Enthralled by Darling Giana

Author:Darling, Giana
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: The Enslaved Duet, Book One
Publisher: Giana Darling
Published: 2019-03-28T04:00:00+00:00

I was waiting for him.

My thighs were wet, the air around me perfumed with my honeyed scent.

I’d never been very patient, so the waiting shouldn’t have worked on me as such a heady aphrodisiac, but each minute that ticked by struck my pussy like the beat of a gong, lust reverberating through my body from the source.

As much as my sex throbbed, my pulse was heavy, but even, my breathing long and slow. I felt centered by the weight at my core and my single-minded goal.

Wait for me by the door, naked, kneeling with your legs spread and hands behind your back.

When the waiting got too much, I thought of those orders in Alexander’s clipped, unflappable tones, and they cooled me like an ice cube in hot tea, not noticeably enough and only briefly.

My shoulders ached from holding my hands behind my back, from tipping my breasts into the air, my nipples hard and pointed like arrows notched in a bow.

I wasn’t comfortable in any sense of the word.

But my discomfort aroused me.

At that point, after nearly an hour of kneeling in the great hall, everything aroused me.

The cold, unforgiving kiss of marble on my shins, the weight of my entire body compressing my ankles, and the way the constant draft of the old manor whirred around my swollen sex like the whisper of a kiss.

If pressed, I honestly wasn’t sure if I would state my name, date of birth, or prior place of residence.

I was just flesh, made pretty on a plate and waiting at the pass to be served hot to a high-paying guest or a severe critic.

He’d been gone for five days.

It shouldn’t have been such an interminably long time.

In fact, it should have been a beloved reprieve from his constant sexual attentions.

At first, I’d rejoiced in the freedom. I took nearly every meal in the kitchen with Douglas who prepared Italian dishes that almost rivaled Mama’s. I trained in the gym every morning, swimming in the lap pool, staring at the massive statue of Poseidon as I did the breast stroke. I spent every other spare moment in the library, reading first editions of the Bronte sisters and Byron, beautifully illustrated hard copies of fantasy novels like The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, and The Hobbit.

I thought endlessly about Salvatore. I no longer doubted he was my father. It made sense given his eccentric presence in our lives and how much we truly did look like him. Every time I let myself linger over it, I grew so angry I felt as if I would burst out of my skin. It was his face I imagined when I punched and kicked the hanging bag in the gym, his eyes I pretended to gouge when I fenced with Riddick, the only man sanctioned to do so while Alexander was gone.

Sometimes, late at night when the darkness and loneliness ate at my skin like so many crawling bugs, I let myself despair over the what-ifs. What if

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