Page 24 of In Service to the Duke

Miss Gillet laps at them in earnest, her unpracticed motions making my balls ache as they clench up. Once they are satisfactorily sodden, I yank them from between her lips and set them at her back entrance. She freezes, her body tensing as I ease the tip of my middle finger past that tight ring.

She squeals and bucks, desperate to be free of the invasion, but I do not allow it. Using my free hand, I grip her about the waist, keeping her thrashing to a minimum. Though she cries out in earnest, I cannot tell if it’s her begging me to stop or continue.

Gritting my teeth, I apply more pressure, forcing my way into her body. She bows up, her howls ringing through the rafters. Slick pours from her body and coats my thigh, soaking into my breeches. Her lips may protest, but her body craves this, craves the violence I unleash upon her.

Normally, when introducing a girl to the pleasure of anal play, I use copious amounts of lube. Though I am a sadist, I never wish to damage my toys. With Miss Gillet, however, the discomfort is part of the lesson. Unfortunately, she doesn’t seem to learn it.

Her arse pumps up in the air as she continues to impale herself upon my finger. By Jove, but she seems to actually enjoy this intrusion. Forcing myself out of the warm haven of her arsehole, I shove her off of me and storm over to wash my hands in a nearby basin.

She wasn’t supposed to enjoy it. It was supposed to be a punishment, a deterrent. Blazes, but what am I supposed to do now? Turning with a glare, I point toward the hidden entrance she came out of.

“Take your lamp and go. Remember, I better not ever find you in here again. Mark my words, you will not enjoy it.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Her voice has this plaintive note infusing it, one that screams out for me to gather her into my arms and soothe away the mental anguish.

There’s also a note of confusion about her, an air of bewilderment which clings to her as a second skin. It’s not surprising she’d be so fraught and frayed at the seams. I, too, battle these demons every time I look at her. Though I will never reveal it, these conflicting emotions are just as frustrating to me.

If only I could shove her aside. Or, as I wanted to do this very morning, cast her out and send her back to her house. Damn her for casting her spell about my mother. Damn her for entwining me about her delicate fingers. And damn my dynamic, which makes me fall prey to the wiles of omegas, whether intentional or not.

Her only saving grace is the fact she is so innocent. If she could just have been as beguiling as Delilah, I’d be able to force her out of my mind. It is an armor which I have carefully fashioned, keeping out those who try to pull one over on me.

But she’s different.

She’s the most entrancing member of her dynamic I’ve ever had the misfortune of coming up against. It’s that innocence which will be my undoing. I am sure of it. Even now, I long to reach out and touch her, to ease the worry I see furrowing her brows.

If this is all a farce, the little minx is good. She’s an actress to rival even the grandest Prima Donna to grace the stage. I dare say she’d be even far more convincing in her roles than my brother’s pretend harlot.

She blinks up at me, her doe eyes glistening in the lamplight. Fuck me, but she’s forcing me under her spell with every twitch of her lips. Those luscious fuckable lips which would inspire sonnets to be created, songs to be sung, and men to die in battle.

Revulsion slithers up my spine as my brain attempts to wax poetic and fails. I am not a man of poetry. I’m not a man of sonnets. I am a man of vicious action and finality. I am a man driven by rough, dark urges, far too violent for someone such as her.

Let John Keats or Lord Byron sing songs about the way her hair glints in the dim lighting. I would much rather wrap those tresses around my fist and yank her head back, exposing the smooth column of her neck. Let them pen tales of the quiver of her lips while I drive my cock between them, stretching her mouth out as she struggles to accommodate my girth.

The traitorous organ swells painfully as I picture her stuffed full of me, each hole gaping as I use her for my pleasure. The little omega governess continues to stare at me, oblivious of the war I wage not to drag her beneath me and expand her education. If I allow it, I will go insane with carnal needs flowing through me.

Just like Delilah, I’m afraid I cannot resist her in this state. But unlike the unholy wretch filling me with her poisonous lies, Miss Gillet is without blame. It makes her all the more tantalizing and forbidden. And I will not have it.

CHAPTER 11

EMMA

One more glance. That’s all I allow myself of Blackport’s tortured expression. He stands before me, his chest heaving as he glares down into my very soul. A gulf opens between us, driving us even further apart. But then, were we ever really more than just mere acquaintances?

A blush races up my neck as my bottom hole throbs from his mistreatment. Surely, we can be considered at least friends with the familiar way in which he stroked my body. Titillation gives way to shame as more of that blasted liquid gathers at the apex of my thighs.

I shouldn’t have liked it, but I did. Even now, my soul cries out for more. More heat, more pain, more of his roughness. If I close my eyes, I can conjure up the sensations he brought about in me, such delicious agony which threatens to rip me open and have me spilling all over his Hessian boots.

Unable to help myself, I reach out, just to touch him once more, to reassure myself he’s not a figment of an overactive, fever-ladened mind. But the moment I do, he jerks away, leaving me alone, cold, and utterly humiliated. I suppose it’s for the best.

Though I understand his reluctance, this rejection still stings. The pain blossoms in my chest as I stay my hand, refusing to reach out and touch him again, to force him to accept my caress. I must make myself leave before I do something I’ll regret.

Heat blazes my cheeks as I stumble through the opening and into the cool, dank hallway. Every inch of my body trembles as I pick my way through, trusting the light spilling out from the room to guide me. The flames dance along the walls, flooding them with shadows, and for a moment, I worry the duke is back behind me.

But he isn’t. All of this is just my imagination running rampant. If he were, it would be his intoxicating scent of pine and honeysuckle gathering around me instead of the moldy gloom threatening to pull me under.

Pausing as I reach the top of the stairs, I look back down the dark expanse, watching as the twinkling lights from the firelight extinguish as he closes the door. My heart clutches painfully in my chest as I slide down the wall and onto the floor. I will be filthy by the time I get back to my room, but I don’t care. What difference is a little soiling when my heart and body scream out for the delicious unknown?

Such matters seem trivial, paltry even, compared to the agony lancing through my heart. A guttural moan rips from my lips as I finally give into the pain fluttering through my chest like wasps pricking me with every breath. Though I hope no one can hear it, I just can’t bring myself to fully care.