The Earl's Mistress

by Liz Carlyle

  “I think you want this again, my love,” he said, repeating the motion. “Do you? Do you need me to bend you a little to my will?”

  Her nipples hardened further, if such a thing were possible, but she turned her head away. He took the little crop and gave her a good stinging snap across her ivory cheeks, making them wobble.

  She jerked reflexively, then “Ohhh,” she said.

  The exhalation was almost a moan. He could practically see the lust thrumming through her. He crawled nearer and held her to him, burying his face against her neck as his cock twitched against her soft thatch.

  “What’s wrong with me, Tony?” she whispered.

  “Nothing,” he said again. “You’re special, Isabella. Strong. Let me be strong tonight, love. Let me. I have you tied to the bed, after all. You’re my prisoner. You might as well surrender yourself.”

  “But I can say stop,” she whispered.

  He chuckled. “But will I, Isabella?” he murmured. “Will I let you go? Are you sure? Or are you my sexual slave, destined to fulfill my wickedest desires?”

  “I . . . I can say stop,” she repeated.

  “Yes, but are you saying that?” He drew a fingertip down her cheek, between her breasts, and down her belly. “Are you unhappy, love? Shall I release you and leave?” So saying, he eased the finger back into her feminine folds again.

  “No.” The word came swift and certain. “Don’t leave. Don’t.”

  “Then tell me what you need,” he demanded. “Have you been bad?”

  She bit her bottom lip and nodded.

  Though the angle was awkward, he switched her buttocks again. She jerked against him and gave a soft moan.

  “How bad have you been, Isabella?” he asked, just grazing her clitoris. “Have you, perhaps, missed having me in your bed these past few days?”

  She nodded, her hair falling over one shoulder.

  “Say it,” he ordered, sliding one finger deeper into her curls.

  “I have missed it,” she whispered. “Terribly. Tony, you . . . you were cruel to stay away each night.”

  “Did you touch yourself, Isabella?” he asked. “There’s no shame in it. Trust me, I know.”

  She shook her head.

  “Liar.” He took the crop and lashed her again. Her hips jerked into his. “Tell the truth.”

  “I . . . I need you inside me,” she said breathlessly. “Now.”

  “Hmm,” he said. “I think not, my love.”

  “Please,” she said. “Just . . . may we? Please?”

  “Not yet, love. Be patient.”

  He moved away and sat back on the edge of the bed to extract the thirty-foot length of black silk from his chest.

  “Wh-what are you doing?”

  “Binding you,” he said. “I want to see you, Isabella, trussed up in this black silk strapping. I will not hurt you, love, I promise—unless you ask me to.”

  “D-do I have a choice?” she asked, her eyes going to the narrow band of silk as he roped it around his hand.

  “Only two,” he said, unsmiling. “Give yourself over to me, Isabella, for my pleasure—and, I promise, yours. Or say stop.”

  When he had unfurled half the narrow length, he wrapped it around her waist, cinched it tight, then knotted it above her hip bone. Then he drew it between her breasts, round her neck, and back down again. Two tight circles beneath her breasts, and they were thrust up high. Gently he bound her elbows nearly together at the back of her head, then finished by passing it between her hips, once around each thigh, and knotting it on the other side.

  When he was finished, she was an erotic vision with her wrists behind her head, her inky black hair spilling down her back, and the long, black strap thoroughly cinching her. Isabella’s nipples were hard, her thighs pulled just a little apart by the tug of the knots. The black silk cut into the plumpness of her flesh so erotically that he felt blood surge into his groin again.

  “Good Lord, Isabella, but you are beautiful when bound,” he whispered. “How does it feel?”

  “Strange,” she said.

  “Do you wish me to untie it?” he asked, praying she would not say yes.

  “No,” she whispered.

  “Then how does it feel—exactly?”

  “Wicked,” she said breathlessly. “Tight and wicked and . . . secure.”

  Secure. Yes, he thought he understood.

  He made love to her with his mouth then, fisting his hand in her hair and kissing her deep. He tugged her head gently back and let his teeth rake down her neck. He drew the tip of his tongue underneath the edge of her black silk bindings and drew it down. All the way down to her breast. After that, he suckled each in turn, lightly nipping at each sweet peak until she gave a soft, thready cry.

  He touched her intimately and was rewarded with a moan. Good God, his cock felt ready to explode again. For an instant, he debated simply thrusting up inside her and being done with it, but pride would not let him. He hadn’t earned his reputation for discipline by surrendering to temptation.

  He slid a finger inside her and was rewarded with a tightening throb. “Please,” she begged. “Please. Let me loose, Tony. I need your—”

  “No,” he demanded gruffly. “Isabella, you are mine. You are mine to fuck tonight—when and how I please—unless you say stop. We may renegotiate our terms another night. But not tonight. Tonight it’s either stop, or you are mine, for my pleasure. Which will you have, my love?”

  “I am yours,” she said hoarsely. “I am yours. Just . . . please.”

  He took the larger ivory, pushed her legs wide, and slicked it through her folds.

  “Oh, God . . . ,” she whispered, shivering.

  “Are you frightened?” he asked, worried. “This is just a lover’s toy, Isabella, scarcely half the size of my cock. Just a plaything.”

  She managed to give her head a little shake. “No.” She licked her lips. “I am . . . yours.”

  “Brave girl.” Gently, he slipped it in an inch, causing her to twitch a little at the invasion. “Relax, my love, and let me pleasure you,” he said. “Yes, like that.”

  Another inch, and then another, and after a time, she shut her eyes, let her head fall back, and rode down, almost to his hand. “Aaahh,” she breathed, taking the length of it.

  “So greedy,” he murmured, easing it back and forth. “Oh, Isabella. I worship you.”

  Still lightly holding the ivory in place, he shifted his weight low onto his elbow and stretched out. Dipping his head, he drew his tongue lightly through her soft folds. Isabella made the sound again—a slow exhalation of pleasure.

  Again, he teased lightly, drawing his tongue deeper this time, until he felt her quivering bud. She would not last long, he thought, for she’d not yet learned discipline. Beneath the black silk strapping, her nipples were full and hard, her head already tipped back as if release edged near.

  He drew the ivory shaft out a little, and Isabella gave a whimpering sound of disappointment. This time, he let his tongue play over her jewel of a clit and kept it there, slicking the shaft up again and pressing it hard against the front wall of her sheath, in that sweet and perfect spot that almost always maddened a woman.

  It maddened her. Isabella began to shake down to her bones, drawing down hard on the silk rope, her whole body straining against it. And then he slicked the rod back and forth again and felt her juices burst forth. She bowed backward, her mouth open on a soft, almost silent cry of release.

  He wanted to take her then and there, still bound and tied. He held fast as long as he could, and when her trembling eased, he let the ivory go, rolling up onto his knees, his forehead damp with sweat, his cock already in hand. He lashed an arm about her waist and was already pulling Isabella, still shaking, onto his shaft when some semblance of control returned.

  “Good Lord, woman.” He let his head fall forward to touch hers, banding her tight to him as he raised his other hand to unhook the chain.

  Isabella collapsed again
st him, almost sobbing. He buried his face against her neck and shoved his fingers into her hair, simply holding her. “Oh, love, you are so beautiful,” he murmured.

  Her breath was slowly returning to normal. “Oh, God,” she whispered. “What did you do with . . . oh, I cannot bring myself to ask . . .”

  He kissed her then, deep and sweet, threading his fingers through her hair. “Are you all right, love?” he murmured, against her cheek. “Are you exhausted?”

  “No . . . eviscerated,” she said. “But that is not stop, Tony.”

  He tipped up her chin. “Are you sure?”

  She pressed herself closer and kissed him almost aggressively, thrusting her tongue into his mouth, twining it sinuously around his. Against the silken skin of Isabella’s thigh, his shaft twitched impatiently.

  “Good Lord,” he rasped when she was done. “Turn around, my dear.”

  “Yes,” she said in a soft, compliant voice.

  His hands went to the knots of the rope and the silk bindings, impatiently unfastening. He wished to the devil he had his sharp knife, he thought grimly. He got them loose, if not completely unwrapped, before he lost all patience.

  “Face down, love,” he whispered, giving her a little push. “You’ve been so very good. Just a little more, all right?”

  She nodded. “What are you going to do to me?”

  “Just give you pleasure, Isabella,” he murmured, his lips brushing over her temple. “Or try to. Will you let me? Will you trust me? And if you don’t like it, Isabella, we shall never do it again.”

  She hesitated.

  “Isabella,” he said a little harshly, “do you trust me? Do you give yourself to me for my pleasure?”

  She nodded.

  “Then lie down and let me take you,” he said, picking up the smaller of the ivories.

  “That is odd,” she said, “b-but not too large, I suppose?”

  This last was said almost hopefully.

  “Don’t look,” he suggested. “I won’t hurt you, Isabella. Just let me take my fill of you, love. Please. Let me take you to that sweet and exquisite place again.”

  She gave a short, quick nod and settled herself into the pillows, turning her head away from his chest of trinkets. Stretching, he lifted out his jar of unguent and liberally oiled his toy. Again, his shaft twitched impatiently. Damned if it wasn’t taking forever to get himself buried in the girl, but he would sooner die than truly hurt her.

  Gingerly, he set his hand to her left buttock, but she flinched at the touch.

  “Isabella, do you need the crop?” he asked warningly.

  She looked back at him, her thick black lashes fanning down. “Have I been bad?” she murmured.

  “A little,” he said. “The way you kissed me just now felt very wicked indeed.”

  Without another word, she pulled a pillow nearer and buried her face in its softness.

  Well, he thought wryly, the lady’s needs must be met.

  He set aside the ivory, took the little crop, and drew it deep between her cheeks again. To his shock, Isabella shivered. He did it again, this time slipping his oiled fingers between her legs, lightly circling her clitoris. When she writhed a little against his hand, he struck her a stinging blow.

  “Naughty girl,” he said. “You need a little something more, don’t you?”

  “I need you,” she rasped. “Touch me again.”

  He did so, slowly stroking until he felt a fresh pearl of dew. “Ohhh,” she whispered.

  Again, the stinging blow, just enough to pink her cheeks. She writhed down on his hand, begging for something. “Tony—” she whispered, “please?”

  “Wait,” he whispered, laying aside the crop. “Be patient, my darling.”

  “But what you are doing . . . it seems so wicked. I think perhaps you should be cropped.”

  “We may negotiate that,” he said, giving in to the temptation, “another night.”

  He forgot all about his ivory toys, and she sucked in her breath as he entered her slick, feminine passage. “Umm,” she murmured uncertainly.

  Isabella lifted her shoulders, and he bent over her, letting his lips skate down the soft skin between her shoulder blades. Beneath him she felt so small and perfect. He could feel the stubble of his beard rake against her tender flesh, could feel the warmth of her skin and the dampness of her perspiration. He forced himself not to move but merely to hold himself all the way inside her, savoring the almost suspended pleasure.

  He felt his cock throb impatiently. She felt it, too, and gasped.

  “Love,” he whispered. “Oh, Isabella. So sweet.”

  And then he could bear it no longer. He let his hands slide low, stroking the curve of her hips, and then back up, pushing wide the full, fine swells of her rear to fully thrust. On a little moan, she shifted, instinctively—urgently seeking.

  In the pale moonlight, her skin seemed to glow with warmth. Her face was turned into the shadows, her mouth open on a sigh. Again and again, she urged herself against him as she rose, and he bit back his urgency, pressing himself into her at that firm, perfect angle.

  She shifted, trembling a little, her silken hair fanning over one side of the pillow. He lifted his hand, tenderly stroking it back. Then he cupped her full breast, lightly plucking her hard, sweet nipple until she began to sob. He felt his hard-fought control slip, and he had to will himself not to drive himself up into her too greedily.

  On knees and elbows now, Isabella rode back hard, urgently seeking. Her breath came rapidly; soft, needy gasps as her head tipped back. He struggled for control, desperate to hold himself in check; desperate to give her what she needed and bind her to him with that perfect and aching release.

  Isabella began to plead with him—begging him for wicked things and using words he was shocked to hear her utter. The erotic vision drove him. He thrust fast and hard, pushing his length inside her as she began to whisper his name like a soft plea.

  He lifted her, pressing himself hard against the front of her silken passage as she urged herself back against him with her instinctive grace. And when the head of his cock stroked that deep, sweet spot again, she gave a moan of intense pleasure, her hands fisting great handfuls of the bed linens, her head tipping back.

  Good God, how he wanted her.

  The need beat in his blood like his own pulse, and his vision began to cloud as he felt Isabella’s very essence surround him. He reached out and fisted his hand in her hair, riding her like some stallion mounting a mare. Urgently pushing back to take him, she lifted her upper body, straining, and he sunk his teeth into the tender flesh of her shoulder.

  On a soft cry, Isabella jerked hard and bowed back, her nails raking the pillow as he felt her begin to throb around his cock, and then splinter. Maddened by the sight, he thrust again, driving himself dangerously deep.

  She cried out again, and it was as if fire and heat exploded in a blinding rush. He thrust once more and the spasms of pleasure seized him, his entire being jerking with it.

  Reality dimmed, and he knew only that burning need to claim her; to spill himself deep. To push her past the point of release and bind himself to her, forged as one in the searing heat. Isabella fell into the pillows, sobbing as the pleasure wracked him.

  Still pulsing deep inside her, he exhaled on a long, shuddering breath and rolled onto his side, taking her with him and spooning her back against him. “Isabella,” he whispered. “Oh, Isabella, my love.”

  Sinking into the softness of the bed, he marveled at what she had just given him, his gentle, untutored lover. He marveled at how desperately he loved her, and tried not to let the fear choke him.

  Countless lovers had come and gone from his life, but this was not the same.

  Isabella was not the same.

  Isabella was not replaceable. And if she were to go from his life, his life would be over. There would be nothing left for him but to raise his child and try to survive what remained.

  This was, of course, hardly a new
realization but one that had been growing in intensity these past many weeks. But the magnitude of it still shook him.

  They drifted, with her bound in his arms, for a time, then roused to kiss and whisper and stir about before collapsing together again. Much later, in the darkest hours of the night, when the lamp was out and the moonlight pale and clear, they woke to make love again as they had done that morning in Fulham; facing one another, drowning in one another’s gaze as they came. He felt himself spill deep again—spilling heart and soul into her—his elbows shaking as the spasms wracked him.

  He came back to a hint of dawn on the horizon and to the realization that he was lost. He was lost to Isabella, and there was only one real solution. He knew it even as he turned the possibility over and over in his mind. But even with his need burned down to ash, he now understood that nothing he felt for her would ever change.

  He lifted his hand and tucked a long lock of hair back over her slender shoulder. How many times had he spilled his seed into her womb? Twice tonight. Once earlier in the week. They had escaped catastrophe several times before that.

  It was the domination of his unconscious mind, he suspected. It was raw, male instinct—and selfishness—overwhelming his good sense.

  He was going to have to make this right.

  He only hoped that in doing so, he did not make things worse.

  CHAPTER 17

  Surrounded in warmth, Isabella stirred near dawn to a lover’s touch. After drawing a lock of her hair over her shoulder, Anthony spooned himself about her, one palm settling heavily over her womb. He pressed his lips to the back of her shoulder, and lazily, she lifted her eyelids a fraction.

  She could just make out, through the open draperies, a faint glow on the horizon. She stretched, and felt his lips skate up to the curve of her neck.

  “Umm,” she said, glancing back at him. “What time is it?”

  “Five, thereabouts.” He moved his lips an inch higher and kissed her again, his hand making soft, almost pensive circles on her belly. “Turn round, love,” he murmured against her skin. “We must talk.”