He was thrusting harder now.
Vivienne's breath came in broken gasps, her hair sticking to her damp forehead and cheeks. She wanted to push him off, to scream in his face, to call him every insult under the sun. But her body didn't listen. Her voice came out in moans instead, her chest heaving with every move he made.
Inside her head she was screaming. "God, he's going to kill me. This isn't lovemaking. This is torture. Actual medieval torture. They could put this in history books: 'The Duke of Ravelle and his tragic victim, Vivienne, who was fucked to death before sunset.'"
Her nails dug into her palms, wrists raw under the ropes, but he only leaned down and kissed her wrists, right where the bindings bit into her skin, as if kissing away her pain.
She wanted to spit at him.
Instead, she trembled under him, heat rushing through her like fire.
