Lilly restrained — AI by author

The Lord and His Mistress — Part Thirteen

Charles pops the question — and Lilly accepts in the best way…

[embed]List: The Lord and his Mistress | Curated by P.T. Brown | Medium The Lord and his Mistress · Lilly May's life changes forever when her obsession with Lord Edham becomes a shared…medium.com

The morning light is soft and golden when I wake, spilling across the sheets and warming my bare skin. I lie still for a long moment, simply breathing it in. The great bed feels enormous without Charles’s body pressed against mine, but I can hear his slow, steady breathing behind me. I stretch slowly, arms above my head, letting the sunlight slide over my breasts, my stomach, the faint marks he left on my hips last night. My body still carries the memory of him — tender between my thighs, a deep, satisfied ache that makes me smile against the pillow.

I turn onto my side and watch him for a while. He lies on his back, one arm flung above his head, the sheet tangled low across his hips. Even in sleep, he looks powerful, beautiful. Mine. The thought sends a warm rush through me. I move carefully, sliding across the mattress until I can rest my cheek on the warm plane of his stomach, my hair spilling over his skin. One hand drifts down to stroke his manhood softly, where he rests against his thigh — gentle, lazy touches that are more habit than intention. This is how I like to begin the days when I wake first: touching him, feeling him stir and harden under my fingers while I let my mind drift.

This morning, my thoughts go back to the night we spent together after the ball.

We had barely made it inside the hotel suite before Charles was on me. The carriage ride had already undone us both — his fingers inside me, my body shaking against the silk of the gown while he growled that I was his to love and protect, that no other man would ever lay hands on me again. The ball had lit something fierce and hungry inside him. At the hotel, he stripped the blush rose silk from my body with shaking hands, left the long gloves on, and took me against the wall, on the floor, bent over the chaise, and finally, in the great bed until the sky outside began to pale and the birds began to sing. He was relentless, almost frantic, driving into me again and again as though he needed to erase every other touch from my skin. He came inside me so many times I lost count, murmuring the same possessive words over and over — “Mine. Only mine. I cannot bear it, Lilly.” I loved every brutal, claiming thrust. I loved the way he held me down, the way he filled me until I overflowed, the way he looked at me like he would never let another soul hurt me, touch me, feel me. By the time the sun rose, I could barely walk. My legs had trembled so badly that he had to carry me to the bath, and even then, he had taken me once more, much to my delight, slow and deep in the warm water.

I smile against his stomach at the memory, my fingers still stroking him in that same gentle rhythm. He begins to thicken beneath my touch, warm and velvety. I dip my head without thinking and take him softly between my lips, circling the head with my tongue the way I know he loves. He stirs, a low sound rumbling in his chest. His hand finds my hair, fingers threading in and tightening as his hips give a small, instinctive thrust.

“Lilly…”

The way he says my name, still half-asleep and already wanting me, sends heat straight through my core. I hum around him and take him deeper, letting my throat work along his length. He swells fully against my tongue, hot and heavy, and the moment he truly wakes, his grip changes. With a sudden, decisive movement, he rolls us. It’s something new. Something welcome. I find myself on my back beneath him, his knees bracketing my shoulders as he braces himself above me and slides back between my lips. He fucks my mouth with slow, controlled strokes at first, then deeper, faster, the head of him brushing the back of my throat with every thrust. I moan my encouragement around him, hands sliding up to grip his thighs, loving the weight of him pinning me, the stretch in my throat, the way he loses himself so completely in me.

When he comes, it is with a guttural groan, pulsing hot and thick straight down my throat. I swallow every drop, holding him there until the last tremor fades. He lifts away carefully, and I look up at him through wet lashes, breathing hard, lips swollen and glistening.

“Oh, that was amazing,” I whisper. “I liked that a lot.”

Fire still burns in his eyes. He crawls down my body, hooks his arms beneath my knees and presses my legs high and wide, folding me almost in half. His mouth finds me — hot, hungry, relentless — licking and sucking until I am sobbing his name, back arching, thighs shaking against his shoulders. The orgasm crashes through me so hard I see white. He keeps licking through every aftershock, gentling only when I am trembling and boneless beneath him.

At last, he crawls back up and gathers me against his chest. I curl into him, naked and sated and so deeply in love it hurts. His heart thunders under my ear. For a long while, we simply breathe together, his fingers stroking slowly through my hair.

Then, quietly, he says, “I have guests for dinner tonight, darling. Join me.”

I lift my head and peer up at him, still a little dazed from pleasure. “Do I get to wear one of those new dresses the modiste sent?”

He smiles, slow and warm. “Preferably naked underneath.”

A little thrill runs through me. “As you wish, m’lord.”

I spend the afternoon making sure the dining room is perfect — fresh flowers, polished silver, every detail just so. Beth and two of the other girls come to help me bathe and dress in the beautiful, redecorated room that used to belong to the former Lady Edham. They are gentle and giggly, clearly excited about something, though they won’t say what. When everything is perfect, they make their excuses and slip away, leaving me alone with my reflection. The new gown is soft sage silk, simple but beautifully cut, and beneath it I wear nothing at all, just as Charles asked.

A soft knock sounds at the door. Charles steps inside and stops dead, the way he always does. His eyes move over me with open reverence.

“I’ll never get used to how beautiful you are, Lilly,” he says quietly.

I smile at him in the mirror. “I know the feeling.”

He offers his arm and leads me downstairs. The dining room is empty when we enter, but the long table is set for far more people than I expected. Crystal and silver gleam. Fresh flowers fill every vase. I glance at him, puzzled.

“Who is coming?”

Before he can answer, the door at the far end opens. Through it come the housemaids in their Sunday best, followed by Mr Rogers in a proper suit, Cook looking elegant, Rose in deep green silk, and finally my mother, glowing with pride, a champagne glass already in her hand. They are all smiling — soft, knowing, joyful smiles.

My mind moves slowly. My body begins to shake. I turn to Charles and find him already on one knee before me, the small circle of people we love most closing gently around us.

“I wanted the people who matter to be here,” he says, voice steady but warm. “Not strangers. Just us.”

Tears blur my vision as he opens the small velvet box. The ring catches the light — simple, elegant, perfect. He looks up at me, and for the first time, I see real nerves in his beautiful eyes.

“Miss Lilly,” he says softly, “would you do me the great honour of being my wife?”

The world narrows to this single moment. I sketch it in my mind so I will never forget — the way the light falls across his face, the quiet joy in every pair of eyes watching us, the faint scent of roses, the way my heart feels too large for my chest. I take a slow breath and answer in the refined, measured voice Mrs Fairweather taught me.

“Yes.”

The room erupts in cheers and laughter. Hands reach for me — Mother’s first, then Rose’s, then Cook’s rough, warm fingers, squeezing mine. Charles slips the ring onto my finger and rises to kiss me. For a moment, I simply stand there, surrounded by the people who have loved and protected us from the beginning, wearing the ring of the man I have loved since the first day I carried his tea tray.

We sit. Other staff serve the dinner while the people I care about most beam every time they glance our way. The food is beautiful, but I can barely eat. I keep looking down at the ring on my finger, turning my hand so the light catches it, then looking across the table at Charles, who has not taken his eyes off me once. Mr Rogers stands and proposes a toast, his voice steady and proud.

“To Lord Edham and the future Lady Edham. May your life together be long, happy, and filled with everything you both deserve.”

Glasses lift. Voices answer. Later, the rest of the household drifts in, and the room fills with laughter and easy conversation. For one night, the social barriers are gone. We are simply one family under this roof. I make a quiet mental note to do this more often. There is such happiness here when we are all together.

But none of it comes close to the quiet, fierce joy burning in my own chest as I sit beside the man who is going to make me his wife.

The last of the laughter and footsteps fade down the drive as the final carriage rolls away into the night. The house feels different now — lighter, warmer, as though every wall has exhaled with us. I stand in the middle of the great hall for a moment, turning the ring on my finger, still half-dazed by everything that has happened in one single evening. My body is tired in the sweetest way, the kind of exhaustion that comes from too much happiness and too many glasses of champagne lifted in our honour.

Charles appears at my side without a word. He simply bends, slides one arm beneath my knees and the other around my back, and lifts me as though I weigh nothing at all. I rest my head against his chest and let him carry me up the grand staircase, the silk of my new gown whispering against his suit with every step. The house is quiet now. Only the occasional distant murmur of the remaining staff drifts up from below as they begin to clear the dining room. I close my eyes and breathe him in — warm skin, faint cologne, the man who is going to make me his wife.

He pushes the door to his bedchamber open with his shoulder and steps inside, kicking it gently shut behind him. The room is lit only by the low fire and a single lamp beside the bed. He sets me down on my feet with careful tenderness, as though I might break, then turns me slowly so my back is to him. His fingers find the tiny buttons at the nape of my neck and begin to work them open, one by one, with deliberate patience. The dress loosens and slips from my shoulders. He eases it down over my hips and lets it pool at my feet.

I hear the soft intake of his breath when he realises I am wearing nothing beneath it.

He lifts me again without effort and carries me the few steps to the bed, laying me down on the cool sheets with the same gentle care. I watch him as he steps back and begins to undress. My eyes follow every movement — the way he shrugs out of his jacket, the slow unbuttoning of his waistcoat, the quiet slide of braces from his shoulders. When he finally pushes his trousers down and steps out of them, my breath catches at the sight of him already hard for me. The firelight catches on the strong lines of his body, the dark hair on his chest, the thick length of him standing proud. A slow throb answers low in my belly.

He comes toward the bed, eyes dark with want, and pauses at the edge.

“Are you too tired?” he asks softly.

I shake my head at once, a small, certain smile curving my mouth. “For you? Never.”

To prove it, I part my legs for him, letting my knees fall open on the sheets. The invitation is clear. Charles’s gaze drops between my thighs, and his jaw tightens with visible hunger. He finishes stripping in silence, then climbs onto the bed, moving over me with that familiar, predatory grace.

I reach up and place one hand lightly on his chest, stopping him.

“Wait,” I say softly. “There’s something else I think we both want.”

He stills above me, eyes searching mine. “What, my darling?”

I lift both wrists and hold them together in front of my chest, the new ring catching the lamplight. My voice comes out low and steady, though my heart is racing.

“I have given myself to you. Forever. Now bring your belt to bed and take me like you own me.”

The words hang between us for one charged heartbeat. Both our eyes ignite at the same moment — his with dark, fierce understanding, mine with the quiet, thrilling surrender I have been craving all evening.

Charles says nothing. He simply reaches for his discarded trousers, pulls the leather belt free with one smooth motion, and returns to the bed. I whimper softly as he takes my wrists in his hands and begins to bind them together with the belt, the leather cool and firm against my skin. He fastens it with careful precision — not too tight, but secure enough that I cannot pull free. The moment the buckle clicks into place, something deep inside me settles.

He leans down and bites gently on one of my nipples, the sharp little sting making me arch beneath him.

“Tell me if I take it too far,” he murmurs against my skin.

I look at him through half-lidded eyes, already trembling with anticipation, and answer with every ounce of truth in my body.

“There is no such thing as too far in bed with you, my love.”

I let the words settle over us both, then relax completely into the sheets, wrists bound above me, legs still parted in open invitation.

Something shifts in Charles. I see it the moment it happens. His eyes darken, the last thread of restraint snapping like the leather he just fastened around my wrists. There is no hesitation left in him, only a raw, hungry possession that has been waiting for permission. I feel it in the way his breath changes, in the low growl that rumbles in his chest before he even touches me again. And I respond to it instantly. My body arches toward him, wrists tugging instinctively against the binding. The leather bites into my skin just enough to remind me I cannot pull free, and the realisation sends a hot, shameful thrill straight between my legs.

I am his. Completely. And I want him to own every inch of that truth.

“Do it,” I say softly.

He starts with my breasts. His mouth descends like he has been starving for them all evening. Teeth sink into the soft flesh above my left nipple, hard enough to make me cry out. He sucks the mark, tongue soothing only for a moment before he bites again, lower, closer to the sensitive peak. I pull at the belt, testing it, feeling the delicious helplessness, and the sound I make is half moan, half encouragement.

“Charles… yes… more.”

He gives it to me. He marks me thoroughly, lovingly, desperately. Teeth graze and close around my right nipple until I sob, then he moves lower, biting the underside of each breast, leaving red crescents that will bloom into bruises by morning. I watch him through half-lidded eyes, wrists bound above my head, and every bite makes me wetter. He works down my stomach, open-mouthed kisses turning sharp, teeth nipping at the curve of my waist, the soft skin just above my hip. I cry out constantly now, hips lifting, thighs spreading wider of their own accord.

When he reaches my thighs, he is relentless. He bites the tender inner flesh of one, then the other, sucking hard enough to leave dark marks that will remind me for days exactly where his mouth has been. I am shaking by the time he finally settles between my legs.

His tongue drags through my folds in one long, filthy stroke, and I nearly come apart. But he is not gentle. He devours me like a man who has finally stopped holding back. Lips close around my clit and suck hard while two thick fingers push inside me, then a third, stretching me more than he usually does. The burn is perfect. I pull hard at the belt, wrists twisting, and the leather creaks.

“More,” I gasp. “Charles… give me all of you.”

The growl that tears from him vibrates against my wetness. He stretches me with his fingers, deep and rough, curling them until I see stars, while his tongue lashes my clit without mercy. I spiral hard, back bowing off the bed, a broken cry ripping from my throat as my walls clamp down around his fingers. He does not stop. He keeps licking, keeps thrusting those fingers through every pulsing wave until I am whimpering, oversensitive, begging.

Only then does he rise over me.

He is feral now. Eyes wild, jaw tight, cock thick and flushed as he lines himself up and slams into me in one brutal thrust. I scream his name. The stretch is almost too much after his fingers, but I take him, wrists bound and helpless, legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper. He takes me like he owns me. Hard, deep, relentless. The bed creaks beneath us as he drives into me again and again, hips snapping with a force that knocks the breath from my lungs.

He rolls us suddenly, flipping me onto my stomach. My bound wrists are trapped beneath me now, cheek pressed to the sheets, rear raised as he grips my hips and pounds into me from behind. Every thrust drags a helpless moan from me. The marks on my breasts rub against the bedding, the sting only heightening everything. He reaches around and rubs my clit in tight, urgent circles while he takes me. I spiral again, sobbing into the mattress, body shaking violently around his cock.

Charles does not slow down.

He pulls out, flips me onto my back again, and hooks my bound wrists over his head so my arms are stretched above me, completely at his mercy. He folds me nearly in half, knees to my chest, and drives back into me with a snarl. The new angle lets him hit that perfect spot with every thrust. I cannot move. I can only take it. And I love it. I love the way he is losing control, the way he is marking me inside and out, the way his teeth find my shoulder and bite down as he fucks me harder than he ever has before. Now I really know what that word really means. I know what it is to be fucked. And I never want it to stop.

I come a third time with his name on my lips, vision whiting out, body clamping down so tightly around him that he finally breaks.

He buries himself to the hilt and releases inside me with a guttural groan, flooding me in hot, pulsing waves. His hips jerk with every spurt, grinding deep, making sure I feel every drop. For long moments, he stays there, forehead pressed to mine, both of us shaking.

Slowly, the wildness fades from his eyes.

He eases out of me with a soft sound, then reaches up and carefully unbuckles the belt. The moment my wrists are free, he gathers me into his arms, rolling us so I am sprawled across his chest. His mouth finds every mark he left, kissing them with exquisite tenderness. Lips brush over the bites on my breast, the ones on my stomach, the dark crescents on my thighs. Gentle hands stroke down my back, my sides, soothing the places he marked.

“My Lilly,” he murmurs against my skin, voice rough with emotion. “My beautiful, perfect Lilly.”

I lie there in the warm afterglow, body aching in the most delicious ways, and lift my wrists to look at the faint red lines the belt has left. They will fade by morning, but the memory will not. I smile softly, still catching my breath, and trace one of the marks with my fingertip.

“Maybe we need something a little more restrictive for the next time you feel like tying me up and ravaging me.”

Charles lifts his head, eyes searching mine. I smile wider, warm and certain. “That was amazing, Charles. And I know you held back. Next time, don’t.”

He shakes his head in disbelief, a slow, wondering smile tugging at his mouth. “When you say more restrictive…”

I hush him by reaching down between us and stroking his still-glistening cock with slow, lazy fingers. He twitches under my touch.

“Leave that with me,” I whisper. “I’m sure Rose will have some suggestions.”

Hi! It’s P.T. I do hope you are enjoying this story. Did you know that we writers thrive on your feedback? — You can clap up to 50 times (please do), highlight your favourite passages, and I love reading your comments. It helps our work be seen and also helps us grow as writers.

[embed]List: The Lord and his Mistress | Curated by P.T. Brown | Medium The Lord and his Mistress · Lilly May's life changes forever when her obsession with Lord Edham becomes a shared…medium.com