Page 59 of Wickedly Yours
“How dare you.” Arabella was breathing hard, the ache between her legs becoming more insistent. She had never seen Rowan lose control.
“Take off the dress, Arabella, least I rip the remainder of it from your body.” He stalked forward.
Arabella took a step back, grabbing the ends of her dress together.
“No corset tonight? Well you certainly don’t need one.” His gaze lingered on her slender waist. “I approve of the chemise, at least. Did you choose that for me or someone else?” He reached out to tease her nipple through the sheer black and gold silk covering her breasts.
Someone else? “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Relief flooded her, but also confusion. This was not about Barker, although she couldn’t for the life of her figure out exactlywhatthis was about.
“Stop talking. Take. It. Off.”
Not an ounce of warmth came from him. She’d only seen him look like this one other time, when he’d confronted Corbett. Hands shaking, she pulled the dress from her shoulders and it fell to the floor in a pool of green.
“Turn around.” He pushed her so she lay over the small couch at the foot of her bed. “Put your hands on the bedpost”
Moisture seeped between her thighs, her body excited in spite of the situation she found herself in. She obeyed him, placing her hands on the cool mahogany of the bedpost. The position raised her buttocks, the chemise riding up her thighs. Within minutes his neckcloth wrapped around her hands, binding her to the bedpost. She tugged on her hands and found them secure.
Rough hands jerked and tugged at her underclothes until the fragile cotton was ripped from her, exposing the lower half of her body. He loomed behind her, the heat of his body searing the flesh of her buttocks. A palm grasped one cheek, squeezing the mound in his hands.
“I rather like you in this position.” The flat of his hand slapped her.
She jerked at the sting of his palm. “Malden —”
Another swat greeted her words. “What did I tell you about calling me by that name?”
Before she could reply, his fingers pushed inside her, thrusting slowly in and out.
“Rowan.” She moaned, pushing her hips back against his fingers, wanting more. Needing more.
He pulled back his hand. “Are you wet forme,Arabella? Or is it all your new admirers?”
“No…I…” She couldn’t speak. His fingers thrust back inside her, flicking against her folds in a harsh caress. She was helpless. Exposed. She bit her lip to keep from begging.
He nipped at the skin of her buttocks. “Longstreet, perhaps?”
Rowan is jealous. Jealous of Longstreet.Her heart fluttered even as her body pleaded for release.
His other hand wrapped around her waist and stroked her from the front, gliding through her wet folds. Caressing and teasing Arabella until she nearly fainted from the pleasure of his touch. Aching with need, her hips writhed. A light stroke touched the swollen flesh and she whimpered. “How dare you accuse me of flirting with Longstreet.”
His response was another light caress. Over and over he brought her to the edge, only to retreat until Arabella became mindless, her arousal painful.
“Turn your head. See what I see.”
The full-length mirror next to her vanity reflected a woman, her hair falling around her shoulders in disarray, her only clothing a torn decadent chemise pushed up from her hips. Her buttocks rose high positioned on the arm of the couch. A beautifully handsome man stood behind the woman, fully clothed, his manner predatory. The man’s hands roamed over the lower half of her body, his fingers disappearing from view as he caressed her. She had never seen anything so erotic.
Rowan’s eyes held hers in the mirror. Possessiveness stamped every line of his face. He was bloody furious.And jealous.
“Rowan.” Her voice hitched as he continued to torment her, and she pulled back against the silk binding her wrists. She was panting now, ready to beg and plead with him if only he would give her what her body so desperately needed. As her muscles began to clamp down, Rowan pulled back his fingers, refusing to allow her the release only he could give her.
“No.” She whispered, ashamed to find her hips pushing back. “Damn you.”
A warm hand traced the outline of her spine, then settled, splaying across the column of her neck. His fingers threaded through her hair, pulling her head back gently.
“To whom do you belong?” His breath, warm and scented of scotch whispered in her ear, before his teeth grazed her neck.
“Myself,” she murmured, still defiant though barely able of coherent thought. Anger rose in her that he, of all people, would assume her to have become a shameless flirt. It pained Arabella that he would think her like her mother. “You are not my master, you—”
Her words were cut off as his fingers continued to torment her. A small moan left her lips.
