Page 222 of The Enslaved Duet

Cosima had settled over my shoulder, tapping out a light beat against my arse cheeks while humming a song as if being slung over my back was normal and comfortable.

When we reached Salvatore’s small stables at the back of the property, though, she stilled, and the quality of her silence turned the air static. She said nothing as I righted her, standing her up beside the blazing hearth so that she would stay warm in the early spring air.

I’d prepared everything that morning while Cosima readied herself for the day, and she caught sight of it then, her eyes widening as she took in the branding iron lying beside the fire.

“Xan…” she said slowly. “You’ve already branded me once. Don’t you think twice is overkill?”

I nodded, keeping our eyes locked as I began to unbutton my shirt. “I’ll admit, that would be excessive. Though, it wasn’t what I had in mind.”

Cosima’s eyes burned brighter, twin noonday suns as she watched me unbutton and pull off my shirt. Her gaze raked over my abdominals before finding mine again. “What, what exactly did you have in mind then?”

“You are going to ride me while I sit on that stool,” I said with a wave of my hand to said stool. “And after you’ve made me come, you are going to brand me.” I stepped forward to take her hand and place it over my heart. “Right here.”

She squirmed, her eyes flashing light and dark as she warred with her instinctual deviant delight and learned shamed. “Xan, I really don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Well, I do,” I said in the tone that meant our conversation, as I knew it, was over.

She bit her plush lower lip and then released it, the reddened flesh beckoning me like a red cape to a bull. “Why?”

“I own you, I branded you, and I married you. As far as I am concerned, we are even on two accounts, but not the third. I meant what I said,bella. You own me as much as I own you. I want that to be known.”

She continued to prevaricate, looking at the branding iron and then back at the unmarred skin over my heart. “No one will see it unless you go to the beach or something.”

“No…but just as with you and your brand,Iwill know it is there, and I will also feel the ache of it. I want that with me always. Are you saying,” I asked with a cold quirked brow, “that you would rid yourself of yours if given the chance?”

“No,” she snapped immediately.

I opened my hands and shrugged. “Then there we have it.”

“It hurts,” she admitted.

“You can kiss it better,” I said drolly as I took off my pants. “Now, undress. I’m eager to come before we get started.”

My wife moved like a dancer even though she’d never had any training. She made the removal of her overlarge shirt and socks look like a Las Vegas burlesque show, and by the time her perfect form was bared to me in the golden firelight, I was hard as marble.

I stood still for her, watching her move toward me as light and agile as the light of the fire against the wooden walls. She bit her lip before she reached out to touch my chest, her hand hovering with a hesitation that was a request.

I nodded my head, wrapped my hand around her wrist, and pressed her palm to the center of my chest. “Touch me as you please. Sometimes, my beauty, Domination is not about me taking over your body with control and discipline. Sometimes, it’s about letting the submissive worship that which she adores.”

She tipped her eyes to mine, showing me their warm, liquid centers before she concentrated on my torso, running her hands over the steep ridges and cut edges of my muscle groups. The pads of her fingers rasped over my nipples, her nails scratched through the thick trail of flaxen hair leading to my groin, and she traced the sharp line of the muscles in my groin all the way to the root of my pulsing cock. Her exploration was gentle and venerable, an artist feeling for the form beneath a block of marble, carefully mapping out the form and the emotiveness in her art.

My legs wanted to tremble at that tenderness, and my heart ached like pressure on a bruise as I struggled to believe I deserved that level of love from that level of exquisite woman.

She made me believe.

She made a study of teaching me I belonged with her by sinking to her knees and taking my cock deep down her throat. She struggled against the weight of my shaft as it pinned her tongue and dragged along the hot, warm canal of her throat. She panted at she lapped at my head, purple and big as an Italian plum she couldn’t stop sucking. Her fingers played over my balls, weighing the heft of them, rolling them over her palm.

She made me crazy with desire, and I knew it was to show me how crazy I’d made her with love.

It was an exhibition in worship, and it turned the air around us warm and close as the atmosphere in a chapel. I imagined the scent of incense and myrrh as she sat me down on the stool and carefully took me into her golden body. We dipped our heads to watch my tip sink into her wet folds and then hissed in unison, heads thrown back as she slid all the way down to the root.

I loved the silken snugness of her cunt around me, the way her large breasts jiggled obscenely as she raised and lowered herself over my thick pole, riding it hard even though it stretched her nearly painfully tight. I loved the way she fisted her hands in my hair and held me still so that we locked eyes as she rode me, and I could read the love and gratitude there like an oath written on gold parchment.

I loved it so much, loved her so much, that when I finally came between her thighs, it felt like a blessing and an induction into a faith I actually, acutely wanted to join. One of beauty and surrender, one of trust and sacrifice, one that existed only between this gorgeous Italian girl and her cruel British Master.

She ate my groan off my lips, feeding her moan of climax right back to me as we orgasmed together in the firelight.

Before I could recover, she was dipping the iron pole beside us into the fire, rolling it in the heat until it glowed as brightly as her pleasure fevered eyes. She said nothing as she raised it, yet her eyes said everything.