A Most Demanding Mistress (Fashionably Impure Book 2) (19 page)

She
was no longer kissing him; he was kissing her.

Intense,
delicious pressure.

He
slid his hands down her back.

His
touch sent waves of shivering pleasure through her. She writhed and the crisp
linen of his shirt stimulated her nipples, sending sparks of fire shooting down
deep into her belly. He slid his hands down to cup her buttocks, holding her
writhing body still. Pressing her to his erection.

He
was huge and so hard.

“Wench,”
he muttered.

Did
he think she was a tavern wench? Is that what pleased him?

He
thrust his hips, grinding his throbbing heat against her aching nub. She was
growing wetter and wetter, dampening the skin between her thighs.

He
kissed her more intensely, the taste of whisky and carnal fire on his tongue as
he stroked it against hers, sweeps of wet, sensual velvet. The stubble on his
cheek scraped hers. She thrust her tongue back against his. He gripped her hair
harder and deepened the kiss, in his ardor sucking away her breath.

She
put her hands to his chest and pushed.

He
lifted his mouth.

“James…,”
she said breathlessly. Inside she was tingling, her blood thrumming. She gulped
for air, still tasting the exquisite, fiery elixir of his kiss and wanting
more. His whole body went stiff.

“Sunny?”
His voice rang with disbelief.

He
pulled away.

“No,
no…” She grasped his shoulders and tugged with all her might to bring him back.

He
propelled her from his body and spun her to face away from him so fast that her
stomach lurched and the chamber seemed to spin. She gasped, trying to catch her
breath, to regain her bearings. His cock pressed against the softness of her
buttocks, rock hard and pulsing heat. She arched backwards, pressing herself
against that glorious erection.

He
shoved her further away from him…

His
hands were like bands of iron, holding her wrists.

She
tried to turn in his arms but he held her fast.

“Hold…still.”
His words came between heavy pants.

She
struggled all the harder but, truth told, she relished in his restraint.

It
made her feel safe.

Odd,
the restraints Dr. Meeker used when administering treatments never made her
feel safe. They were a torment to her.

Confusion
made her feel dizzy once more, and dry-mouthed fear tingled to life within her.
The urge to flee sent her into an erratic beat and she wrenched her arms,
trying now with desperation to free herself. She kicked backwards and shrieked
a curse at him.

He
seemed to freeze for a moment. Had she shocked him?

She
kicked and pulled harder. One of her wrists came free, her arm flying free. She
turned, halfway, and on instinct, let her hand continue flying. It made sharp stinging
contact with his chest where his shirt gaped open.

His
grip tightened on her remaining arm. Fear-fueled rage energized her. She
reached for his face, clawing him.

His
curse burnt her ears.

Something
made contact with her buttock. The sound echoed sharply in the room. Shock hit
her, made her freeze. In the next moment, a fiery sting spread over her bottom.

Rage
overtook her fear, so strong, she screamed with it and kicked her legs and beat
at his chest with her fists.

She
cursed him roundly, demanding that he let her leave. Now.

He
laid several more spanks on her posterior. Several very sharp spanks. Stinging
pain spread over her buttocks.

She
whimpered, stunned into stillness for the moment.

Still
holding one wrist, he rolled her onto her back and flung a leg over hers,
locking her into place.

She
tried to resist him again but she was growing tired, her struggling becoming
more like flailing.

And
the maddening thing was, he simply watched her.

Watched
her fight, watched her grow weaker.

Eventually,
she went limp in his arms. Exhausted.

“What
the devil, Sunny?”

“Let
me go!”

“You
want to go?” he asked, as though she hadn’t just spoken clear English.

“Yes,
you-you-you…
coxcomb
!”

He
regarded her seriously. “I don’t think I should let you go. At least not quite
yet.”

She
swallowed hard, trying to think of what to do or say.

“What
are you about here, Sunny?”

He
spoke in that same calm, serious tone he always did. Yet, now there was a hard
edge beneath the calm.

Her
mouth went even drier and she swallowed once more, delaying her response. Her
racing heart was slowing.

Well,
what the devil had just happened? Dizziness overcame her as she frowned,
confused.

She’d
come here to do what?

Seduce
him.

Right.

She
hadn’t expected his resistance. She certainly hadn’t expected his aggressive
response. She had become frightened.

No,
she had become frightened of
her feelings
towards him.

Just
as when she’d been a girl. She ought not to have run away from him that night
in the garden, so long ago. She ought to have allowed James to seduce her. They
would have had to get married then, wouldn’t they? It wouldn’t have been her
fault?

No,
Freddy needed me.

And
you let him down.

She
frowned. That was the past and the past was set in stone. All her sins and
failures were set in stone.

But
the lesson is don’t be a ninny! Don’t run, seduce him!

How
did women tempt gentlemen? Surely gentlemen had more refined tastes than
commoners did.

Certainly
kissing him and thrusting her hand down his trews and stroking his manly parts
hadn’t worked. Yes, it had given him an erection—and what an erection! But it
hadn’t placed her any closer to attaining her goal, either.

What
else should she do? How did one seduce a Rock of Gibraltar?

“You’re
drunk,” he said.

“No,
no, I am not.”

“Just
how much did you have to drink?”

Again,
she heard the incredulousness in his voice.

She
reached up with her free hand, intending to stroke the side of his face. To
make an appeal.

He
seized her wrist. “There’ll be no more of that.”

Hurt
blossomed in her chest. Did he not trust her? “No, do no’ deny me. Take me.
Make me yours.”

He
was giving her the oddest look. “I think you said you’d like me to
take
you?” His frown deepened. “
Bed
you?”

She
nodded avidly. “Yes, yes…oh, please, yes.”

He
stared at her. Oh, his expression! As though she’d suddenly sprouted horns. Did
she repulse him
that
much?

She
wriggled against the coverlet, the contact making her aware of the lingering
sting on her buttocks.

He
had actually
spanked
her!

Why
had he been so intent on detaining her if he hadn’t wanted what she had offered
him?

He
laughed softly

.

“You
think it is amusing?” she asked. Shame burnt into her.

He
brushed the hair off the side of her neck then and traced a fingertip along the
cord down to her collarbone. “I didn’t think I needed to lock my door against
you, Sunny.”

How
cruel and mocking he was! She had never known this cruel side to him.

He
leaned forward and pressed his lips to her neck. The soft-firm touch of his
mouth sent shivers through her. Making her nipples tighten.

Making
her more confused than ever.

“You
don’t really want this,” he said.

His
assured tone puzzled her. Hadn’t she come here naked to his bed? What man would
ask himself aught beyond that? “I do,
I do
,” she said.

“Much
as I’d love to oblige you, my lady, you’re too foxed to know what you are doing.”
He kissed her nape again, this time opening his mouth. Heated breath blew on
her flesh, and then the slight bite of teeth.

Wild
shivers of pleasure chased down to her belly, tightening her nipples all the
more and sending gooseflesh all over her body.

Despite
the kindness in his voice, he had been teasing her. Mocking her. How foolish of
her to have come here.

To
have thought he might still want her.

To
Purchase
The Delicate Matter of Lady Blayne
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Unlimited, please click here: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00XILLMDW

Also
from Natasha Blackthorne

HER
MYSTERY DUKE

Erotica
Romance ~ Light BDSM ~ Rubenesque / BBW ~ Regency
Historical ~ May-Dec ~ Non-virginal Heroine ~ Kept Woman / Courtesan ~ Novel
Length, approx. 85,000 words.
Is he insane? Or is he the answer to all her naughty dreams?
 

Jeanne
Darling spent her adolescence coping with her father's increasing illness and
insanity. Left alone by his death and plunged into poverty, she did what she
had to do to survive. Now still reeling from the overwhelming physical and
emotional demands her father's care required, she values her peace above all.
She doesn't need anyone or anything except her writing and the safety of her
rented garret chamber. She's about to rise above her past and create
financial independence for herself. What she absolutely does not need is the
mysterious and possibly insane stranger who walks into the coffee shop and into
her life.
 

David
Somerville, the Duke of Hartley, has known pain and betrayal from the people
closest to him. Born to privilege, power and wealth, and filled with idealistic
vision for humane change, he gives all of himself to his political career. He
keeps his life circumspectly under control. But one day, all the carefully
arranged threads of his life unravel and his life intersects with Jeanne's in a
way that challenges his view of everything he thinks he knows.
Leagues apart in society, they can have only one possible future,
that of protector and mistress. And neither wants to risk deeper connection.
However, their overwhelming attraction and resulting sexual games provide them
with pleasures neither of them has ever known. Will their sensual journey lead
them to discover a more emotionally profound side to domination and submission?
Or will their seemingly insurmountable differences and passionate personal
goals drive them apart?
 

HER
MYSTERY DUKE is a work of historical erotic romance. Though it contains
elements of light BDSM, it is not meant to be a guide to or an accurate
portrayal of modern BDSM lifestyles or practices. This story contains graphic
descriptions of sexual acts and frank sexual language. It also contains light
bondage, anal play, sexual toys, cunnilingus, fellatio, masturbation, voyeurism
and spanking.

“Tender
moments, HOT BONDAGE, feisty heroine…Everything a good erotic historical novel
should have.” A review for HER MYSTERY DUKE ~ An Amazon Review

“Smokin’
Hot Regency…Seriously Erotic…I want a man like that for my own!” ~ An Amazon
Review

“Classy,
very well written tale brings you back in time…sexy, sensual and erotic…light
BDSM that makes you burn…you'll be fanning yourself while you melt in your
seat.” ~ Five Stars From Let’s Get Romantical

“The
erotic elements in this book are off the charts! I cannot give you the words of
how sexy and hot it was. There are light BDSM tones to the scenes and let me
tell you, mmmmm…mmmmm! I read a couple of scenes twice….Her Mystery Duke is a
well executed and thought provoking read. If you have a love of Historical
Romances with an erotic twist to the tale…then ladies!…ladies, you have to read
Natasha’s work. You will become a fan…I guarantee it.” ~ Salacious Reads

Excerpt
from
HER MYSTERY DUKE

©Copyright
2013
Natasha
Blackthorne

Chapter
One

London, England

January 1813

Indecent. The tall gentleman’s stare was the most blatantly
indecent assault Jeanne had ever encountered. Deeper than intense. Intimate, as
though he knew everything thing about her.

That penetrating gaze set her palms sweating and made her
mouth dry. It was a direct threat. No one could possibly know her. She kept
herself too well protected, hidden beneath layers of aloof disinterest. Yet she
found herself unable to look away. She just sat there and let that gaze burn
her. Burn through the wall she kept between herself and the world. It even
seeped under her skin and melted her blood into warmed honey.

A single pane of rain-splattered glass separated them. The
thudding of her heart in her ears blocked out the sounds from the common room
of the coffee shop and created a sense of isolation.

He wore no hat and his hair lay plastered like spilt black
ink streaked across his high, broad forehead. Rain dripped over hard, chiseled
cheekbones, down an aquiline nose and square jaw, over shoulders that were made
even more impossibly broad by a dark blue greatcoat.

He was like something from a dream. A harlot’s very naughty
dream.

Oh, really. A handsome, mysterious stranger, one who was
intensely interested in her and seemed to know all about her? Her imagination
was running away with her, taking on a life of its own. She closed her eyes and
shook her head slightly. The wine hadn’t been that strong as to make her
conjure carnal fantasies in mid-afternoon. In public. She dared to look again.

The tall gentleman was gone.

There, see? An author of fairy stories couldn’t be fooled by
a waking dream. And yet cold, heaviness sank through her insides, a feeling of
loss. How utterly ridiculous. Irritated with herself, Jeanne bent over her mug,
inhaling the fruity, spicy scent of mulled wine, and listened to the low rumble
of conversations around her. Mrs. Roberts had a new blue bonnet and she was
preening like a peacock. Mr. Taylor announced to his friends that he’d just
become engaged to Miss Smith and his companions were alternately ribbing and
toasting him.

Once a week, she ventured from her garret to this coffee shop
to be among people, as an observer. A customer, keeping a protective distance.

“Miss Darling.” The slightly nervous, boyish voice broke into
her peace. “You usually come here on Saturday.”

She forced the irritation from her expression and looked up
to meet his freckled face. “Yes, Paul, this week I decided on a change.”

She kept her tone cool and polite, as always.

Mr. Ratherford, her publisher, had sent a note, informing her
that she should present herself at his offices in two weeks and bring the fairy
tales he’d requested. As an author of children’s stories, she’d been working
for months on the stories but she still had one more story to write, the grand
finale in what she hoped would be a published leather-bound volume of the
stories. However, she’d been unable to write for several weeks. The harder she
tried to create a story, the less she liked anything she wrote. Today, that
note had put her into a state of desperation. She’d come here to try and
stimulate her mind. It had worked a little too well judging from the daydream
of the handsome, mysterious stranger.

“A special occasion?” Paul’s words cut into her thoughts
again.

Oh bother!
She took a deep breath and struggled to
find more patience. Once Paul Cook started, he never let up. But he was just a
boy, and a kind one at that. She bit back an impatient response.

Her concentration, her peace, however: they were gone. Never
mind. The wind was howling with more intensity outside, and the winter’s day
was growing dark far too early. It was time to leave.

As she reached down to retrieve her reticule, the odor of wet
wool intruded on her senses, mingled with the citrus-soapy scent of a
gentleman’s shaving lotion. A body close to hers. Too close. She jerked her
head up and faced her waking dream.

His greatcoat was opened to reveal a fine, silk, embroidered
waistcoat that encompassed a broad chest, which narrowed into a flat-as-boards
stomach. Water dripped from his hair, leaving wet spots on his hopelessly
crushed cravat. He didn’t seem to be aware of his dishevelment.

She met his eyes. His gaze intensified, turning to brilliant,
intimidating greenish fire, like an emerald catching the sunlight. Thick, dark
lashes and heavy black brows made the color appear even richer.

“Thérèse.”

His voice was deep yet hushed and utterly masculine. It sent
another curl of heat through her, stronger, penetrating all the way down from
her chest to her navel and into her womb. However, it was the note of despair
that made her catch her breath.

Pressure swelled in her throat, a pang of sympathy. Sympathy
for others was the most dangerous emotion of all. It could lead one to make
painful, unwise sacrifices.

She’d never had such an immediate reaction like this to any
man. Tingles raced from her midsection to her toes, not arousal this time but
an urge to run. He was dangerous.

And Thérèse? Clearly he was grossly mistaken. Or foxed.

She stood, then took a deep breath, released it, and raised
her brows in a haughty mask. “Pardon me, sir?”

His expression sharpened. He took her arm, harshly. “Don’t
toy with me.”

She pulled back and he tightened his grip. His hand was
large. His hold stronger than any gentleman she’d known.

He leaned so close she could have brushed her lips against
his. “Don’t pretend that you don’t know me!”

His deep, hushed voice sent pleasurable shivers through her
but Jeanne pushed the sensation aside. As his hot breath wafted over her, she
inhaled deeply but couldn’t detect any odor of spirits. Nor were the pupils of
his eyes dilated, as they might be if he were under the influence of some
strong drug. Prickles raced over her scalp like a thousand needles.

Perhaps the gentleman wasn’t in full control over his mental
faculties.
Dear God.
Just like Papa. She’d spent her youth caring for
her father in his varying stages of insanity. Life with him had become a
prison. Since his death, she had lived in fear of the unbalanced. Another
series of prickles raced over her scalp.

She met the stranger’s gaze levelly. “What’s your game?”

“Thérèse, don’t be this way.” His whisper, laced with steel,
was so low, that she unwittingly leaned closer. “We needn’t make any dramatics
here. We’re going home.”

This near to him, Jeanne noted the glassiness of his eyes.
Again, she sniffed. No hint of alcohol. But then again, having experienced all
of Papa’s variances of sanity, she had an instinct for spotting others who were
likewise afflicted. This man was definitely afflicted in his mind.

This was the exact situation she always dreaded. Since her
girlhood, she always watched others, seeking any sign of madness. She’d had to
cope with Papa, that had been her duty, but she was always careful to keep
others who showed any inkling of mental instability at a safe distance. How
stupid of her to have let herself be distracted by this man’s masculine beauty.

Angry at herself, she jerked her arm, trying once again to
free herself. His grip remained relentless.

“Thérèse!” Again, the low steely whisper. “Behave yourself.”

How unwise of her. An insane person could react
unpredictably. She ought not to provoke him. Yet she knew it was important to
present a strong, confident front.

“Sir, I am not your
Thérèse
and have no wish to be. So
please unhand me.” Her heart was hammering at her chest wall so violently, she
had trouble keeping her voice even. She lifted her chin and stared at him
steadily. “Now.”

“You are deliberately pushing me, Thérèse. I don’t appreciate
it.”

Boots sounded on the floorboards. The sound drew her
attention to how quiet the public room had become. She glanced around. The
other patrons were staring.

“Miss Darling, is everything all right?”

The tall gentleman turned to Paul and regarded him with an
icy, haughty stare. “The lady is a friend. Please go back to your counter and
mind your business.”

At the velvet over iron tone, the young man’s eyes grew
round. He took one step backward and then another, then stood looking uneasy.

“Are you having a spot of trouble here, Miss Darling?”

Jeanne turned to face the shop owner, a large, barrel-chested
man.

The stranger exhaled long and loud. A sound of complete exasperation.
“As I told the boy, the lady is a rather close friend. I would appreciate a
little privacy.”

The shop owner turned to her. “Miss Darling?”

Her heart froze and her chest constricted. She placed a hand
to her throat. She didn’t know what to say.

“The gent don’t look right to me.” The owner’s wife squinted
at the stranger.

Jeanne glanced at the gentleman’s handsome profile and the
proud jut of his jaw. He gazed at her sideways and she caught her breath. There
was something about that brief gaze. A lost, disorientated air. Just like Papa
when he had been in one of his worst spells and he was trying to hide it by
acting arrogantly assertive.

But she had seen. The stranger was truly not in his right
mind.

He swayed then braced his large hands on the back of the
chair and caught himself. Arrogance fell over his face like a mask.

Jeanne’s throat ached. He was so vulnerable. So alone.

Mrs. Cook motioned to the chair Jeanne had vacated. “Sir, you
better sit.”

The gentleman stared at the matron—well, rather he
glowered
down his nose at her. “If you please, the lady and I have some personal
business to attend to.”

His eyes jerked from side to side. At the alarming motion,
Jeanne started. He seemed to lurch forward. She looked down and saw his hands
gripping the chair back. The knuckles were white. The ache in her throat
increased.

“Paul.”

Jeanne glanced back at Mrs. Cook. The woman wrinkled her
forehead. “Go fetch Dr. Miller.”

Paul walked to the door.

“Quickly now.” Mrs. Cook’s voice carried urgency and she made
a shooing motion.

A doctor.

Memories rose in Jeanne’s mind. Her father screaming, his
face contorted in torment as the doctor painted yet another mustard plaster on
his skin in an attempt to draw the poisonous humors out. The endless purges and
emetics. The excruciating blisters on his skin and the agonizing dry heaves.
None of it did anything to cure Papa’s mad fits and mental lapses. And then
finally, the insane asylum.