Caribbean Reign Ch. 29-30

But breaking our agreement is exactly what she wants. After all, a slave can't just ram his cock into the mistress.

I resolve to think of something excitedly unsexual.

Manure. A dirty scrub brush. An open wound.

Ugh. The feat is impossible with her perky buttocks slipping around the porcelain rim.

Then again - maybe her presentation is too good. Ever so slightly, Catherine quivers under my fingers. She may keep her face straight, but her hardened nipples are begging to be persuaded.

Holding my hand, Catherine lowers herself into the tub. Her lips conceal her adjustment to its temperature.

This is a game made for two. How long you can keep this up, dear Catherine? I pick up a cloth folded over the edge of the tub and dip it in the water. With both hands, I twist, and droplets bounce across the water's surface. Catherine bites her lip as the rag slaps across her back.

"Careful, slave," she commands, but her voice catches as the cloth makes its way closer to her neck.

"Yes, maîtresse," I whisper, lips brushing the cold side of her ear. This will be easier than I thought.

She clears her throat. "D-don't let it happen again."

I remain silent. As difficult as it is to hold back, I adore her twitching for me. Letting her go mad with the sensation of warm water and my fingertips skating across her goosebumps. The cloth slides down her sternum, pausing above her mound. When my fingers graze her honeypot, she inhales sharply. I proceed upwards towards her navel. She releases her breath slowly to hide her disappointment. Naked, it is much harder to conceal one's intentions.

I take a moment with my hand partially submerged to draw small circles around her belly. Her perfect curves have swelled into a delicate bump. Unnoticeable to someone with less familiarity. I caress the quietly formed creases, giving her a moment to let down her guard, before slipping the cloth between her supple thighs.

"Slowly," she says breathlessly. Her neck falls back in exaltation. She is Bellini's Madonna. A beautiful mother in the making.

Once my hands are further from her sensitive regions, Catherine regains some of her imperiousness.

"What happened to self-control, Rafael?"

She splashes me with sudsy water. An eager tide smacks my front before I can prepare a defense. I wipe the sudsy outcrop from my jaw.

"My apologies, maîtresse."

Waves ripple from her fingertips when she laughs. Far from the appropriate deference due a viscount.

"Why are you standing there, taking these insults? I believe that every time you call me 'maîtresse,' a little part of you dies inside."

"It does," I agree solemnly.

She slaps the water with the flat of her hand. "Then why subject yourself to it?"

Catherine looks at me, puzzled. She has used every opportunity to ridicule me, tempt him, to turn my devotion to rage. And yet, her fiery temperament and lilting laugh control my every emotion. They dominate my will and steer my course. Even without this charade.

"Because I love you, Catherine, and I shall until the day I die."

No response.

I didn't say it to elicit a reaction, but the silence hurts all the same.

I proceed with my task. Honey-colored oil pools in my palm. She closes her eyes, and I massage it into her roots, folding her locks into foamy peaks. I guide her backward, dipping her head into the water. Dark ribbons of hair bob to the surface. My hand supports the small of her back, preventing her from drifting too far under.

After a few moments of floating, she sits up with a start. Her breasts skim the top of the water. Her dark tresses bind to her skin.

"What if I stopped telling you what to do?"

I raise an eyebrow. "Careful, girl." Now, we are both playing with fire.

Her slender legs swing out of the tub. I offer her my hand, and she stands. Water pours off of her in torrents onto the white tile floor.

"What would you do, then?" she says quietly.

A man can only endure so much.

I grab her soft backside and pull her into my chest.

"I would flip you over this bathtub, and make you pay for doing this to me." My cock presses against her navel.

She wraps her hand around it, and it strains to outgrow her grasp.

"Whatever have I done to you?"

No more games. Without another word, I back her into the wall, shattering a porcelain pitcher in the process. Once her hands are pinned above her head, I make love to her neck. She writhes under my touch.

"This certainly does not feel like you submitting to me," she finally manages.

"No?" I reply, drawing my lips to her nipple. "What does it feel like?"

She remains silent, instead, choosing to grind on my rotating knuckle. When I finally bring my lips to hers, and she drinks eagerly. There is a matter unspoken that can only be resolved in a tangle of legs.

She breaks from the kiss and places a finger between us.

"Two days. You lasted two days, Rafael."

I slide my teeth across her left nipple, "That's not how you want me anyway."

"Who said I still want you?"

I bite down, and her quivering thighs supply a sufficient answer. I lower my lips and prod at her wetness. She shivers.

"You're still in control, Catherine."

"Then, pleasure me, slave."

"Yes, maîtresse."

I flick my tongue, and her head nearly slams against the wall. This is no place for my woman to come to her senses.

I sweep her into my arms. The floor is littered with shards of the shattered pot, but the broken pieces are nothing compared to her flesh pressed to my chest. I carry her into the hallway.

She nuzzles my neck with the top of her head.

"Rafael," she whispers. "Everyone will see."

"God help me, Catherine, I would rather the entire world see than wait one more moment to bed you."

She blushes. For her comfort, I sprint to the door of my chambers, even as the porcelain bits dig into my soles.

I toss her onto the duvet and throw myself onto the bed beside her. Her pale shoulders gently recline on the pillows. It has been too long since she has taken her place in my bed. I begin kissing her outstretched body, her ravenous limbs. As my kisses slip to her navel, her hands come across her belly. I notice a discomfort at her slowly swelling figure. Pregnancy has softened her smooth belly into Aphrodite herself. I will not tolerate such blasphemy.

I pushed her fingers to the side. "You are divine."

Her hands make their way into my hair, reminding me of something I've been longing to do. Gently, I turn her on her side and drag two slick fingers along her spine.

"Is this what you want?" I ask. I won't make the same mistake again.

Her body curves toward mine. "I'd prefer that you not keep me waiting."

"Very well."

I bring my hand down on her backside. She shrieks and laughs. I linger on the skin. Her sweet pussy is warm and shaking. I dive between her folds, and she wraps her legs around me, biting into my shoulder. We move together with the squeaking of the mattress.

"I shall have you like this every night. You are mine."

She pauses, "I am yours."

I flip her over to get a better look. A single tear rolls down her cheek. Despite her flushed cheeks and the slickness between her thighs, I stop.

"Why are you crying, my love?"

"What else will you take from me?" she says, "My family, my name, everything I've ever known."

"I want it all." I cannot deny the truth. I want every morsel and desire of hers, from now until the end of time.

I lower my face to hers, "But I am equally yours. If you wish to raise our children in Paris, we shall move tomorrow. If you wish to keep me dressed as a beggar, I shall fill a closet with linen shirts and woolen trousers. If you wish to free all the slaves and leave me penniless -- well, I beseech you not to do that.

She laughs.

"Sweet Catherine, will you marry me?"

With the rogue tear running down the side of her nose, she answers.

"Yes."

I collapse in relief, kissing every dimple of skin I can find. My desire to impale her, for once, seems secondary. Her lovely lips sing of a future. Of passionate nights. Of a happy home. I wrap myself around her unwilling to let go.

She says, "I do, however, find myself perilously devoid of engagement jewelry."

"That can be arranged."

She smiles viciously until she's tipped onto her stomach once again. Soon, I have her thrashing in pleasure, a pace matching my elation. Her first eruption as my fiancée.

She grips me tightly, "You're going to ruin me, and I just might let you."

"Mademoiselle," I say in mock surprise, "you must learn to watch what you say around your future husband."

"Unlikely," she quips, before tightening under me.

I rock her closer and closer, placing my hand above her mound to send her over the edge. Finally, she slumps into the sheets, chest heaving with relief. Her rapid pulsation is enough to finish me off.

At least there's no chance of conceiving a child this time.

I lay beside her looking at her perfect features, lit up in the afterglow. The warmth in her eyes has returned, and her hand blesses mine with its presence.

This will be a wonderful life.

***

One more chapter to go before our favorite couple gets their happy ending. Do you prefer the viscount as a power bottom or a top?

Thank you so much for sticking with this story, and I hope you have enjoyed reading it as much as I have enjoyed spending time with these irascible characters. Let's hope that everyone gets more than they deserve.