Isabella spreads her legs—only a few inches apart. Following my order, technically.
“Wider.”
She spreads them farther apart. The skirt rides up, showing off her white stockings and bare thighs. She’s not wearing any panties. I already know this because I decided on her entire wardrobe, from the dress to the corset to the embellishments in her hair.
I reach down and palm the inside of her knee. And push. With inexorable command I push her legs open until they’re spread wide against the sofa. Her cheeks have turned crimson. So pretty. The expansive white lace covers her pussy from view, but I can feel her. I run my hand over her and find her smooth. Waxed, most likely. She’s wet, slightly. Slick enough when I run two fingers through her folds. I think the embarrassment has turned her on.
That bodes well for her.
I pull my fingers through her wetness, back and forth, back and forth. “Some will say I’m an indulgent husband. Buy whatever you want. Go wherever you want. Do whatever you want, but when you’re with me, your body is mine. I’ll use it at any time in any way I see fit. Do you understand?”
Her mouth opens on a silent gasp. “Yes.”
“You don’t. Not yet, but you will.” I find her clit and tap a little Morse code against it. She squirms on the sofa, and her legs close to a fraction. I pinch the inside of her thigh, and she makes a high-pitched whine of pain. Her legs open wide again. “I’m precise in my commands. Clear in my expectations. And firm if you need to be reprimanded.”
“Reprimanded?”
I slide my thumb across her clit. And pinch. “There are rewards as well.”
She’s breathing hard now, her chest heaving in her bodice, her breasts pushing against the bounds of the lace. “Francisco.”
“Frans. You can call me Frans anytime you want, except in the bedroom. Or anytime I’m touching your sweet body. Anytime I’m using you, I’m sir. Understand?”
She nods, and I swat the inside of her thigh.
“Yes, sir,” she gasps.
“That’s good,” I say, my voice low and approving. She’s learning fast, but there’s still so much more to do. “Now I’m going to make you come. I want you coming so hard there’s arousal running down your legs. I want you to feel it, dripping down, cooling on your skin, when we go out there and smile at everyone. I want your nipples hard and tight inside your corset when everyone toasts to you.”
Her beautiful blue eyes are glazed with lust. “That’s… wrong.”
“So much of what I want from you is wrong.” Obedience. Structure. Discipline. Those things have no place in a modern marriage. I know this. I don’t care. I want her under my thumb in every way, but most especially her clit warm and plump and slick.
Voices trickle in from the closed door. “They can hear us,” she gasps.
“You must be very quiet.” To emphasize my point I pinch her clit, and a small moan escapes her. I don’t really give a fuck if everyone hears her climax. I’m a hard man in most ways. Cold. Unkind, some would say, but I know how to pleasure my wife. I lean close and breathe in. Musk. Sex. Woman. A lick from the bottom of her pussy to the top. She squirms against the couch, and I use both my hands on her thighs to hold her down. Lace threatens to block my access, so I shove it up around her waist. There’s so much of it, yards of it. Expensive fabric. The gown cost over half a million dollars. It was commissioned by me. Now I’m tasting her while she wears it. I slide my tongue between her folds, seeking more of her sweet desire.
“Wait,” she says, though her hips say otherwise. They rock against my face, finding pressure against my lips, my chin. It’s messy, this meeting. It won’t only be her thighs damp with arousal. I’ll smell her on me for the entire reception. I’ll taste her when I eat the chicken or the tofu or whatever the fuck I’m served. “We shouldn’t do this here.”
“Where would you prefer?” I ask, pausing. My cock’s hard as iron. I’m forcing an even tone, but really I want to fuck her into the carpet. “A bed? Would that suit you?”
“Yes.” The word turns into a hiss as I suckle her clit.
“How mundane,” I say, pulling back to finger her. One finger. Two. She’s tight, and my cock flexes with the knowledge that she’ll be a vise around me. “I didn’t know I married someone who preferred such an ordinary location. Would you like the missionary position with the lights out, too?”
“You don’t know who you married.”
The words hang between us. My eyes lock with hers. There’s pure truth in her words. A little bit of accusation. She may have accepted the merger between our families, between our lives. Between our bodies, but she’s afraid of it, too. “You’re right. I don’t know you. Yet. I’m going to learn you, every inch of you. I’m going to taste every inch of you, too.”
It won’t be a hardship. I take another lick of her sex. It’s hard to hold back the moan that wants to erupt at her flavor. God, she’s delicious. Salty and sweet. There’s a hint of lavender, too. It turns me on, thinking of her preparing for this. Shaving her legs and her cunt, knowing that her new husband would see her. Feel her. Fuck her.
I swallow hard. A better man would wait until tonight for this. He would give her a bed, with the missionary position, the lights turned off. A better man never would have trapped her in an arranged marriage. But I’m Francisco Castille, the exiled duke. I drive three fingers into her. It’s a stretch. She winces. She’ll feel more than her arousal when she smiles and waves at everyone in a few minutes. She’ll feel soreness, too.
I pump three fingers in and out, slow and steady, relentless in my pace, while my tongue flutters against her clit. Her breath turns fast. Anxious. Desperate. “Please,” she mutters. “Please. Please.”
Tears run down her cheeks. I push my cock with the heel of my palm. Not yet. I curl my fingers inside her, finding the spot that makes her jerk. A keening cry fills the room as she comes, her inner muscles clenching around me, liquid sliding down my hand.
“You’re beautiful,” I tell her, my voice hoarse.
She was a porcelain doll during the ceremony, a photograph from a magazine, a bride any man would covet. Now her cheeks are flushed, her lashes glistening, her chest heaving. She’s a goddamn wet dream. And she’s mine.
I pull out a silk handkerchief and wipe the tears from her cheeks. Then I swipe it over the swollen flesh between her legs. She flinches, still sensitive from climax.
“Thank you,” she says, shaky, breathless.
I don’t really know whether she’s thanking me for the compliment or the orgasm. Or maybe she’s thanking me for the money I’m infusing into her family’s business. Unease settles in my stomach. You don’t know who you married. I don’t know the details of her life, what she likes to eat or wear, but I know the essence of her. The core of her. She’s good and pure, and nothing that I should have soiled with my touch.
She doesn’t know who she married, either.
Chapter Five
Isabella
The reception goes by in a blur of faces and smiles. My nipples feel hard beneath the corset, my skin strangely tight. This is the same dress that I wore during the wedding ceremony, but my body feels different now. It’s like I’ve come awake.