cock? She'd come after the first ten, if not on the very first.
"Count for me," he said. "Starting at a hundred."
He stood behind her and she braced herself. What was he waiting for? Was he torturing her with suspense? Taking his aim?
"Admiring the view," he said as if reading her thoughts. She blushed hot at the flattery and smiled. Then he wiped the smile off her face with one quick crack of the crop. It struck high on her thigh in a spot she'd never associated with agony before. It burned like Greek fire.
She cried out in shock and Malcolm laughed.
The bastard laughed at her.
"Count, dear," he said, his voice chiding.
"One hundred."
"Did it hurt?" he asked, tenderly touching the burning welt on her thigh.
"Yes," she said.
"I'm sorry, darling." He kissed his fingertips and touched them to the welt. "So very sorry."
Then he kissed her lips softly and massaged her nipples. She moaned in the back of her throat. Her body was a carnival of sensations-the stinging pain, the swelling of her breasts, the tingling of her lips as he kissed her. Her head spun. Did he want to hurt her? If so, then why apologize and kiss her to make up for it?
"There we go, love," he said. "Only ninety-nine to go. Don't feel too bad. When I was fifteen, I was caught buggering my neighbor's lady wife. I would have traded my left ball for a punishment like this."
"Were you beaten?"
"I was."
"With a crop?"
"A bullwhip."
She gasped.
"Like I said, it could be worse. So count your blessings when you count my kisses."
He struck her again with the crop, kissing her hip this time.