A Most Demanding Mistress (Fashionably Impure Book 2) (17 page)

“A job?” Her voice held a touch of wonder.
“But you are an aristocrat. You’re not some clerk.”

“I am not too proud to take his job. It
would enable me to give up the cards and to spend my evenings with you and my
sons.”

“I hear what you are holding back,” she
said. “I hear the ‘however’ in your tone.”

He frowned. “You’re going to be very hard to
handle, aren’t you?”

She flipped her position so that she lay on her
belly beside him and she put her hand to his face. “Tell me all about this
job.”

He told her.

“America.” She sounded a little awed and
perhaps even a bit afraid.

“It is not so far, and the job is not so
long. I can invest the money, and we can have a start at building our estate.”

“But he wants you to go to China. You said
so.”

“I have no intention of leaving England for
such a long time. This is our home, where we belong.”

“
America.
”

He drew her into his arms and gave her a
reassuring squeeze. “I’ll return to England so quickly. You will scarce notice
that I have been gone.”

“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:
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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 arched 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.