Mistletoe Mistress

by Nicola Davidson

  “Arran?” she said, blinking dazedly at him, her face adorably blotchy from her tears of release.

  “Up you come, darling,” he replied, as gentle as he could when he felt so damned primitive he wanted to roar. His cock hated him, the agony of fabric constriction and withheld climax making him grit his teeth, but he wanted to hold Rachel more. Soothe and praise and tend to her after she’d submitted to her spanking and orgasmed so beautifully.

  Utterly pliant, she allowed him to lift and resettle her, so she sat with her breasts pressed against his chest, one knee either side of his thighs. He removed the gag altogether, tossing the linen onto the floor, before cradling her in his arms and stroking her hair. Then he leaned over to the bedside table and poured a cup of watered wine from the jug for her to drink.

  “Mmmm,” she said, gulping the cool beverage greedily.

  “How are you feeling? You did well. I’m very pleased.”

  “Overwhelmed,” she said shyly, burrowing her face into his neck. “And I won’t be sitting on my bottom for a while. But…um…lighter. Like a weight lifted from my shoulders. Or when you have a wound, and it hurts to clean it, but then afterward it feels so much better. That climax turned me inside out, I swear I saw stars…oh, I’m babbling. Just tell me to hush.”

  Arran held Rachel tighter, careful not to touch where he’d spanked her. “You aren’t babbling. Sexual discipline should feel like that…what is the matter?”

  She squirmed against him. “Nothing.”

  “Tell me. Plainly.”

  “I…I wish we were skin to skin,” she mumbled eventually against his shoulder. “But also, I can feel how hard you are, and I would like to um…take you in my mouth. Taste you like you tasted me.”

  “Would you now?” he asked mildly, as though he wasn’t ready to claw his trousers off at the erotic request.

  Rachel leaned back a little, her eyes wide and earnest. “Please? Teach me what you like. How to pleasure you best.”

  His cock surged, and Arran inhaled deeply. “Very well. You may undress me.”

  A beaming smile lit up her face, and Rachel scrambled off his lap so she could stand between his legs. First, she removed his shirt, clearly having paid close attention when he’d undressed her, for never had the single button at his throat been unfastened so slowly. Nor had his chest hair been caressed, or his flat nipples scraped so deliberately as she tugged the garment up his torso and over his head.

  Wicked, wicked woman.

  When she sank to her knees in front of him, breasts bouncing and hips swaying, to take off his boots and stockings, he almost forgot to breathe. Surely there could be nothing in the world as seductive as a woman at ease with her own nakedness, open about her desires, and eager to pleasure and be pleasured.

  I want you forever. At my side. In my bed. As my marchioness, my lover and my companion, the mother of my children.

  The utterly irrational thought lodged in his mind with such force he reeled back. Hell. He’d been acquainted with her less than two days. Nobody decided this soon, did they? And yet equally as strong, the knowledge that he couldn’t propose right now, whisk them both to Doctor’s Commons or the archbishop for a special license and welcome the New Year with a wedding, made him inordinately bitter.

  “Arran?” said Rachel uncertainly.

  He reached down and cupped her cheek, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “Forgive me. I’m pondering if it would be so bad to rip my own trousers off.”

  She laughed. “A waste of fine tailoring. Let me do it.”

  “Very well,” he said, his breath hissing between his teeth as she further teased him with a slow trouser button unfastening and fabric sliding. Finally freed of its prison, his hugely engorged cock bobbed against his abdomen, and Arran moved back to lie against the pillows on the bed, mindful of the cold wooden floor beneath Rachel’s knees. “Up here, kitten.”

  “Can I…can I touch you?” she asked, as she settled between his outstretched legs.

  “You may.”

  Rachel shuffled forward, and if his cock didn’t hurt so damned much, he would have been charmed by her fascinated and tentative handling of his erection as she attempted to close her fingers around the girth and stroke it. Then her thumb brushed the head, wet with pearly moisture, and he gasped.

  Her eyes gleamed, and holding his gaze, she lifted her thumb to her lips and licked it. “Hmmm. The taste is…salty. And earthy, too. But I think I need more to be certain.”

  Speechless with lust, he could only watch as Rachel inexpertly but enthusiastically dragged her tongue along his cock before lapping at the head. He reached down, and with rough, unsteady hands, dislodged her hairpins so he could tangle his fingers in her curls and guide her head.

  “Take me in your mouth, darling. That’s it. Now, a gentle suck, and use your tongue on the underside.”

  She moaned, a shiver rocking her whole body as she obeyed. Soon she grew more confident, taking his cock a little deeper, sucking him a little harder with both her lips and the insides of her cheeks, and a groan of pleasure tore from his throat. His mistletoe mistress was a fast learner, and her obvious enjoyment in the act only made him harder. Yet he wouldn’t last much longer, not when it felt so damned good. Already his balls were heavy and tingling, warning of an impending explosion, and Arran began to pant, his grip on Rachel’s hair tightening.

  “I’m going to come,” he gritted out. “In your mouth, or on your breasts. You choose.”

  “Mmmm,” she replied, swallowing his cock further in response, her lips and tongue and fingers working busily. Seconds later his hips jerked, and he roared as his seed spurted down her throat in several violent bursts, the exquisite sensation only enhanced as she greedily sucked and squeezed his cock for more. When she’d drained him dry, her tongue flicked out and lapped him clean, then she sat back on her knees, hands clasped, eyes down.

  Sheer submissive perfection.

  “Excellent,” he said, somehow summoning the energy to shove back the quilt and sheets and get under them. “Come here, my Rachel.”

  He lay flat on his back, she lay half on her side, half sprawled on him, her head on his chest and breasts pillowed against him, and again he was struck with a sense of absolute rightness.

  “I think,” she whispered, “this is the best Christmas ever.”

  Arran didn’t smile at her teasing tone. All he knew for certain was that there was no way he could marry Lady Sarah. Not when he held his dream woman in his arms. He would fight for them, beg or bribe Lady Sarah, hell, spend every waking hour helping her find a husband she could love if need be, as long as she agreed to break the contract. “Stay with me.”

  The blunt words hung in the air, and Rachel looked up at him, startled. “What?”

  What the hell are you doing? Too soon!

  Ignoring the voice of reason, the fact she didn’t know he was a marquess, the betrothal contract debacle, that he still didn’t know everything about Rachel herself, he took a deep breath and blurted, “Don’t go north. Come back to London with me. I’m aware we have much to learn about one another, and each have matters to settle…but I believe we met for a reason. Compatibility like ours should never be discarded but nurtured into a more permanent arrangement.”

  Christ. That was the best you could do? Hardly a Byronic declaration.

  He tried again. “I am comfortable in the country. I like fields and fresh air and the scent of freshly tilled soil. But my circumstances have changed and I must live mostly in London now. With you at my side…I believe I could be happy there. And I would do everything in my power to make you happy, too.”

  Rachel tilted her head, her gaze hopeful but uncertain. “Are you sure? There are things about me…my birth…”

  “Such as you were raised in a school for foundlings?” Arran said gently.

  She went rigid. “Ah…yes. And I had a…relative. A peer. Who turned his back on my mother and me. That is why I…I don’t like them.”

 
“I see,” he breathed, as the pieces fitted together. If he ever got his hands on the wretched cur, the uncle or grandfather would rue the day. “Well. In time you’ll learn not all peers are bad. But with me, you’ll always be safe. Always be cherished and given choices, and disciplined in the bedchamber when required. Understand?”

  Rachel stared back at him in the shadowed warmth of the room, her eyes glistening and smile so joyful it made his chest ache. Then she nodded and cuddled closer.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Chapter 5

  Somehow, she had been granted a Christmas miracle.

  Leaning against the narrow window ledge overlooking the courtyard below, Rachel watched the light dust of afternoon snow falling. It might be bleak and freezing outside, but in this sanctuary, this inn that had changed her life, everything was warm and wonderful.

  Her first night with Arran had been a revelation. Her second night…complete wish fulfillment. Even now, her bottom remained tender from her spanking, and a lingering soreness between her legs reminded her that he had taken her repeatedly after she had learned to suck his cock. How educational it had been, as at his direction she had ridden him like a stallion while he kissed her nipples and stroked her clitoris. Thank heavens he had gagged her again, for the entire inn would have heard her cries of ecstasy. Later he had put her on her hands and knees, parting her thighs wide so he could caress where he’d spanked, dart his tongue into her back entrance, and hold her open while his fingers took her twice to the brink of orgasm but denied her. Then he had plundered with his cock, gripping her hips and penetrating her with such force, it had offered a similarly intense and blissful pleasure-pain to her spanking.

  Arran hadn’t withdrawn, that last time. Knowing he wanted a future together, and needing that total connection with him, she had reached around and held him to her. As if he needed it too, Arran had thrust deep, one hand roughly cupping her breast and his teeth nipping her shoulder while his seed gushed inside her, each spurt and pulse like an internal caress. That had been her most explosive climax yet.

  Only once before had she dared to think herself worthy of love and marriage, and that had ended in disappointment with the clerk. But the feeling was infinitely stronger with Arran. She could talk to him, really talk, of small matters and serious ones. They could laugh together. And he’d been so understanding about her childhood, she actually wanted to share the whole truth about her illegitimacy. That the loathsome peer had been her father, not just a relative. Even now she could scarcely believe that she had found her dream gentleman at an inn of all places. Well, not just found him, but found herself, too. What she truly needed in the bedchamber and out of it. And with a bright future ahead, including the chance of a baby…

  Rachel quivered with sheer happiness. Better still, the bright future would begin very soon. The bolt needed to fix his carriage axle had been located, Arran had gone to oversee the repair with his coachman, and in the morning they would be traveling to London. Together.

  A knock sounded on the door, startling her from her thoughts.

  Puzzled, Rachel ambled across the room to answer it. Perhaps it might be Mrs. Vine or a maid with fresh towels, or more wood for the fire. But when she opened the door, a young man in a greatcoat partially covering smart but travel-worn blue and gold livery stood there.

  “Afternoon, ma’am,” he said, with a respectful incline of his head. “I’ve just arrived with a note from London, and have brought it up here so I don’t lose or tear it.”

  “For me?”

  “No, ma’am. For Lord Kyle.”

  She frowned as the back of her neck prickled. “Beg pardon? Lord who?”

  “Oh!” he said with a friendly grin. “I mean Mr. Elliott, of course. The lads told me the tale, and how your clever plan meant they all had a decent place to sleep. They’re so pleased the marquess has found a nice woman to be his mistress, some can be right witches. If you ask me, there is no need for nastiness between the ladybird and wife, either. All of us have our role to play, including you and Lady Sarah.”

  A chill consumed her body, so icy and relentless that she thought she might snap in half. The marquess? Wife? Lady Sarah? And yet just as quickly it thawed, and each arrow found its mark, stabbing her to the core and leaving her to bleed.

  Somehow, she held out a hand. “The note?”

  The footman handed it over, his brow furrowing. “Are you well, ma’am? Do you need a tonic? We can fetch you something from the village before traveling in the morning.”

  “Quite well,” Rachel replied through bloodless lips, all the while knowing she would never be well again.

  “If you’re sure. See you in the morning then,” he replied cheerfully, inclining his head again before trotting off back down the hallway.

  Dangling the wax-sealed note from two fingers like it was a dead rodent, Rachel staggered over to the chair at the table and collapsed into it, wincing at the impact on her sore flesh.

  Fool. Fool. Fool.

  The word pounded in her head, and she clutched her temples and let out an agonized groan. It seemed far too cruel that history had repeated itself, that just like her mother, she had been led down the garden path by a faithless married lord who wanted nothing more than a convenient tumble, and would discard her when he grew bored. Worse, he’d come inside her, and she had wanted him to. As a wife, a baby would have been her dearest wish. But as a mistress…never. Because she well knew how lords treated pregnant lovers. After luring them in with extravagant promises, they left them to die, penniless and alone.

  Lovestruck twit!

  “No. Oh no,” Rachel whispered, wrapping her arms around herself and rocking on the chair, making it creak in protest. And yet her gaze caught on the note again, taunting her from where it had dropped onto the table, for in cursive writing it plainly stated Lord Kyle.

  Trapped in a nightmare, she reached for it and slid her finger under the red sealing wax. Her heart screamed at her to stop. However, her mind wanted confirmation she was the worst of fools: a trusting one. The paper was a little tattered after its journey, but the crackle as she unfolded the note sounded unbearably loud in the silence of the room.

  Pulse thudding, she peered at the neat, elegant penmanship.

  My lord,

  I hope you are well. I was sorry to hear of the travel delay from Lincolnshire because of the broken axle, but am relieved that you found suitable accommodation. I look forward to welcoming you home to London. We have much to discuss in regard to our marriage.

  Yours,

  Sarah

  Nausea swirled, and Rachel clamped her hand over her mouth. So many lies. Arran not only a marquess rather than a mister, but married. And he’d been unfaithful to his wife, Sarah. Did she know of his affairs? Perhaps she did. The marchioness had noted they had much to discuss.

  Oh God.

  How could she have been such a bloody twit? Of course, when he’d spoken of a more permanent arrangement, he’d meant her being his ladybird not his wife. Arran had guessed her foundling school truth, so probably her illegitimacy had shone through as well. Not to mention the way she’d fallen into his bed so fast. Perfect mistress material for a lying lord.

  Rising abruptly to her feet, Rachel dashed across the room for her satchel, and began stuffing her belongings inside. She had to get away from this horrid inn. No longer was this a magical place of pleasure and freedom and bold adventure. Instead, it told a too-common tawdry tale of a starry-eyed maid falling under the spell of a handsome lord and losing all reason.

  Her gaze fell on her beautiful new cloak. Pride demanded she leave it behind, but it could well be the difference between life and death in the icy winter temperatures, so she quickly donned it, and slung her satchel over her arm.

  When she peeked out into the hallway it was thankfully clear, and she hurried along it and down the stairs, keeping her head down so no one would stop her to talk. Outside in the courtyard, the cold made her gasp, but at the blessed sight of a stageco
ach having luggage strapped onto the roof, she forced herself to run even though the action made her knees hurt and breasts and bottom bounce painfully.

  “Sir?” she said breathlessly, as she reached the familiar ticket collector. “Is there a seat?”

  “Afternoon, miss,” he replied pleasantly. “I remember you. Inside or out? You’re in luck, there is one inside seat free, a passenger just got off at the last stop.”

  “Inside. Please,” she said, shoving all of Lady Farringdon’s coins into his hand. “As far as this will take me, wherever the coach is going.”

  The older man frowned. “Are you in some sort of trouble? Mr. Vine knows a lawyer fellow. Or perhaps you need the vicar?”

  “No, no, I’m quite well,” she mumbled. “Just ah, eager to leave before the weather sets in.”

  His frown eased. “Fair enough. I’m thinking the roads will be nigh on impossible tomorrow. Get in, then.”

  “Thank you,” she said, almost managing a smile when he opened the door and helped her up onto the step. “Thank you, sir.”

  Minutes later, with a shuddering sway the stagecoach was on the road, leaving the Queen’s Standard inn and Arran behind.

  Only then did she allow her tears to fall.

  “The smithy’s done a fine job. Good as anyone back home.”

  Arran nodded a little impatiently at his coachman’s words. While he was, of course, pleased with the high standard of the repair, it had taken far longer than he’d thought to test the carriage and settle the bill, and he wanted to leave this workshop and get back to Rachel. “I can see. We’ll leave at first light, and be back in London for supper, Simms.”

  “Sounds good, sir.”

  He sighed. “I would infinitely prefer to return to Lincolnshire, but my new life awaits.”