Mistletoe Mistress

by Nicola Davidson

  How odd, that in the solid embrace of a man she had just met, she could be both tamed and free.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  Arran’s low, rough words, accompanied by another marvelous nip to her neck jolted her from her thoughts, and she managed to wriggle directly against the huge bulge of his erection. His breath hissed between his teeth and this time she smiled, for it seemed that even when she surrendered completely, she still held power. “Ummm. I’m not sure if I should say,” she demurred.

  “Tell me,” he said, kissing the back of her neck and making her shiver.

  “Oh, very well. I’m thinking…I’m thinking about how safe I feel.”

  Arran froze, and Rachel wanted to sink into the floorboards. Why had she blurted out the truth? Why couldn’t she have said something playful or seductive? Then his free hand moved, cupping her left breast and tweaking her swollen nipple, and she cried out at the delicious sting that all too briefly eased the ache.

  “Did that feel good?” he rasped.

  “So good,” she panted, both confused and incredibly aroused by his action.

  “You pleased me.”

  Oh.

  “Because…I told you the truth?” Rachel said hesitantly.

  “Yes. I’m glad you feel safe. I want you to feel safe, and to tell me at once if you do not, or if there is something you do not like. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied, only to moan and buck against him when he tweaked her nipple again, firmer this time.

  “Good. I—”

  A knock at the door interrupted whatever Arran was about to say, and Rachel wanted to stomp her foot in sheer frustration when he let her go and stepped back.

  “Should I answer?” she asked unsteadily, her mind still awhirl.

  “If you wouldn’t mind,” he said, with a rueful smile and quick glance downward. “I’ll just wait behind the screen.”

  Rachel nodded, and hurried over to the door. She lifted the latch and wrenched it open to find Mrs. Vine, two maids, and a burly footman. The women held trays of food and drink which they set down on the table, and the footman lugged a large bucket of steaming hot water and an armful of extra wood for the fireplace.

  “Oh, thank you,” said Rachel, forcing herself to smile at them all. “Mr. Elliott and I are both grateful for your trouble. The food smells delicious.”

  The innkeeper’s wife nodded. “It will be getting dark outside soon, ma’am. Tallow candles are on the tray, you can light them in the fireplace and put them into the iron holders there and over there. We wish you a nice evening, breakfast is served down in the dining hall from dawn, please put your trays out into the hallway when you are finished.”

  And just as quickly as they had arrived, the efficient little group departed, leaving her and Arran alone again.

  “Hungry?” he said, returning from behind the bathing screen.

  “A little,” Rachel replied, and of course her stomach chose that moment to rumble so loudly it was a wonder the whole inn didn’t hear it.

  His lips twitched. “Eat, madam. While it’s hot.”

  “Will you dine with me? You could tell me a tale of Lincolnshire, and why you are so far from home.”

  Arran hesitated, before settling himself at the table. She bustled about, confident at last performing tasks she’d done many times at the orphanage, buttering bread, ladling broth, and pouring him a tankard of ale.

  “Thank you,” he said, giving her a quizzical look. “Your household didn’t have staff?”

  Rachel inwardly cursed as she sat down. Not for the world did she want to ruin this evening by discussing the vast difference in their circumstances. “We, ah…fell on hard times. I had to become more proficient than I would like at serving food and tidying up. Just please don’t ask me to pluck a chicken.”

  “On my honor, I promise never in our marriage to do so.”

  She giggled and took several mouthfuls of wonderfully rich broth. It was hearty, with chunks of beef, carrots, and potatoes, thickened with barley, and warmed her to the tips of her toes. “Do your parents live in Lincolnshire, too? And your brothers and sisters?”

  His shoulders went rigid. “Both my parents have passed. My brother also.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Rachel replied, reaching out to take his hand. “Were you close with them?”

  “To my brother, yes, although we were very different. But my parents…let’s just say we didn’t see eye to eye on most things. One decision they made on my behalf, I am quite furious about. What about you? Parents and siblings?”

  She smiled, understanding the reply for what it was. His family were not to be discussed, and she could respect that stance with matters of her own she wouldn’t talk about. Like her illegitimacy. “No brothers or sisters. My parents have also both passed, but a long time ago.”

  Arran squeezed her hand in return, and she blinked in surprise. Few people had shown her sympathy; a maid’s sorrows were rarely considered worthy of note. But not only had this gentleman shown kindness and consideration, he’d also been scrupulously courteous to everyone whatever their station, and it only made him more attractive.

  When all the dishes were empty, he sat back in his chair. “Remind me to compliment the kitchens in the morning. I think that might have been the best inn meal I’ve ever had.”

  Rachel laughed as she began to stack the dishes. “I’m sure they would welcome an extra coin if you could manage it. Everything is more expensive at Christmas, I swear some carts at the market put out half the produce at twice the price. And when you are buying to feed many…”

  An odd look passed over his face. “I can indeed manage it. Why were you buying to feed many?”

  Oh for heaven’s sake. Would she foolishly reveal all her secrets in the space of a few minutes? Her mother had been a celebrated actress. She had overheard ladies and gentlemen converse on many occasions at the school and after church. Surely she could think of some actual flirtatious banter. “I, er, assisted a school. For foundlings.”

  “Ah. Most admirable. Now, if you hold the door, I will do my part and get rid of these trays. Then…”

  Rachel’s breathing hitched. “Then?”

  “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

  What was it about Rachel Lindsay that he liked so much?

  Setting the last empty tray down in the hallway, Arran frowned as he returned to their room and latched the door behind him. Although her generous curves, frankness, and untrained yet obviously submissive nature had him hard as stone, it was more than that. She might have fallen on hard times but demonstrated a strength of character and humor that he admired. She also had an appealing sweetness about her, too, even at her boldest.

  Now she stood beside the table waiting for him, her hands clasped in front of her again. “Well. Here we are.”

  “Rachel, I’m not going to pounce on you,” he said firmly. “In fact, you won’t have my cock inside you until you beg for it.”

  “Hmmm. I doubt that will happen,” she replied, peeping up through her lashes, her smile pure mischief. “But I very much want to be bedded by you. Soon.”

  Arran took a deep breath at the deliberately provocative words. It was time the wicked minx learned a proper lesson. Earlier, she had responded well to some basic withholding of pleasure play; perhaps that would be an excellent place to start. “Come over by the fire. I’ll help you with your gown and stays.”

  Obediently she walked over to the fireplace, before leaning down to add another piece of wood to ensure it burned well and provided plenty of light and warmth. Her long-sleeved blue gown was a little muddy at the hem but hadn’t fared too badly from her travel. Rachel shivered as he carefully unfastened the four buttons at the back and tugged it over her head, then hung it on a nearby iron hook, but pleasingly, let her arms fall to her sides rather than attempting to cover her half-revealed breasts. Something else he liked, that she was comfortable in her own skin.

  Rachel’s stay
s were worn and ill-fitting, and she sighed in obvious relief when he loosened the laces and slid the stays free, leaving her in just a thin chemise, woolen stockings, and shoes. The firelight made the chemise practically transparent, and he stared hungrily at her breasts with their big, rosy-tipped nipples pressing against the threadbare linen, the bush of dark hair between her sturdy thighs, her rounded belly and hips. But he didn’t want so much as a stitch between them, and swiftly removed the garment. Then he crouched in front of her and took off her shoes, rubbing her feet before slowly sliding down her stockings.

  Christ. Naked, haloed by the golden light of the fire, she was a goddess.

  Rachel tilted her head. “Yes, I’m plump,” she announced. “Always have been. And I’m not sorry for it one little bit.”

  His lips twitched. Defiant until the end, and yet the thought that others had made her feel ashamed about her plentiful curves left him irritable as hell. As if he needed another reason to dislike London. “Good. I wouldn’t ever want you to be sorry for such a bounty. Now, I’m going to bathe you.”

  After pouring some of the hot water from the bucket into the porcelain washstand bowl, Arran picked up a neatly folded cloth and a small bar of unscented soap and started with her back and ass. Then he turned her around and spent an inordinate amount of time on her breasts, soothing the red lines and indentations left underneath them by the stays, teasing her hard nipples with the slightly rough cloth until she closed her eyes and panted for breath. Even now, a heady spicy scent lured him to part her thighs and feast on her cunt, but Rachel certainly hadn’t earned that reward yet. Instead, he knelt and sponged her belly, hips, and legs.

  She trembled, hips tilting, wordlessly offering herself to him. Arran glided the washcloth around her knees, and as he edged higher, she immediately spread her legs further to give him easier access. Very, very gently he sponged her inner thighs, allowing the cloth to brush her bush, but not touch the silken pink flesh glistening with arousal. Rachel whimpered, thrusting her mound forward in an unmistakable gesture of need, and he shook his head, moving the cloth away.

  “No!” she protested, her fists clenched at her sides, and cheeks flushed.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “I mean…er…”

  Arran rose to his feet. “Do you have a comb in your satchel?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  He sent her a quelling glance, and Rachel pressed her lips together, silent as he collected the inexpensive wooden comb and brought it back. First, he unpinned her hair, then ran his fingers through the heavy mass of brown curls and massaged her scalp until she near-purred, her head tilting back. Finally, he held her head with one hand and tugged the comb through her hair with the other. When at last it shone like silk, he set the comb down and collected the washcloth again.

  “If there is something you want, ask for it,” he commanded.

  Rachel gestured between her legs. “Here. Would you please? With the cloth?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he lied ruthlessly. “I see your belly. Your legs. Your pretty little cunt, and your swollen clitoris. You may tell me what you want to be washed.”

  Her eyes widened, then went heavy-lidded. “You…you don’t mind me using naughty words?”

  Mind? God no. He couldn’t think of anything more arousing than hearing explicit talk from Rachel’s sweet, pouty lips. Apart from having those sweet, pouty lips wrapped around his cock and sucking him until he came in her mouth, of course.

  Arran began to sponge her belly, circling lower and lower until he caressed the soft skin just above her bush. “I’ve no time for coyness in the bedchamber. When I ask my mistress of her needs, she must tell me plainly.”

  “Very well…My clitoris and my cunt,” Rachel whispered, and then louder, “Please, sir, will you touch my cunt? I cannot bear the ache.”

  “Yes,” he replied, nodding in approval.

  Curling one arm around her shoulder blades to support her, he captured her mouth with his, owning and plundering it while he stroked the warm washcloth between her thighs, parting the hair and rubbing the textured cloth against her clitoris. Rachel clung to him, one hand around his neck and the other gripping his jacket lapel, and when he dropped the cloth onto the wooden floor and eased two fingers inside her soaked sheath, she frantically ground her clitoris against the heel of his hand. Seconds later she went rigid and came with a muffled cry, her snug inner walls pulsing and clenching around his fingers.

  “Oh God,” she gasped as she collapsed against him, still shaking with the force of her climax.

  Arran smiled in intense satisfaction at the awed wonder in her voice. That was only the beginning. “There now, kitten. Let’s get you dry and put to bed, and I’ll join you in just a moment.”

  After drying Rachel with a towel, he scooped her up in his arms and carried her over to the thankfully reasonable-sized bed. Again, he was impressed, the straw mattress felt firm, the decorative wooden headboard was polished, the sheets clean and the quilt thick, and he tucked her in so she would stay warm while he bathed himself. She remained quiet and obedient now, and in truth, he welcomed the temporary silence. He needed a moment to regain composure as his head whirled, and his cock verged on exploding and ruining his trousers.

  He’d only bathed Rachel and combed her hair, yet it felt like much more. So natural, like he’d tended to her a hundred times. And the way she’d followed his instructions and come hard for him, drenching his fingers in hot, fragrant juices...

  Bloody hell.

  Perhaps one night with his ‘wife’ might not be enough.

  Chapter 3

  So. That was an orgasm.

  Still struggling to regather her wits, her body throbbing in remembered ecstasy, Rachel lay against the pillows in a daze and watched Arran remove his jacket and cravat. Other maids at the school had giggled and whispered of pleasure, of stolen kisses and caresses with stable hands or footmen, or even wickeder tales of lust from their day off. But none of them had ever spoken of the sensuality in being cared for by a man.

  No one had ever treated her so tenderly.

  He’d been thorough in his bathing, but when he’d massaged her head, sore from the many pins needed to tame her unruly mop of curls, she’d almost wept. Then the combing…sweet heaven. The slight prickle and tug on her scalp had sent tingles between her legs, making her even wetter. If being teased with a washcloth, having her hair combed, and gentle fingers inside her resulted in such an astonishing climax, what might it be like with his engorged cock thrusting hard? Or after he’d disciplined her for misbehaving? Back at the school, a few inexpert swats with a wooden spoon had left her aching with need. But his big palm, applied with pressure and mastery…

  The sound of water splashing distracted her from her wayward thoughts, and Rachel sucked in a shaky breath at the sight of Arran fully naked and bathing himself in front of the fire. In stark contrast to her softness, everything about him was sculpted and hard. Broad shoulders, powerful arms, and massive chest dusted with black hair. A narrow waist and flat abdomen, the muscled thighs of a dedicated rider. And his cock…

  She gulped. Even partially erect, it stuck out thick and proud from a nest of coarse black hair at his groin. Surely twice as large as her clerk, and that had hurt. But she didn’t have long to ponder, as Arran dried himself then walked back to the bed and climbed in.

  “Is something wrong, Rachel?”

  Surprised at how easily he read her, she looked at him lying propped up on one elbow. A denial sat on the tip of her tongue, but at the last moment she sighed and traced a finger along the embroidered quilt. “I’m nervous. Because you are so much larger than my previous lover, and that was a while ago.”

  “How long?”

  Her lips tightened. “A while.”

  “Answer me properly. How long?”

  The question both annoyed and aroused her. Just as well this would be a one-night affair, because to a stern, implacable master like Arran she would no doubt
confess all her secrets, leaving her entirely too vulnerable. Even now, a part of her yearned to please him in every way. “A year.”

  “Young love?”

  “I’m twenty,” she replied indignantly.

  “Positively ancient.”

  Forgetting herself completely, Rachel smacked him on the shoulder, only to find herself flat on her back with her arms above her head, both wrists restrained in one of his hands. Oh. Was she about to be disciplined? Anticipation coursed through her entire body, tautening her nipples and forcing her to press her thighs together against a fierce throbbing. “Well, sir? Are you going to take me, or just toy with me?”

  A slow smile spread across his face, only adding to his overwhelming appeal. “Toy with you. Until you beg. You’ll find, madam, that a promise made is a promise kept.”

  And with that, he leaned down for another carnal, open-mouthed kiss, his lips firm, his tongue a hot darting sword, and she could only whimper at the seductive onslaught. His free hand cupped her left breast, his thumb rubbing her hard nipple, and when he pinched it between his index and middle fingers, she writhed at the welcome sting.

  Just as her lips were almost too tender, he pulled back. “I’m going to release your wrists now. But you must hold onto the headboard. If you let go, I’ll stop. Do you understand?”

  Rachel squirmed on the bed. “Yes.”

  “Beg pardon?” Arran replied as he increased the pressure on her nipple.

  “Yes, sir!” she gasped excitedly, curling her fingers around the wooden headboard that stretched across the top of the bed and arching her back in shameless need.

  For what seemed like hours, he tormented her tender nipples until they were ruby red. Firm pinches, lazy sucking, light flicks with just the tip of his tongue, slow scrapes of his teeth, and she moaned helplessly as each wicked act sent sizzling bolts of sensation directly between her legs. On another occasion, she might have been embarrassed at how wet she was, for her juices decorated her inner thighs and dripped onto the sheets together with perspiration from her overheated skin. But not this evening. Not when it felt like her body was being both mastered and worshipped.