A "spank me, thank me, and move on" attitude is decidedly unromantic, you say? Well, in BENDING TYME, that's how the success-driven Esme feels...until she's thrown back in time from her Boston offices and into the Lord Davenport's arms...in England -- circa 1812 ;)
Esme woke, out of sorts, conscious of some man across from her, his bulk dwarfing the side-chair where he reclined, clad in his ruffled shirt and velvet breeches. He sat barefoot, his expensive-looking boots and hosiery on the floor next to him. Esme recognized her earlier dance partner, much of his face still concealed behind the golden half-mask he continued to wear. Esme frowned—Charisse, the quintessential romantic, had sent one of her studs back in spite of Esme’s protests, or so it seemed… Well, why the hell not? Not sharing her friend’s optimism in love, Esme bit her lip, considering her own philosophy—hit it and quit it.
“So…you rank where on Charisse’s list? Let’s see—tall, dark, and handsome…” Esme slid off the bed as the stranger lifted himself from his chair and strode towards her. She paused to look up so she could see his eyes in the dim candlelight. “And great contacts, those.” Such aquamarine-coloured eyes did not occur in nature, Esme thought. Charisse had obviously tipped this dude off about her ‘Lord of the Locket’.
“Hmm…curls slicked back,” she continued, reaching out one hand, “six-pack abs. Nope, I stand corrected,” she muttered, sliding her hands under his shirt, then running her palms down his torso, caressing the muscular cuts creating further valleys right above his groin. “That’s a definite eight-pack I’m feeling. You must be bachelor numero uno, huh?” She patted the pantalettes and corset she still wore, searching for her cell phone to text Charisse. “Now where did I drop my phone…?”
She fell silent as he reached out, cupping her chin in the width of his palm, stroking her cheek with one finger.
Despite her own boldness, this intimate caress from the stranger caught Esme off guard. Standing and stepping away from the bed, she stumbled on a riding crop resting on the floor. “I see Charisse let you in on another of my preferences.”
Esme picked up the short crop, running the leather popper between her fingers, surprised at the customised silver handle engraved with some sort of crest and the initials ‘L’, ‘J’ and ‘D’. The leather wrist strap was not a simple loop, but an intricate braid.
“Wow. You went all out for this party, dude.” Esme presented him with her backside. “Help, please.”
He hesitated to unlace her corset, fumbling, whether from nervousness or because of the size of his fingers, Esme didn’t know nor care. She let out a sigh, dropping the corset and her pantalettes so she stood nude in the candlelight.
Candles…nice touch, she thought.
“I want you to take control—or try, anyway.” Esme turned to face her suitor, her tone—and the look in her eyes—a challenge.
Still he hesitated. Esme sighed, taking matters into her own hands and working to get his breeches off. Still he made no move to help, just reaching out to touch her face again.
Soon he stood in only his ruffled shirt, silent, much of his expression still concealed behind his golden half-mask.
Esme grew impatient, handing him the riding crop and turning to lean over the bed.
“Start easy—but not too easy,” she demanded.
He stood behind her, silent.
“Please,” she said, her voice husky now, anticipation making her wet. Being forced to beg him was such a turn-on, helping her suppress her inner control freak so her other inner freak could come out to play…
He flicked the leather popper against her left cheek. Esme’s eyes narrowed in disappointment. She glanced over her shoulder, raising one eyebrow. “Oh, puh-lease… Like you mean it, now.”
Esme watched him shift his weight. She let her body go limp over the bed, closing her eyes, waiting. This time, she felt his strength behind the controlled flick of the whip, the leather popper meeting its mark, that sweet pain sending adrenaline rushing through her system in synergy with the pleasure fuelling a slow burn between her legs. Esme started moaning. He caressed her other cheek with his free hand as he brought the crop down again, then he slid his fingers, tentative at first, then sure, into her wet cunt.
The first orgasm left her gasping. Esme pushed herself up from the bed, but he moved quicker, spinning her to face him now, flexing rock-hard biceps to pull her against his chest—his mouth so close to hers. Esme felt his heated breath between her own parted lips—then he threw her down again, onto her back on the feather-filled mattress.