![]() I do not feel quite as confident as I sound. “Maybe not by tomorrow morning, but by the end of the week, you will be thinking of my lovemaking day and night.” “Yes.” I step closer, my lips nearly caressing the shell of her ear. Her words, her insolence, her soft, rosy lips as they move in speech-lust swells in my blood. “And do you expect that by the end of this magical night,” she answers in a sardonic, yet almost seductive whisper, “I will have turned into your pet, your sweet, willing little pussy?” “How about when you find out that you won’t be getting a tonsillectomy, but instead a most pleasurable night of lovemaking?” I rest my hand at the indentation of her waist. “Can anything make a tonsillectomy more exciting?” “Do you want it to be the case, my dear? Would that make our wedding night more exciting?” I smile in genuine amusement at her charge. “Or is this the only way you can get other women to sleep with you?” You will have everything from me that a wife owes her husband.” Her tone is light, but there is a challenge to her voice. “Surely you don’t take me for a silly female who doesn’t know her duties. That resignation had remained in place even as I’d disrobed her, exposing her beautiful body inch by inch.īut now that I’ve tethered her to a bedpost, the lioness has reawakened. She had been similarly silent and stoic as we dined underneath a thirty-foot-high ceiling, at two ends of a table so long we might as well have been on opposite shores of the English Channel. I have a habit of needling her, but suffocating inside our rail compartment, I could find no lighthearted words to ease the tension, nor enough cruelty to remind her that had she listened to my advice and been more prudent in her conduct, she would not have needed to marry me to avoid being cast out. She stared out of the window and I had pretended to be interested in my newspaper. We had spoken barely two words to each other during the rail journey to Larkspear Manor. “It is only your first hour of captivity.” “Why belittle your ability to change?” I ask. As my knuckles brush the side of her breast, she shivers. My hand travels down and skims her rib cage. “Lionesses do not become house cats-or have you not heard?” Her eyes narrow at my not-so-subtle double entendre. “He teaches her that captivity can be wonderfully enjoyable-and trains her to become a tame house cat, a sweet, willing little pussy.” I brush aside a coppery strand of hair that has fallen before her eyes. It is high summer, but a fire has been lit in the grate. “And what does that man do when he has caught said lioness and put her in her cage?” Instead her eyes glitter with calculation, as if assessing how she might turn being tied to a bedpost into an advantage for her. It was as if she could not believe that her life had taken this particular turn, this disastrous plunge into the abyss.īut now that we are alone, in the midst of one of the most pivotal encounters of our lives, she has chosen to display neither hesitation nor fear. “A man who stalks a lioness should ever be wary.”Ī lioness-the way I always think of her, a creature of power and danger.Įarlier in the day she had been dazed, her eyes almost vacant, as we went through the motions of the hasty wedding ceremony that bonded us as husband and wife. My hand on her chin, I turn her face to look into her eyes, haughty eyes that have scorned me for as long as I remember. Her skin is as cool as marble, the flesh beneath firm and resilient. She is determined, as ever, to shunt me to the periphery of her existence, even on this, our wedding night. This being a work of Eros, she is, of course, naked. What distinguishes this bed is the woman standing next to it-her back against one of the excessively sturdy bedposts, her wrists tied behind. And beds with pedigrees are still only furniture. Upon the feather mattresses are spread only sheets of French linen, as decadent as Baudelaire’s verses.įine French linen is not so difficult to come by these days. ![]() But it is not winter the heavy beddings remain in their cedar chests. Pillars rise from the four corners to support a frame on which hang heavy curtains in winter. The bedstead is constructed of oak, heavy, stout, almost indestructible. My bride, the woman I have desired for nearly half of my life. ![]() Tonight another bride will receive her lord and husband on this bed in the manner ordained by God. Kings have slept on it, noblemen have gone to their deaths, and brides beyond count have learned, at last, why their mothers ask them to “think of England.” I SHALL BEGIN WITH A DESCRIPTION of the bed, for one must make the setting of a book clear from the first line.
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