A Most Demanding Mistress (Fashionably Impure Book 2)

by Natasha Blackthorne

  “Before I go, I will see your greenhouse built, and if you’ll have me, we’ll get married, surrounded by roses and dine on pineapples and strawberries.”

  “And roast beef?” she asked, in a teasing voice.

  “Yes, roast beef and champagne.” He bent down to kiss her.

  Of course, he wouldn’t tell her that he planned to hunt Winterton down like the dog he was and deal with him. Permanently. No, he wouldn’t worry her like that.

  He ran a caressing hand down her back and delighted in her reflective shiver. “Now, will you marry me? Will you be my countess?”

  “Ha! You ask me at a time like this?” She made a fist and gave him a gentle punch to his chest.

  He laughed and grasped her wrists, holding her at bay. “I ask now because I want you soft-eyed, and agreeable to me and you turn your fists on me?”

  She laughed, a girlish, free laugh. She was in a playful mood, and he had begun only lately to understand how in the past he had unwittingly quelled her sense of play with his need to totally control their lovemaking and his brooding moods.

  She wanted to play now and enjoy their love. She wasn’t ready to settle in and have a serious discussion, and she wouldn’t be until she had enjoyed herself and burnt off some of the tension and strain of the past days.

  Especially the one just past.

  She appeared to draw strength from such times of letting go of herself.

  And perhaps he could learn something from this side of her. The side he sensed she had only shown to him.

  He kissed and nipped at her neck. “Yield to me!”

  “Never!” she cried, as she struggled and fought against his hold, still laughing and he thrilled to feel her body fighting against his.

  “I love the tigress in you,” he said.

  “I love you,” she said.

  “Then marry me and make me the happiest, near penniless earl in all of England,” he said, with just a little edge in his voice. Then he nipped her neck, far less gently this time, for her earlier admission about his penniless state, had stung him.

  She squealed, softly. “Fiend! Fiend!” And she fought all the harder, laughing up into his face, with her pale green eyes dark with desire.

  He let her have her fight until the friction of her lovely body against his became too much, and he grasped both her hips and thrust into her.

  She cried out.

  He gave her a series of fearsome strokes.

  She clutched his shoulders the raked his back as his thrusts became faster, savage.

  “Yield to me, yield to me,” he growled, driving her over the edge.

  She came with a little scream that no less sharp to his ears than her claws on his back. Her body quaked under his, and her sex clenched him fiercely.

  He allowed himself to come inside her, ferocious jets of seed that poured into her again and again and again until he was drained.

  And then when he came to his senses, he took her by her wrists and held her to the bed, he brought his mouth close to her ear and asked again, “Do you yield now? Will you be my countess?”

  “Yes,” she said, with a sigh in her voice.

  “You’re not still afraid?”

  “I am afraid. However, I trust you to help guide me through. I trust our love to guide us both.”

  “So, it shall, my love.” And he kissed her, deeply.

  The End

  Adrian and Miranda’s story continues in Fashionably Impure Book Three, coming Summer 2016. It will be offered at a special, limited-time new release price of .99, exclusively on Amazon. Please check out my Amazon Author Page and if you like my stories, please follow me: http://www.amazon.com/NatashaBlackthorne/e/B0056H8TY6/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1.

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  Please keep reading. I have included some excerpts from my other works.

  A Measured Risk by Natasha Blackthorne

  A MEASURED RISK features a shy, intellectual, strong-willed widow with real life curves (Rubenesque/BBW) and a protective, possessive Dominant, alpha male hero. This is a story of Dominance and submission with light BDSM, emotional healing, trust and love.

  He is her most dangerous temptation and now he is demanding her submission. Dare she take the risk?

  Book one in the Regency Risks Series

  Emotionally scarred in the horrific accident that took her husband’s life, Lady Cranfield is imprisoned by her lingering terror of horses and carriages. She longed to be closer to the fascinating Earl of Ruel. She sensed intuitively that he could teach her how to overcome the terrors that held her in bondage.

  And now she’s willing to risk almost anything-her reputation, even her virtue-to find out. But what he proposes startles her.

  When the shy, studious and socially awkward young widow approached him, Ruel instantly sensed she would be the sweetest, most submissive experience of a lifetime-if only he can gain her total and complete trust. He makes her a non-negotiable offer. His help in return for her submission and obedience.

  But Lady Cranfield grew up neglected by her ducal parents, raised by servants and then later ignored by her handsome, charming husband. She’s learnt to protect her heart at all costs and she trusts no one but herself.

  How can the jaded Earl of Ruel break through her self-protective defenses and show her how to love when he has spent his lifetime avoiding that tender trap?

  Reader Advisory: This is a BDSM romance. This book contains anal sex, spanking, light bondage, D/s themes and brief F/F touching.

  This is a work of historical fiction. It is not meant to be an accurate portrayal of or guide to how people recover from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. As a work of historical erotic romance, it is also not intended to portray modern BDSM or D/s lifestyles.

  A Measured Risk is published in British English and uses British Spelling.

  Excerpt from A MEASURED RISK

  Copyright © Natasha Blackthorne, 2012, 2013

  “Why did you run away?” His deep voice settled in her belly, rich and warm, like crème brûlée on a cold winter’s night.

  “Because I wanted you to follow.” She tried to sound sophisticated and seductive, but her voice choked off on the last word.

  Ruel placed his hand on the shelf above her head and blocked her path to the door. His tall, solidly muscled body leaned over her, surrounding her with the sumptuous, sinful scents of tobacco, Scotch whisky and something masculine and undeniably dangerous. A slow, sensual smile stretched his hard mouth.

  He appeared different. Softer. More approachable.

  At the change, her insides seemed to flip over.

  “Well, sweeting, getting us off alone was a very inspired idea.” He touched one of her fallen ringlets. “I am bored to distraction with endless hunting and fencing.”

  As he slowly wrapped the curl around two fingers, he brushed her collarbone. Fiery sparks tingled down her spine, so intense that she shivered and her nipples beaded, pressing against her stays. By some instinct she hadn’t even known she possessed, she arch
ed her back, presenting herself for his assessment.

  His eyes shone so vividly blue against his bronzed face that they resembled cornflowers. She swallowed tightly and wished for a long drink of claret. This more personal side of him suddenly seemed far more hazardous than his usually fierce exterior.

  Well, no matter. There was nothing to fear. She would allow only as much contact as need be to get to know him a little. Since being torn from her lonely yet secure life in Ireland and thrust into society at age sixteen, she’d spent her time allowing people only as near as was comfortable. She was an expert at emotional evasion.

  It should be easy to regain her control.

  But now, as late afternoon sun rays played over his pale hair, turning it to the colour of winter wheat, all her carefully rehearsed words flew away.

  Say something—anything—else he will think you’re a bird-wit.

  An intimate smile, one that invited her to play, tugged at his mouth.

  “In a situation like this, alone with a gentleman, it’s perfectly normal for a lady to feel some apprehension.” His hushed voice, barely audible above the piano and boisterous singing from down the corridor, accentuated their isolation. His gaze became so piercing that she had to lower her eyes.

  He brushed his fingertips over her cheek. “She will invariably ask herself if he will try to kiss her.”

  She jerked her eyes back to his face. God, he couldn’t mean to—Not yet, surely… Peculiar, heated chills swept over her. She tried to take a step back, but found her arse flush against the bookshelf.

  He leaned closer; so close that his Scotch-scented breath tickled her face. “And just in case you are wondering, Lady Cranfield—the answer is most assuredly yes.”

  She should demand that he put his arm down so she could pass by and leave. She really should. But she couldn’t stop looking at his hard mouth and wondering what it would feel like upon hers. He was so close to her that his breath blew on her lips. If she moved but a fraction, she’d be kissing him.

  Kissing him.

  Dear God. Her breath began to come very fast and short. Her throat went tight with a suppressed moan.

  His eyes burnt as brightly as aquamarines. He looked so fierce. If he kissed her, if he dared… Oh God, it would be so harsh. That cruel-looking mouth could express itself no other way.

  Excitement rushed through her, sending tingles to every point of her body, even her toes.

  But no, he wouldn’t. Not yet.

  He kept leaning closer. He didn’t close his eyes. Instead, he seemed to focus all the harder upon her.

  Heart pounding and unable to move away, she braced herself for his assault.

  His lips brushed hers, barely. A gossamer caress.

  He lifted his head.

  It was done.

  Ended.

  And it hadn’t even begun.

  He held her chin, appearing so cool, so unaffected. His kiss had seemed to sear her. An urge to put her fingers to her lips arose in her. She resisted it, for it would give away too much of how she was affected.

  Never show your feelings.

  He traced his thumb along her lower lip, slowly, deliberately, as he studied her with eyes that now glittered with something powerful and predatory. Heat pooled in her pelvis, low and spreading even lower.

  She went weak all over, as if she’d lain in a sunny window seat for too long. Her knees almost buckled. She forced them to lock. To be strong.

  It should not have affected her so profoundly. It had just been a peck—not a true kiss at all. William had poured out all of his skill upon her and hadn’t garnered even a tenth of the reaction in her that this man’s peck had.

  Ruel traced her jaw line with his fingertips. Unthinkingly, she leaned in to his touch.

  “Of course, once he has kissed her, then it’s his turn to wonder…” His voice sounded unnaturally loud to her ears. “How will she respond? Will she withdraw, or can he ignite some hidden fire?”

  She sensed that he was toying with her. She didn’t understand flirtation—why had she imagined she could carry this ruse off? Was he making advances in order to have a laugh with Francesca and her simpering friends later? Hurt blossomed in her chest. She resented him for that. She ought to feel indignant, superior, uncaring—anything but hurt.

  “Please don’t make sport of me.”

  She cringed. Was that quavering, pleading voice really hers?

  An infinitesimal pause. “Now, why on earth would I do such a thing?” His voice was as smooth as velvet.

  “To please your vanity,” she replied, trying to regain her wits.

  “Here.” He placed her hand to his chest. The contours of his muscles were hard, powerfully developed. Even more so than she’d expected. His body heat radiated through the satin and, beneath her hand, his heart beat was rapid and strong.

  “Is that vanity?” He put a finger under her chin, giving her no choice but to face him. “Is it?” He gentled his grip.

  The warmth in his voice settled over her like luscious hot chocolate. Melting her insides to quivering burgoo, rendering her speechless, unable to move.

  “My dear, lovely Lady Cranfield, I am going kiss you again.”

  Then he touched his mouth to hers, more firmly this time. Delicious, steady pressure. Her lips trembled and she clutched his lapels. He lifted his head. At the loss, a throaty, pleading moan sounded in her ears. Had it really come from her?

  Clearly, now was the time for her to reassert some control over her reactions. To put him at a more comfortable distance.

  “Kiss me back.” At the commanding edge in his voice, hot, sweet honey pooled in her belly.

  No. Focus.

  What had she wanted to ask him? Focus? Dear God, what rubbish. She could scarcely remember her own name, much less anything else. What madness had made her think she could maintain control over him?

  He traced her mouth with his tongue. Deliberately; lingeringly. This time she couldn’t hold back a moan. She had grown to dislike it when William kissed her opened mouthed. It had always seemed such an overheated, messy thing. But where was her coldness now? She was burning to know what it would feel like to know Ruel’s full kiss. She had to know—just once—or she would surely die.

  Just once. Certainly once wouldn’t hurt.

  Tentatively, tremulously, she opened her mouth.

  He thrust inside, his tongue like a bold blade of flame as it touched hers. He tasted of whisky and something smoky, too sensual to be borne. Fire burst within her, spreading over her breasts. Of their own volition, her hands slid up his muscled arms and she gripped his shoulders and moaned again.

  She twisted and pressed her breasts against his chest, trying to increase the sensation on her taut, aching nipples. However, her stays prevented it. Her frustration vibrated deep in her throat, another longer, more intense moan.

  The sound startled her and, for a moment, it was as if she was staring down at the two of them. She didn’t recognise herself, but she couldn’t stop kissing him back. Couldn’t stop rubbing her breasts against him.

  Who was this uninhibited strumpet?

  His breathing changed, growing heavier. He cupped her face with his large, long-fingered hands, angling her head. She went even more boneless and allowed him to move her as suited his desire.

  He probed more forcefully with his tongue, went deeper, compelling her to open further, to melt against him more completely. He slid his hand to her neck and threaded his fingertips through her hair. He lifted the heavy mass off her neck. Cool air rushed over her nape. In one quick movement, he tightened his hold on her hair and, with gentle but firm pressure, he pulled her head back. Her shocked gasp came out as a mere whimper, muffled by his demanding mouth.

  No man had ever handled her like this. She’d never even suspected a gentleman would handle a woman—even one of his whores—like this. If she had any sense left, she ought to be frightened, offended—enraged.

  Instead, her nipples pebbled painfully and heat
twisted through her insides.

  He tore his mouth from hers. As she gasped for breath, a sense of loss hit her so intensely that she felt disorientated. She stood there, leaning against his hard body, panting open-mouthed, with her head pulled backwards by his grip.

  He studied her and tightened his grasp, pulling more harshly this time. A violent shaft of desire stabbed her, womb-deep.

  Warmth, and what looked very much like satisfaction, shone in his gaze.

  He laid his other hand along her collarbone in what could only be called a blatant, sexually possessive manner. The skin crinkled around his eyes. He was smiling, ever so slightly.

  Something had just happened. She didn’t understand what it was. If only she could think, she would be able to reason it out. However, liquid warmth pooled in her lower pelvis and flowed out between her legs in a gush that came so suddenly she gasped. Her sex throbbed as if it were a beating heart.

  Coherent thought was impossible.

  He shifted and throbbing heat seared her, even through their clothing.

  His erection.

  Its long, thick weight was more substantial than William’s.

  Ruel brushed his fingers against her back. Tugging, pulling.

  Undoing her laces.

  She froze and placed her hands on his chest. “Don’t.”

  The gown slipped and she automatically clutched the dark purple silk to herself.

  He took hold of her wrists, easily circling them with the forefinger and thumb of each hand. “Let the gown fall away.”

  He used the voice. The one from the dreams she only reluctantly admitted to herself. The very confident, commanding tone that the nameless, faceless man used in her nocturnal fantasies. Her secret lover who would press her down and—

  “I want you to remove the rest of your garments and then I want you to lie on that crimson divan and display yourself for me.”

  She threw a glance at the divan, her favourite spot in this whole house. The image his words conjured—her, lying naked on the crimson velvet, open for his perusal—burnt into her brain. Her inner muscles contracted several times—hard. The folds between her legs swelled and grew slicker.