Black Diaries

62. In the Dictionary, under "S"

"Ye... yes," I whimpered. "Please make me feel good."

"Yes, what?" he demanded. Worshipfully, his nose skimmed along the line of my throat, breathing in my scent. I arched under his ministrations, trying to shift away from the sensual torture. But his hands were ready, grasping my wrists, holding me down like a bucking filly. "Yes, what?" he repeated, his town lowering to a threatening level, and pressing a lingering kiss to the base of my throat.

"Yes, my Lord?" I suggested in a weak whisper.

I could feel his wicked smile against the sensitive skin of my throat, and that feeling alone was enough to make me want to explode right there on the spot.

Pull yourself together, Cassy! I ordered myself. You're a strong woman! A serial killer, with the scalps of two husbands hanging from your belt! You aren't going to cave into this arrogant English bastard, simply because he has a face like a fallen angel and a voice as soft as sin!

"And what," the voice as soft as sin whispered into my ear, "would you like me to do now?"

Be strong, my inner voice admonished me. Be strong!

"Make me feel good," I whispered.

Dammit, I said be strong!

"Tut-tut," whispered the seductively soft voice into my ear. "Such a lack of manners. I am your lord. You must say please if you wish to beg for a favor from your lord."

"Please!" I growled.

"Oh, no." I could hear the evil laughter in his voice. "Not like that, Miss McKinney. That is not how you beg a favor from your lord." Pressing another kiss to the base of my throat, he let his tongue dart out from between lips, and as seductive as the serpent's tongue in the garden of Eden, let it tickle my skin. My back arched into him with another whimper. "Say it like you mean it, my dear."

Oh, to hell with being strong!

"P-please.... Please, my Lord..."

"Now that's more like it. So you would like me to make you feel good, Miss McKinney, hm?"

"Yes!"

"What about this?" Gently, he skimmed his aquiline nose along the side of my neck, down to my shoulder, and left a lingering kiss there. Even through the fabric of my blouse, it was electrifying. "Does this feel good?"

"Yes. Oh, yes..."

"And this?" He repeated the motion on the other side, this time drawing aside the collar of my blouse, so his lips brushed my naked shoulder. I gasped. "Does this feel good, too, Miss McKinney?"

"Oh...yes..."

His lips disappeared.

"Yes, what?"

Briefly I considered being strong again—very briefly.

"Yes, My Lord. Thank you, My Lord."

"Good girl."

His Lordship's reward came swift: a kiss so intoxicating, so seductive that it made me melt into a into the soft summer grass. He broke away far too soon. Sucking in a breath of air, I desperately scrambled to clear my head, to rid myself of all the hot, rampant emotions that were bubbling through my veins and boiling my brains. It didn't work.

"I feel like a chambermaid in some period drama," I accused him, my lips twitching into an involuntary smile, "being charmed by the lord of the manor."

"Really?" he murmured, his breath tickling my skin, "but there are massive differences, my dear Miss McKinney." Softly, seductively, his lips touched a point just under the base of my throat. I gasped. "First—you're not a chambermaid."