Slave for Revenge 1: The Deal by Ann Owen

Author:Ann Owen [Owen, Ann]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, azw3
Tags: BDSM, versione 1.04.Eng, victorian, slave, dark romance, submission, humiliation, historical romance, slave for revenge, domination, alpha male, ann owen, erotic
Published: 2015-11-18T00:00:00+00:00

5.

“You shouldn’t have sent these servants to us, Guy. And all this food!” Charles Hartwell looked at the laden table and shook his head. “God in heaven, Jane and I will eat leftovers until next Christmas.”

Jane didn’t raise her head from her plate. She played with the meat in it, soaking it in green sauce and letting it fall back. She hadn’t eaten anything. She was dressed in an ordinary grey turtleneck dress, with a simple middle parted bun. Her mouth was contracted with tension; her eyes were swollen, red, surrounded by deep dark circles.

Oh-oh, Guy thought with amusement. The little one must have spent the night thinking about him. Or about a ‘part’ of him. “I have the honour to be with you this holy day,” he said in a perfectly polite voice, “and the very least I can do is avoiding you any unnecessary cost or bother.”

He wiped his mouth with a napkin and, with a sort of pleased wonder, thought about the absurd and happy defects of the mechanism of the world. One of these was that Jane, despite the uneasiness and her tired look, had rosy cheeks and glowing complexion. Makeup was excluded; she had never worn it in her life. Yet she was there, like a shining little girl, with her immaculate skin. She was as fair as the dawn that Guy, sleepless on his part as well, had seen that morning from the window of his room at Ashbourne House, after giving up on falling asleep.

“Jane,” he said mellifluously, and her fork froze in the plate. “I think you don’t like Rose’s cooking.”

Jane put down the fork. Her father’s presence forced her to appear calm, and Guy enjoyed her efforts with merciless fun. She wasn’t looking at him—well, she wouldn’t have any hope to succeed in doing this—and was as tight as a violin string, but she had ever behaved like this in Guy’s presence, after all. Given what she had gone through the day before—or rather, what she had sucked the day before—she was doing quite well. Guy couldn’t even imagine what shame she felt now, remembering his taste, his pleasure, his words... and reliving the abuse to which she had surrendered.

“It’s v... very good,” she stammered.

“So please, eat a little more, angel. Just to make me happy.”

To make me happy. He had told her that very sentence the day before, and even now it was an order, an infamous and derisive order. Jane swallowed. In the dining room, the opulent banquet shone with all the colours of the rainbow—meats, sauces, vegetable purees, roasts, in a cacophony of combinations that stunned—and what were those superfine dishes doing in the cheap plates of the Hartwells? Nothing. Nothing at all. It was Guy Spencer who had invaded their home; it was Guy who wasn’t content to bring just his presence, he had wanted to occupy any space. The day before he had sent a letter to his stepfather, accepting the honour to have Christmas lunch

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