Chapter Seventeen

Anonymous

 

 

 

Mark was late. Miranda alternated between annoyance and worry. Tardiness was not at all typical of her new husband. Of course, when they’d parted after lunch, he’d warned her that his afternoon business might take longer than he’d estimated. She’d been waiting in the lobby bar for almost thirty minutes, though, nursing a single glass of Pinot Grigio, scanning the faces of everyone who traversed the half-stairway that led up to reception.

Well into happy hour on a Friday afternoon, the bar was crowded with both business people and tourists. A buzz of voices, punctuated by the occasional laugh, echoed off the gilded ceiling. Through the tall, velvet-curtained windows, Miranda noted that snow had begun to fall. That would only make the pre-holiday traffic worse. Mark was probably stuck in some horrible snarl, as frustrated as she was.

“Would you like another wine, miss?” The waiter’s luscious British accent made the question sound almost like an indecent proposal. Miranda felt the heat climb into her cheeks. Maybe even one glass on empty stomach was too much. Or maybe she’d just been corrupted by Mark’s lascivious mind.

“No, thank you. I’m fine.” Did the trim young man really wink at her before turning away? How cheeky! But then, she might have imagined it all. Indeed, the whole situation had the aura of a dream.

She could scarcely believe she was back in London, not six months after her triumph at the AML conference. What could be a more natural location, though, for them to spend their honeymoon? They’d arrived early Thursday morning, but aside from the slightly hazy glow engendered by her wine, she felt great. What a difference it made, flying business class!

It turned out Mark had been telling the truth about the Wisconsin cheese fortune.

She let her mind wander back to the wedding, Thanksgiving weekend. The Victorian theme had been the groom’s idea. Clasped in the breath-stealing embrace of a white satin corset, weighed down by flounced layers of silk, with yards of pearl-embroidered lace trailing behind her, she’d understood Beatrice’s world in a new way. Exquisite as it was, the dress was horribly constraining.

Mark looked devastating in his white satin tuxedo. He’d grown a mustache for the event, to enhance the antique image. Dubious at first, Miranda found she enjoyed the tickling sensation when he kissed her.

And oh, the joy, when he’d claimed her as his wife! The memory still made her pulse race and her pussy weep. “You may kiss the bride,” the minister had intoned—as if Mark needed permission! He’d swept her into his arms, one hand cupping her breast where it swelled above the corset, the other cradling her buttocks through her voluminous skirts. Heedless of the family and friends around them, he’d plunged his tongue into her mouth and devoured her like a man starved for sustenance. Her juices had welled up and overflowed to dampen the linen pantalets she wore under all the silk. Her nipples grew round and hard as the pearls set into her headpiece. The scandalous kiss demanded everything from her. She’d given it gladly.

That embrace seemed to last forever. It left her wet and wanting, a mere touch or two from climax. Dazed, she’d scanned their audience. A few people were actually applauding. Lucy, a vision in powder-blue satin, appeared to have her hand down the back of Ray’s trousers. Marilyn—Marla, as Miranda couldn’t help but think of her—met Miranda’s eyes with a knowing grin. Mark’s taciturn father wore a puzzled frown, but Emma Anderson, who clearly shared her son’s lively nature, seemed unperturbed.

Then there was Eleanor Anderson, Mark’s fearsome aunt. Miranda had been nervous about meeting her, but the voluptuous older woman had quickly put Miranda at ease. “About time Mark found someone to keep him out of trouble,” she’d commented at the rehearsal dinner. Her arch smile made Miranda wonder how much she’d guessed about their unconventional relationship.

She’d almost expected Mark to invite some of their more intimate friends to participate in their wedding night. She’d imagined him recreating Beatrice’s House of Shadows for her benefit, in all its delightful perversity. Instead, he’d spent the long hours between midnight and dawn worshiping her body, wringing climax after climax from her with his lips and tongue before finally sliding his cock in to complete the connection. It was glorious, tender, pure pleasure—but almost chaste. A part of her had wanted something dirtier, harder, more in keeping with their previous adventures. After that outrageous, overwhelming wedding kiss, she yearned to be an offering on the altars of the flesh.

Her own father had been the most shocked. Herman Cahill was a traditionalist. He didn’t approve of public displays of affection. Indeed, he would only give his consent to the marriage—Mark had made a formal request for her hand—when Miranda had promised she’d defend her dissertation before the wedding.

Thanks to an almost inhuman effort, reduced sleep and solid support from her lover, she’d kept that promise. She was Dr. Cahill now, setting out on a new stage of her life’s journey.

In addition, she was about to become a published author of fiction, though few people would ever know of that accomplishment. Satin Press planned to release The Diary of a Victorian Lady, by Anonymous—in hardcover format!—on Valentine’s Day. In fact, she’d met with Lucinda Scott only this afternoon to discuss some last details, before returning to the hotel for her assignation with Mark.

But where was he? Lit by chandeliers mounted on the distant ceiling and candles on the tables, the bar was pleasantly dim. Could Mark be hiding in one of the shadowy corners, watching her? She swiveled in her chair to check behind her. Interpreting her movement as a summons, the cute waiter set out in her direction. She shook her head.

“Do you mind if I join you?” The voice was rich and mellow as a premium scotch, with a posh accent that spoke of education and breeding. “A lovely woman like you shouldn’t be drinking alone.”

She swung back to face the stairs. A man stood opposite her, on the other side of the table. His trim, compact body, clad in an impeccably tailored suit, blocked her view. He wore a designer watch and a gold signet that shone in the muted light. A wealthy older man looking for some company, she thought. He had dark, wavy hair, with a hint of gray at the temples, and knowing eyes framed by laugh lines. Stubble dusted his solid chin, a startling contrast to his otherwise perfect grooming. It gave him a slightly dangerous air.

“I’m sorry—I’m waiting for someone…”

“It appears you’ve been jilted.” Without waiting for her agreement, the stranger seated himself in the chair beside her. His thigh muscles flexed under his trousers. A waft of his cologne, something sharp and woodsy, reached her nose. She swallowed the saliva that flooded her mouth and struggled to speak.

“Waiter! Another round for the lady, please. Glenfiddich for me, straight up.” He leaned closer, close enough that his unfamiliar scent made her dizzy. “Good thing I came along. It would be a great shame to waste this delightful evening.”

Miranda couldn’t understand why she was so flustered. Certainly he was aggressive, but she was an expert at fending off unwanted masculine attention. “My husband—” she began.

“Is a very lucky man,” he concluded. “Though he’s crazy to let you out of his sight. His loss is my gain, however.”

Something shifted. Something in his voice or his manner triggered sudden recognition. Mark? She almost blurted it out loud, but the stranger’s eyes—Mark’s eyes—held her spellbound. He let his mask slip for an instant. Play with me, he broadcast in that silent gaze. Play out the scene.

Their beverages arrived. Raising the glass to his lips, he let the amber liquid slide down his throat, clearly savoring every drop. “Wonderful,” he commented.

She took a tentative sip of her wine.

“That’s right. Drink up, sweetheart. Then we’ll go to my room.”

The confidence—no, arrogance—she heard in his voice lit a fire in her belly. He was, quite simply, amazing. He’d turned himself into someone else, so effectively she had to keep reminding herself that the man leaning over and murmuring smutty suggestions in her ear was actually her husband.

She pretended to fight her rising arousal. “Really? What makes you think I’ll go with you?”

“I can read it in your body. I can see it in your eyes. You’re a randy slut who’s dying to be shagged.”

His words kindled delicious shame, electric heat. Liquid gushed into her panties. “No, no. I’m married. I’m here on my honeymoon…”

“Then where’s your bridegroom?”

“Detained, I’m sure. Probably caught in traffic. He could arrive any minute…”

“We’d better be going, then. Come along, sweetheart.” He tossed a twenty pound note onto the table then grabbed her by the elbow to pull her toward the lifts.

“Wait—no…”The elevator doors had barely closed before he had her backed against the wall, pinned by his weight. His breath was hot in her ear.

“Can you honestly say you don’t want me, woman? That you don’t want this?” He ground the hard ridge of his erection into her abdomen.

“No—I—please…”

His mouth silenced her half-hearted objections. Miranda melted. He might look different, smell different, but she knew these ripe lips, this bold tongue. Throwing her arms around his neck, she poured herself into the delirious kiss.

Without relinquishing her mouth, he clawed at her suit jacket, then slipped a hand inside so he could thumb one taut nipple. She moaned into his throat and squirmed in his arms, arching against him. He abandoned her breast, leaving it swollen and aching, to slide his palm up under her skirt. He found the bare skin above her thigh-high stocking. She shuddered as he wormed his fingers into her soaked panties to stroke her pubic fur. Sharp pleasure sparked through her limbs and spiraled into her core.

“You’re drenched, sweetheart,” he murmured, finally breaking the kiss to smear her own moisture across her lips. “Protest all you like. Your body doesn’t lie. You love the idea of a hard, fast, anonymous fuck.”

Miranda was silent, tasting the ocean-and-salt of her undeniable lust. The lift slid open. Her companion seized her by the wrists, dragging her along the carpeted hallway to one of a dozen identical doors. This wasn’t their floor, or their room. She knew that as soon as she saw the ropes encircling the bedposts.

Liquid coated the insides of her thighs. Her nipples throbbed in time with her pulse. She searched Mark’s face for some sign of his intentions. “Um— I— M…”

He pressed a finger to her sticky lips. “No names. That would spoil it. Don’t you agree?”

She nodded, mute with desire.

“You can call me Sir. And I shall call you slut. That’s what you are, after all. You want my cock, in whatever hole I might choose. I’m right, am I not?”

Some part of Miranda wanted to sink through the floor. It was so difficult to expose herself this way. Another part of her, though, was proud.

“Yes, Sir.”

“And the bonds—you want those, too?”

Of course she did. She wanted it all.

Without being told, she began to undress.

Mark sank into an armchair to watch. “That’s right, slut. Strip for me.”

Her jacket, her blouse, her skirt, her uncomfortably tight bra and her sodden underwear—piece by piece, she removed her clothing and folded each one on the desk. Mark’s avid gaze followed her every move. She didn’t particularly try to be alluring or seductive. All she wanted was to be naked for him. Still, each brush of fabric against her sensitized skin made her shiver with need.

All the while, he watched, Mark and yet not-Mark, simultaneously her lover and a stranger. The bizarre contradictions just made the experience more arousing.

“On the bed, sweetheart. Arms and legs spread wide. Very good.” Aside from the night with Mistress Carla, they really hadn’t experimented with restraints, but he handled the ropes with obvious skill. Where and when had he mastered the art of bondage? And what other dark abilities might he have?

“Have I tied you too tight, sweet?”

Miranda tested the ropes looped around her wrists and ankles. As long as she didn’t pull on them with too much force, they felt fine—even comfortable. Right.

“No, Sir.”

“Excellent. I must say they’re effective in holding you open.” He swept one finger along the length of her gaping pussy, ending with a swirl around her clit.

“Ohhh…! Please…”

“Be patient, slut. You’ll get what you want.”

He proceeded to disrobe, carefully setting aside his beautiful suit and expensive jewelry to reveal his fine, familiar body. She gave a helpless moan at the sight of his veined, swollen cock. She’d never felt so empty, so needy.

He didn’t make her wait long. Climbing onto the bed, he positioned himself between her splayed thighs, stroking himself to spread the pre-cum along his shaft.

“I doubt you’ll need any lube, slut.” His British accent was still impeccable, but the smile was pure Mark—full of love and mischief.

“No, no…please, Sir.” He rubbed the fat bulb up and down in her slit, gathering her moisture. Each time he prodded her clit, she thought she’d explode. The ropes sawed at her wrists as she strained for more contact. “Please fuck me. I can’t stand it!”

“With the greatest of pleasure, sweetheart.”

His cock slid home, into her wet, welcoming depths. It was glorious completion, utterly perfect. Filled, stretched, pinned to the bed by his impossible hardness, Miranda knew a joy so pure that tears gathered in her eyes.

Mark noticed the tell-tale gleam. “Are you all right, love? Am I hurting you?”

“Oh no! It’s just… Almost too much. Too good.”

He thrust, pushing deeper, triggering new delights. “Nothing’s too good for my lovely slut.”

Miranda arched up, wanting more. The bonds allowed her only the most limited mobility.

“Just relax. Relax and open to me. Yeah, that’s exactly right. Just let me fuck you.”

She sank into the mattress, trusting him to give her what she needed. He drove into her, took her over, each stroke nudging her closer to the release she craved. The more she reached for that climax, though, the further it receded. Paradoxically, the less she strove for her own pleasure, the better he felt inside her.

His thrusts grew fierce and ragged as he approached his own crisis. He slammed his cock into her as if to tear her open. But there was no pain, only pleasure that carved her open like a shining blade. Crimson floods of glory surged through her.

His back arched. “Miranda!” he yelled. “Oh, God, Miranda…!” Hot spunk drenched her battered flesh. Her smoldering climax burst into flame. She yanked at the ropes, muscles clenching around his twitching flesh, holding him tight as torrents of bliss poured through her.

Finally the fires subsided. Mark slumped on top of her, his cock still nestled in her pussy, his mouth near her ear. Gradually, his breathing returned to normal. The tears dried on her cheeks. She sighed, unutterably content.

He stirred.

She turned to graze her lips across his. “Wow,” she whispered.

His eyes fluttered open. This close, she could see the make-up he’d used to give his face the appearance of greater age. “Yeah. Wow. You’re astonishing, Miranda.”

“I thought that was you, Sir.”

He grinned at the honorific. “Maybe it’s us. But let me get you out of these before your circulation stops…”

She wasn’t surprised to note that her husband was just as adept at untying her as he’d been at binding her.

Back on the bed, tangled in each other’s arms, they shared a comfortable silence punctuated by the occasional kiss.

Mark spoke first. “You were worried, weren’t you?”

“Worried about what?”

“That marriage would put a stop to our games.”

Miranda rolled over onto her back. Streetlights made arabesques on the ceiling. Had she been concerned? She searched her heart.

“I’m not sure worried is the right word, but I did wonder—whether marriage would change things. Change us.”

“I’m sure it will. We’ll get to know each other much better. All of our partner’s kinks and secrets…”

“Ow!” He’d twisted her nipple, none too gently, but delicious warmth soon pushed out the pain. “It’s just—well—I didn’t know if you’d still want other people—”

“You mean like Marla?”

Miranda nodded, blushing at the way the mere mention of the woman’s name set her juices flowing. “Or Lucy. Or Ray…”

“Or some anonymous stranger you might pick up in a bar?”

“Really, Mark, I’d never…”

“Calm down, sweetheart. I trust you. I love you. And I know you love me. Even if you were inclined to indulge in some such recreation, it wouldn’t affect our love. I’m certain of that.”

“Would you…?”

“Only with your permission. Hopefully with your participation.”

“I wish I was as sure as you.”

“Miranda, I don’t want to set artificial limits on our relationship. We’re both sexually adventurous. We shouldn’t create a life where we have to deny that aspect of who we are.”

As he spoke, he slipped his hand between her thighs to dabble in her soaked folds.

“That makes it pretty hard to concentrate,” Miranda objected.

“So?”

“Well, we’re trying to have a serious conversation here…”

“Maybe you are. I’m trying to get you turned on again.” He licked off the juice he’d accumulated on his fingers before returning them to her pussy to gather more. “I’d say I’m succeeding too.”

“You—ah!—you’re impossible! Oh, God, that feels heavenly…”

“Don’t worry so much, Miranda. Enjoy the ride!”

She writhed on his nimble fingers, close to another climax. “Mark…”

“Come for me, sweet. Come now!”

Miranda obeyed. Honestly, she had no choice.

“You’re full of surprises,” she murmured afterward, snuggling against him.

“Just trying to keep life interesting.” He smacked himself in the forehead. “Speaking of which, I nearly forgot… Excuse me for a sec…”

He bounced off the bed, leaving Miranda bereft. She heard the click of the hotel safe box. The mattress rebounded as he climbed back on. “Here. Another surprise.”

“What now?” Mystified, she took the business size envelope he handed her.

“Look inside, sweet.”

She opened the flap to extract the contents. Airline tickets. Business class. She stared at them, uncomprehending. “What’s this?”

“The second half of our honeymoon. Two weeks in Thailand, sensual capital of the world. We leave from London on Boxing Day.”

“Thailand? You’re kidding, right?” She shook her head. “We can’t, Mark. I have to get back. I have thesis revision deadlines. Then I have to send out job applications…”

“Miranda.” Rolling her onto her stomach, he landed a sharp slap on her butt. “Don’t be such a grind. This is us, our honeymoon, a once in a lifetime occasion.” He pressed his lips to her still stinging rear cheek. “At least, I hope it’s once in a lifetime.”

Thailand! She remembered the stories he’d told about his previous visit. Okay, she was curious. But it was so impractical.

“My clothes…I packed for winter in London…”

“We’ll buy new stuff. Don’t be a wet blanket, Miranda. You will absolutely love it. I guarantee.”

He pulled her into a kiss that left her panting for more.

Miranda’s head was spinning. Could she really do this? Maybe, with Mark at her side, she could. “But—what will we do there, Mark?”

Fondling his hardening cock, he gave her a sexy grin that turned her insides to mush. “Have adventures, girl? What else?”