Page 20 of In Service to the Duke

Biting my lower lip, I go to lower my skirts, but he grabs my wrist, preventing me from moving. “I asked you a question, and you better damn well answer.”

The anger in his tone causes me to flinch. I go to jerk my hand away, but he holds fast, tightening his grip. Licking my lips, I try to answer him, but nothing comes out. I don’t even know what to say.

“I- I ache. And I need to relieve it.” It’s the best I can articulate, but I worry it will just make him more upset.

With a dark chuckle, he sets the lamp down and wrenches my hand up, pinning it above my head. The burn in my shoulder is nothing compared to the heat flooding my system as he leans over me, nearly smothering me with his bulk.

“Poor thing,” he murmurs, his voice holding not even one ounce of actual pity.

Sliding his free hand up my thigh, he stops about midway up and squeezes the muscle, drawing my attention, momentarily at least, away from the incessant pulsing betwixt my thighs. It takes every ounce of willpower not to buck up against him in silent entreaty to assist me with this novel sensation.

“The wayward governess aches. Do you suppose it has anything to do with the spanking you received from me? Do you really think you should be allowed to relieve such torment when it was your wayward mouth which put you in this predicament in the first place?”

Again, I am at a loss on how to answer him. “Please. I-”

“Oh yes, little omega. You will beg me. By the time I’m through with you, you will beg for relief, and I will decide whether or not you’ve earned it.”

Confusion buzzes in my brain at his words. “I- I don’t understand.”

“Oh, but you will.” He lets go of my hand and takes the lamp with him, walking across the room to what appears to be a fireplace.

As I go to adjust my skirts, he calls out from over his shoulder. “You will not move. Keep your skirts where they are.”

How in the blazes did he do that? From what I can see, he didn’t so much as look at me. Does he already know my mind better than me? It’s so unfair to be at such a disadvantage.

I tremble on the bed as I wrap my arms around myself. It has nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with the Alpha hunched down as he coaxes the fire to life. To be alone with him thusly is so improper. If anyone saw…

My mother would be happy. That’s for sure. Everything she ever wanted is at my fingertips. All I have to do is cry out and have someone find us in such a state. He would have to marry me for sure.

The only issue with that is I do not wish to be married in such a way. Foolishly, I still cling to the idea that a wedding should occur between two people who agree to it. Not someone trapped into it. Though I do not ascribe to the idea of true love matches, I at least want the relationship to come from a place of mutual understanding instead of loathing.

And so I keep my mouth shut as he stokes the flames, turning the glowing embers into a roaring fire. Once it’s as he wants it, he goes about the room, lighting candles, illuminating the spaces one at a time. As it all comes into view, I stop cold.

This isn’t an ordinary room as I originally thought. Yes, the bed is something I can recognize as being familiar, but even that is a bit strange. Rings line the wood from the base of the pillars up to the top.

I didn’t notice it before in the dim light. Or maybe I just didn’t want to notice. My heart clenches as I look at the walls, noting all the different things hanging down. I have no words for many of them, but a few I recognize.

Crops of all shapes, sizes, and lengths hang down from a tidy row of nails. So many different crops. How many crops does a rider need? Surely just one should be sufficient.

Next to them are what look to be whips. But other than that, I haven’t a clue. He walks over to the wall and runs his fingers over the various objects, touching them as if he’s caressing them. I shouldn’t feel that niggle of jealousy, but it burns through me, pushing aside all rational thought.

If only he’d caress me in such a way. He’s touched my face a few times in this manner, and it never failed to make my heart race and my palms dampen. Not to mention other areas far lower coming to life at just one gentle touch.

Blackport grabs a few of the crops, along with one of the things I’m unable to identify. It has a thick handle with lots of strings hanging down, short and stumpy, like a broom that fits in the palm of his hand. My pulse quickens as he makes his way over, his steps lazy as he takes his time, drawing out my agony.

He lays the implements across my abdomen with a smirk. “Hold on to these. I would much rather have you be useful than just lying there.”

With a frown, I gather them into my arms and run my fingers across the odd surfaces, watching as he goes over to the other wall. This time, he examines various hanks of rope. Though I’m not sure what exactly he’s looking for, he weighs each lump in his hand before running his thumb over them.

Again, my insides clench as I study him, gazing at the strength in his arms as he analyzes them. There’s a hidden knowledge there which has me in awe. When he finds the one he wants, he uncoils it, staring me down as he tests its strength.

“Move to the center of the bed.” His voice is sharp, crisp, and brooks no argument.

I don’t dare disobey. It’s not for fear of repercussions, but because I so desperately want to know what all of this means. There’s a promise in his voice, and hopefully, if I’m obedient for him, I’ll understand soon enough.

After draping the rope over the footboard, he undoes his jacket. His movements are slow and precise. With each button that passes through its hole, my body throbs, the ache becoming sharp between my thighs.

By this point, I don’t care that I’m so exposed to him. I just want the discomfort to go away. Squirming, I grip the crops tighter, not wishing to disobey his commands and touch myself again.