Pleasure and Purpose Page 3

  "As Minister of the Council of Fashion." Cillian swung the flogger. "Ah, the sound of it is as nearly wonderful in the air as against her skin. Don't you agree?"

  "The Council of Fashion is no less important a post than any of the others." Cillian stopped. "Spare me the merry ego stroke, Edward. I'm being granted the minister position to give me something to do besides fuck and drink and gamble. Isn't that right? And as my dear father doesn't trust me enough to give me a position which has real effect on the government of Firth, he's settled it that I'll get to oversee the length of trousers for the upcoming season."

  "It's not my place to judge your father's decisions."

  Cillian flung him a look so venomous it would have made a man unused to such ire step back. As it was, Edward merely braced himself for the flood of cursing he expected to follow.

  "My father," the prince said in a surprisingly even tone, "pays you to play nursemaid to me. Placate and soothe my. . . irrational urges. To keep me in line." He smacked the flogger against his forearm, and though it left a red mark, he didn't even flinch. "Isn't that true, Edward?"

  Edward had to admit it was. This agreement brought Cillian no joy, however, as evidenced by the cloud that crossed his fine features.

  "My father pays you to keep me happy as well, does he not? Isn't that part of your duty, too?"

  "No man can make another happy, my prince," said Edward with a hand over his heart and a half bow to soften the retort.

  "Same as it ever was." Cillian snapped his fingers and a woman scurried forward with a jug of worm, of which Cillian quaffed a great mouthful. "And yet. . . not the same." Edward had learned saying nothing was more often the better course when dealing with the prince. Cillians answering smile was that of a man baring his teeth to barricade a scream. The prince wiped his lips and handed the jug back to the maid.

  "When they deemed me fit to return to polite society," Cillian said, "it was with the understanding I'd never really regain the status I had before. No monarch wishes to wed his daughter to a madman, even one so dramatically recovered." Cillian grimaced, looking around the room. He let the flogger s trailing tails caress his arm. When he looked at Edward again, his eyes glinted with anger but his voice stayed calm.

  "He didn't want to have to do it, you know. Didn't trust you. Has never trusted you, Edward, not since we were lads in school. It's made your place difficult, has it not? Being out of the king's favor, settling for the shite assignments. You could've sought a different trade, perhaps, but your own father was desperate for you to hold a higher place than he had. Spice merchant, wasn't he? Got his place in court by sheer hard work. Is that right?"

  "You know it is." Edward kept his back straight, face without expression.

  "It's what fathers do, isn't it, Edward? Hope their sons are better than they? What do you suppose my father thinks of me?" Cillian's laugh sounded like breaking glass. "No, he didn't want you at all, Edward, my dear one, but I insisted. My old school chum would keep me under control. He didn't want it to be you, not after what happened . . . what we both know happened . . . but it had to be someone, didn't it? And so now you have a nice house out of the city, and your table is never empty, your wardrobe never out of fashion. It's been good for you, hasn't it, my dear one? Looking after me?" Cillian's green eyes had gone dark with emotion.

  "Yes, Cillian," replied Edward coldly. "It has." They stared that way for a few moments, much being said without being spoken, and Edward remembered how he'd once called this man brother. Then, at Cillian's whim, the moment passed. He swung the flogger against the back of his hand. "Ah, such a sweet sting. Are you ready for it, my dear one?"

  The woman tied to the ironwood cross murmured and shifted again, the pink slit of her sex glistening. Cillian looked back at Edward with a grin that belied the tension between them.

  "I don't give a virgin's fart for the Council of Fashion, Edward. Not about the difference between peacock and sky blues, nor about the cost of wool and silk, nor about trade routes or any other of that rot. Someday I'll be King of Firth and until then, I'll play as I wish. You want to know my plans for the minister position? What if I decree that all women should wear nothing but collars and men attire themselves in cock rings and codpieces?"

  "I think you'd have a difficult time garnering the support to pass such a decree." Cillian sneered again. "Don't worry. You can assure my father I'll be certain to surround myself with assistants who do care. But my prick is straining the front of my breeches at the moment, so unless you'd like to bring me off with your mouth, I suggest you step back while I whip this lovely cunna in front of me."

  Edward had no intentions of so servicing the prince and stepped back. Cillian laughed and strode forward. He paused behind the woman and with tender hands pushed her hair over her shoulder to expose her bare back.

  "Just a little sting, my sweet," he murmured.

  She cried out, body jerking at the first lash, and Edward couldn't help the surge of desire flooding him at the sound of leather on her flesh. The delicious aroma of sweet feminine arousal teased his nostrils. Cillian let the flogger fall again.

  Edward would have avoided Cillian's playroom entirely, had King Allwyn not expressly bid him to attend the prince there, to make certain his activities never again went too far. It was, however, torture, made greater by Cillian's constant taunting. He wanted to leave, but the sight had riveted him in place. Cillian was a master at physical dominance. He marked die woman's back without hesitating, pausing just when her cries grew so loud Edward was certain she was unable to take another strike. The prince slipped a hand between her legs, working his fingers inside her, and she cried out, pushing back against him as much as her bonds would allow.

  "Edward. Come here."

  Edward obeyed, for though his mind might be reluctant, his body wasn't.

  "She's so close to the edge. Her cunt's gripping my hand like a fist. She's going to go over."

  The girl moaned, body trembling. The welts on her back stood out against the dun of her skin. Cillian pulled his hand out, slick with her juices, and licked his fingers.

  "Her honey is sweet. I want you to taste her."

  "My lord—"

  "You're not married, my lord Delaw," interrupted the prince. "And I know for a fact you have no mistress. So give me no excuses about why you cant take your pleasure with this cunna, who'd be begging for it if I hadn't gagged her mouth."

  "Cillian. I don't wish—"

  "Do it," ordered Cillian, voice low and dangerous. "Do you forget, my dear one? What it's like to do this?"

  "I don't forget."

  How could he? No matter how long it had been since he'd taken his enjoyment that way, he could never forget how it felt. Nor the consequences.

  "Come taste her." Cillian was teasing. Seducing. Certain Edward would give in. Edward moved forward, his fury inflamed by the scent of the woman before him and his cock, straining despite himself in his trousers. "If it so pleases you, my lord."

  "It does," hissed Cillian. "Put your hands on her." Edward slipped a hand between the girl's legs and her thighs trembled. His fingers slid along her folds, eased by the honey trickling from her slit. He rubbed it with his fingertips, then found her clit. She was so wet, so swollen, so hot. . . though her back bore the marks of Cillian's flogger she didn't weep, didn't pull away from the pain but embraced it.

  A despised and familiar heat swept his brain as he stroked her. The need to grip, to bind and bite and own ... he let out a low groan as her cunt pulsed around his fingers. She wanted this, his hands on her.

  "Fuck her with your hand," murmured Cillian, "while I kiss her with my lash. And together we'll make this cunna scream. Shall we?

  He didn't bother waiting for Edward's answer, but brought down the flogger again and again while the woman writhed as much as her restraints allowed. Edward gave himself up to the desire. He slid two fingers into her slick channel, his thumb rubbing her clit with every stroke. Breathing hard, his prick as hard as t
he ironwood bar to which she was bound, Edward stroked her to climax while Cillian brought the flogger down again and again on her skin. The woman sagged, muscles leaping and jerking as she came.

  "The way we used to." Cillian's voice had gone hoarse with his exertions. "Do you remember?"

  "I remember."

  "You. Me." Cillian's lash came down again, and the woman cried out, hips leaping forward against Edward's hand. "We rutted our way through every whore who'd have us .

  . . and they all would have us, aye?"

  Edward didn't look at Cillian. His gaze stayed fixed upon the woman. Cillian struck her again, and she writhed. Cillian let the tails of his flogger trail over her back, then leaned forward to blow a breath along the welts.

  "Do you want to know what they tried to tell me when I was in the asylum?" Cillian moved closer to the woman, his voice soft as he caressed her hair. "A good man's cock didn't get stiff at the sight of dainty wrists bound with leather cord, or the sweetness of curving buttocks marked with the shape of his palm."

  Edward's prick was still stiff, but now his throat went dry. Cillian moved his hand over the girl's skin, and before Edward could pull away, the prince had reached forward and grabbed his wrists, moving Edward's fingers over the pattern of welts while the girl moaned.

  "You remember what it was like to do this." Cillian's whisper floated like spidersilk in the lust-scented air between them. His fingers guided Edward's over the girl's skin, so deliciously hot. Over her hip, the unmarked smoothness of her ass, lower to stroke her thighs. "Where is the Edward I knew? The one who made the cunnas beg him to tie them? Why have you abandoned me, my dear one?"

  Cillian lifted Edward's hand from the girl's warm skin and pressed the sweat-slick handle of the flogger into it.

  "This time," he said, "you flog her while I make her come." Edward jerked his hand away so fast the flogger fell at his feet, and he stepped away like it was a snake poised to bite.

  "You go too far, Cillian." The words hurt his throat and sounded strangled, not detached as he'd meant them to.

  Cillian's eyes flashed as he bent to retrieve the flogger. "You of all people, my dear one, should understand how I would know when to stop. I know how far to go. It's you who—"

  "Good day, my prince." Edward cut off Cillian with an exaggeratedly polite half bow.

  Cillian turned back to his pet. "Do you believe what they told me? About what good men don't do?"

  Edward paused at the door. "Yes."

  Cillian's laugh was harsh. "And what of lying, Edward? Do good men do that?" To that, Edward had no answer. As he left, he heard the smack of leather on flesh, and the girl cried out again. He didn't look back.

  Nessa had spent the day making Edward's quarters as soothing as possible, an easy enough task as he'd furnished them already with taste and comfort. She'd added little, straightened and dusted much, then contented herself with reading one of his books while she awaited his arrival.

  At the sight of him tearing up the lane, his horse galloping full-out, Nessa tucked away the book. The kettle was warm and would need no more than a few moments on the fire to boil, but judging from the way her patron strode out of the stable and toward the house, he'd need something stronger than tea.

  She had the whiskey poured and waiting in the crystal glass when he slammed into the room. The door opened so hard it struck the wall before bouncing back, and a book fell from the overcrowded shelves. Edward strode into the room, his dark hair disheveled and clothes askew.

  Nessa held out the glass to him without speaking, and whatever he'd been about to say cut off without more than the smallest noise. He took the glass and tossed back the contents, grimacing at the sting. His eyes gleamed. He threw the glass into the fire. And then, he took her.

  He backed her up against the wall and lifted her skirt to her thighs, one hand sliding between her legs while the other fumbled at his trouser buttons. His mouth found the soft skin of her neck and he laved it with his tongue before nipping.

  The force of his embrace and the teeth were triggers for her, though he couldn't have known it. His kiss swallowed her cry. His hand parted her folds, and his cock nudged her entrance. She opened for him, hands going around his shoulders to lift her body and angle her hips to ease his entry, but though arousal bloomed inside her she wasn't yet wet. His questing hand probed her, a finger slipping inside, then out again to roll over her clitoris. She twitched with a small cry.

  Edward took his hand from between her legs and moved it up between them. "Spit," he ordered, and she did at once.

  In the next moment, his wet fingers caressed her, smoothed over her clit and inside, and he grasped his cock and thrust inside her. Edward moaned as he filled her, his forehead pressed to hers. His whiskey-scented breath brushed her mouth and she opened her lips to breathe him in.

  His mouth found her neck again, sucking hungrily, and the feeling of it set her on fire. Nessa had long ago discovered the need inside her for just this sort of passion. Fast, hard, without mercy, every small sting one more thread in an entire tapestry of pain and pleasure.

  She wrapped her legs around him, grateful for her previous patron's insistence upon a slender form, allowing Edward to lift her without strain. The bookcase against her back shuddered with his I; thrusts, the books digging into her back and making her squirm with ecstasy as much as his cock inside her.

  As her first orgasm struck, she cried out and threw her head back. He bit down harder. His belly rubbed her flesh, teasing the postclimax sensitivity in a way that made her writhe, but in only a moment the pleasure built again and she hovered on the brink of another climax.

  Edward rocked against her and shuddered, pumping inside her. His final thrust moved her so hard it cracked a shelf. His shout eased a final burst of bliss out of her body, and Nessa clutched him as their bodies twitched and tensed in mutual completion. They stayed like that as their breathing slowed, until finally he put her down. Her skirt fell back around her ankles. A warm trickle of his seed and her juices ran down her thigh, tickling, and she smiled.

  "Good evening, sir," she said at last, the first words they'd exchanged since he'd come home.

  Edward had a hand on the bookcase, his head lowered as though standing took all his energy, and Nessa put a supportive hand on his arm. She pulled up his trousers to his waist and urged him with small touches to sit, then looked at him with concern.

  "Are you well?"

  "I plead your mercy." Edward accepted the second glass of liquor she handed him. This response surprised her, and she folded herself into the Waiting at his feet. "Sir?" Edward sipped the drink this time instead of tossing it back. "I shouldn't have used you so."

  Nessa said nothing at first, calculating the best response. She'd never had a patron so reluctant to avail himself of all she had to offer. She'd had patrons who didn't desire her sexually, true, but never one who took his pleasure with her and apologized for it, after.

  "I don't understand."

  Edward rubbed his forehead. "You're no doxy. The Order was very clear on this matter." She was beginning to see his reason for distress. "I'm here to provide you with solace in accordance with the principles of my order. You required the service of my body, and I provided it. There's no need to plead my mercy."

  He looked at her, reaching out again to touch the fresh marks upon her throat. "Stillness."

  "Yes, sir?"

  A faint smile quirked his full-lipped mouth. "Is it a Handmaiden's place to be treated so roughly?"

  It was perhaps meant as a question without answer, but she thought carefully before providing him with one anyway. "If I felt you were being unduly harsh for no purpose but to cause me distress, I would have to judge if my distress brought you solace." He met her eyes, expression curious. "And if it did?"

  "For every patron to whom I provide absolute solace, one more Arrow fills Sinder s Quiver. So I believe and such is my goal. So if I believed allowing you to treat me harshly somehow brought you solace, I
'd suffer the treatment with grace and the glory of knowing I was doing my part in bringing the return of the Holy Family. However," she said, raising a finger, "if I believed your abuse was ill-guided and purely selfish, that causing me harm did nothing to ease you . . . then I would leave and return to the Order and you could be faced with fines for not obeying the confines of our contract. I'm not a whipping boy."

  Edward reached for the hand that had pointed, and he took it between his two. "And what do you believe about how I have treated you thus far?"

  Nessa reached to touch his cheek. "I believe you're a man uncomfortable with needing." He put a hand over hers against his face, holding it there for a moment before taking it away and holding both hers between his. "I'm quite gratified to have you here to see to my needs."

  "You needn't fret. I'm not made of glass. I don't break."

  "How do you know?"

  The challenge in his tone surprised her, but she met it. "Experience has taught me so."

  "Experience with patrons?"

  Her experience with the limits her body could handle had happened before she'd discovered her Calling. "Some."

  "Is that something they train you for? The Order?" He seemed alarmed and disturbed, two states of emotion Nessa didn't wish to encourage.

  "All Handmaidens are given the same basic training," she told him, hoping her calm would transfer to him. "But we all have our own specialized interests and abilities. Some are more patient. Some, better mannered. Though we're all trained to provide comfort, there are as many ways to do it as there are stars."

  "Have you ever had a patron you didn't want to serve?"

  She smiled. "It's not a question of want. If I'm assigned, I serve."

  "But if you didn't like him?"

  Nessa thought for a moment on how best to explain. "There are five principles of the Order of Solace. The last is women we begin and women we shall end. I'm a woman, but I am also a Handmaiden. I've learned how to be both at the same time."

  "You put aside one part of yourself in order to become the other."