The Earl's Mistress (17 page)

“Wicked girl,” he murmured, nuzzling her face and then her throat. “Did you plan this, Isabella? Did you?”

She shrugged. “I want it now.” She tipped back to give him unfettered access as he nibbled his way down her neck. “That’s how I think when I’m with you—in the here and now. I want it now, Anthony. In this moment, I want the way you make me feel, and that’s all I can ever be sure of.”

He pushed her down onto the narrow bed. Holding her gaze, he whipped open the last of his trouser buttons, yanked free the tie of his drawers, and shoved them down at once.

Less anxious this time, Isabella permitted herself the luxury of watching. He was perfectly, beautifully made, well over six feet tall, his body lean and lithe. His shoulders were wide, his upper arms rounded with muscle. Dark hair dusted his chest then quickly thickened, trailing down to the thatch of dark curls from which his manhood jutted, hard and thick-veined.

“Are you frightened, Isabella?”

“No.” She swallowed. “Yes. A little.”

He stepped to the edge of the bed and caught her chin a little roughly. “Don’t be. Tell me what you want this time. I want to please you, love.”

She tried to find the words. “I . . . I want you to tell me,” she whispered.

Confusion clouded his face. “Tell you what?” he murmured, still holding her chin. “You have to say it this time, Isabella.
You
have to
say
.”

She closed her eyes. “I want to be yours,” she said. “To feel, for a little while, as if I belong beneath you. I . . . I don’t want to make choices.”

“You want to submit to me?” he suggested, his voice edged now with something dangerous.

She shrugged feebly. “I want to feel safe,” she whispered.

“
Ah,
” he said, as if the secret to the universe had just been unveiled. “I begin to comprehend. But it is a little wicked, love, what you seem to be asking for. And I didn’t really come prepared.”

Her gaze dropped to his jutting erection. “No,” she said, her mouth going dry. “No, I think you did.”

Something inside him seemed to give way. “God, I want you, Isabella,” he whispered. “You rake up something inside me—those old-fashioned notions, I fear—and leave them to burn like hot coals in my gut.”

She held his gaze steadily. “Whatever you are,” she said, “I cannot deny my desire for you. Not in this moment. If that should alter . . . I will tell you.”

“Will you?” he replied. “If you do, Isabella, I will honor it. I will stop. Or leave. Or whatever you require. Do you believe me?”

She did believe him; he held within him great strength of will. But just now, she wished he would stop talking. Her tongue darted out, licking the corner of her mouth a little anxiously.

“Come here, Isabella,” he said gruffly, motioning to her. “On your knees, love.”

She crawled back to the end of the narrow bed to kneel before him. Slowly, he pulled what was left of the pins from her hair until it cascaded down. When he was finished, he pushed his hands through it, drawing it smooth, all the way down, until Isabella felt it tickle the soles of her feet.

He made a sound of appreciation in the back of his throat. Gathering her hair in his fist, he roped it round his hand once, and then again and again, until he held her fast at the nape of her neck. She breathed out audibly and felt him tighten his grip further.

“Lean down, love,” he said, “and take my shaft in your mouth.”

She lifted one eyebrow. “And
fellate
you?” she suggested.

“
Hmm,
someone found a dictionary,” he murmured, “and a wicked one at that. Yes, love. Suck me. Get on your knees and learn how to do it properly—and then, trust me, I’ll return the pleasure in spades.”

But Isabella had not needed a dictionary; she’d simply asked the marchioness what the word meant. The lady had laughed and taken from her private library an album of scandalous drawings, along with a beautiful book on sexual positions with a title Isabella could not pronounce.

But she did not need to pronounce it; she’d learned plenty. Now she leaned forward and felt her hair cascade over her shoulders. He gave her head a little push by way of encouragement.

Isabella bent and licked him tentatively with her tongue.

“Put your hands on me,” he ordered, tightening his grip. “Put one hand round my shaft—tight, mind you—and slowly slide your lips over me.”

Isabella did as she was told, her heart beating fast in her chest. His flesh felt like warm satin to her touch; feverish, really, and drawn tight over the swollen head of his erection.

Gingerly she drew him inside and slicked her hand hard down his length, as she’d once seen him touch himself.

“
Ah . . .”
The word was a sigh that seemed to run through him.

Sinuously, she stroked her tongue around the rim of his head.

He groaned, the sound rising from deep inside his chest. Fisting her hair tightly, he pushed himself deeper, all the way into her throat, then a powerful shudder seemed to rock him. He pulled her back, and obediently she went.

“Again,” he choked, urging himself deeper. “And—
aah,
God, Isabella—like that. Just . . . like . . .
that.
”

Over and over, she drew him deep, guided by the pressure of his hand fisted roughly in her hair. He thrust inside her mouth and thrust again, and in time his body became wracked with spasms.

Risking his displeasure, she drew back a fraction to glance up at him. His head was thrown back, his throat corded with tension. “Isabella,
Christ,
” he rasped. “Too fast, love—oh, wicked, wicked—
aahh!
”

She felt his erection spasm hard against her grip, again and again, and in the next instant, he jerked from her mouth, taking himself in hand as his seed gushed forth.

Isabella watched, mesmerized, until the wracking spasms waned.

His hand fell. He was still watching her, the clean blade of moonlight cutting across the flat plane of his belly.

“Good God Almighty, Isabella,” he choked.

“Was that good?” she asked a little proudly. “Have I learnt how to
fellate
you?”

“Perfectly, love, and just as I wished,” he murmured.

After snatching up his drawers to wipe away the evidence of his passion, he crawled fully onto the bed, a shock of hair falling forward to shadow his eyes.

She scooted nearer the pillows.

“So is that how you want it, Isabella?” he asked, still watching her as he approached. “To be told what to do? To be made to please me? And to be given what I think you need?”

“Yes.” She licked her lips, desire swamping her. Somehow she managed to hold his gaze. “Tonight, yes. Just . . . tell me. Please?”

“Then lie down,” he said, his voice strained.

“Y-yes,” she said, scrabbling backward.

He pushed her back onto the pillows and crawled over her. “I could take you now, Isabella,” he said, looking down into her eyes, “and oh, love, I will—but I’ll need a little time. In the meanwhile, let’s play a little game,
hmm
?”

She forced down a knot in her throat, swallowing hard. “Yes,” she whispered.

“Yes,
Anthony,
” he corrected. “
Yes, love, I will do anything you say.
”

She managed to nod. “Y-yes, Anthony,” she whispered, “I will do anything you say.”

He stroked one finger down her cheek. “Do you know, Isabella, I half believe that,” he murmured. “Now lie back and shut your eyes. And remember to do as I command.”

A little anxiously, she did so, watching warily from beneath her lashes.

“I said eyes
shut,
” he barked. “You are cheating.”

“Only a little,” she whispered. “ I just wanted to see if—”

In a trice, he had yanked her up round the waist and hauled her across his knee. His hand spread wide, he smacked her hard across the right buttock with his open palm.

“I think you just want to disobey, Isabella,” he growled, making warm, soft circles over her hip, soothing the burn. “I think you just want to try me—to see how serious I am.”

“I don’t know,” she managed. “Perhaps. I . . . I don’t know.”

“I think you just want a firm hand, love.” So saying, he struck her again and again, bringing her skin alive and making it burn. “You need this, Isabella. Say it.”

“I do,” she said. “Oh, I need—I need—”

“To know who’s in control?” He smacked her twice more, making her jump. “Is that it, love?”

It was.

God help her, but it was.

And she knew she should be ashamed. She could feel her hips wobble beneath his blows and she closed her eyes, sucking in her breath to steel herself to the burn. Though she lay facedown across him, she could feel him watching her behind. Anticipation went shuddering through her as she awaited the next stroke.

It came, sweet and stinging, her body thrumming to the touch. Hungrily, she wriggled against his thigh.

“Oh, Isabella, you really must come with me to Greenwood,” he said, his voice so soft she could barely hear it. “If we were there, my darling, I would open my little toy chest and subdue you properly.”

“And how . . . how would you do that?” she whispered.

“Firstly, I would bind your wrists to my bed.” His voice was a hoarse rasp in the gloom, his fingers stroking deep into the cleft of her buttocks. “Facedown, of course. And, oh, love, I have something that would make you utterly squirm and beg for more. A little ivory play-pretty.” He murmured soothing words, circling his palm over her buttocks. “Yes, love,—I think that you are more adventurous than either of us could dream. By the way, love,
do
you dream?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Of me, dare I hope?”

She hesitated. “Yes,” she admitted, “—of you. Every night. It never stops.”

Cupping her cleft, he slipped his hand down and around, between her legs and his thigh, to stroke her intimately with one long finger. Already she dripped with wetness. Heat rushed to her face.

“What do you dream of, Isabella?” He stroked the finger deeper, grazing her sweet spot. “Do you dream of being beneath me? Being filled with my seed? The sting of my hand? And then, Isabella, do you touch yourself? Like this?”

For a moment, she refused to answer. He withdrew the finger and she felt his palm draw back again, felt the pain and the pleasure thrumming through her buttocks again as if he
had
struck her. She sucked in her breath sharply.

“Isabella?” he asked warningly. “If I ask a question, then you answer. Or I punish you for being disobedient. Or you tell me to get out. Do you understand your choices?”

“Y-yes,” she said. “But I forgot the question.”

“No, you didn’t,” he said, the words low in his chest. But he returned his hand to her wetness and stroked deep again. “Oh, so very wet and sweet, love. When I come to you in your dreams, do you touch yourself like this?”

“
Yes,
” she cried. “Yes, a little. Because you’ve ruined me. I wake in a fever, half-mad and aching for . . . for something. And yes—I put my hand there. But it’s not the same. It’s
never
the same.”

“No, by God, it’s not,” he said ruefully. “It certainly is not.”

“Now let me up.” She began to squirm. “I have been good, Tony. I have f-fellated you and pleasured you and—”

He laughed again, more tenderly.

“—and all I tried to do just now was watch what you were doing to me. Don’t smack me again.
Please
.”

“Oh, you beg so sweetly.” He leaned forward and kissed the swell of her hip. “There, love, you have been—for the most part—a very good girl. Go, and sin no more.”

She scrabbled off his thigh—a very large, very hard thigh that left her throbbing—and tucked herself against the bank of pillows.

“Now lie back down, Isabella,” he ordered, “and this time do not open your eyes until I tell you that you may do so. And if you disobey—oh, Isabella, I will have to give that pretty, pink arsehole of yours a good, hard thrust, and trust me, you are not ready for it.”

“I am not l-looking,” she said, half of her afraid he was not kidding, and the other half of her regretting she’d ever seen the rest of Lady Petershaw’s drawings—for she now knew that what he threatened was not impossible.

He was moving around the room, fumbling through the clothing, by the sounds of it.

“Wh-what are you doing?” she asked quietly.

“Surprising you,” he said.

“Oh, I know that,” she protested, “but in what way?”

“Isabella,” he said, snapping something out—his cravat, it had to be. “Do you want me to take care of you, and give you what you need? Do you want to be obedient, and trust me to love you? Or do you want to run the show? Because I can be persuaded to let you, my dear. I just don’t think that’s what you want.”

Isabella did not answer.

It was not what she wanted. She wanted to give herself over to someone strong—to
him
—to feel his hands and the weight of his body on her, heavy and certain. To feel his shaft thrusting deep as he pushed her down and down into the softness of the bed, taking his pleasure of her and giving it back twofold. She was done suffering with guilt for having enjoyed the things he’d done to her.

Good God, what was wrong with her?

The thought flew from her head when she felt something breeze across her face. It smelled of fresh linen and starch. “What is that?” she blurted. “Is—Is that your handkerchief?”

He smacked her hard on the side of her hip. “Not another question from you, Isabella,” he ordered, “or I will turn you over and stripe your bottom royally—and I don’t mean with the back of my hand.”

“You don’t have your crop,” she pointed out.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “I left my carriage at the coaching inn up the road. Shall I walk back up there and see, love? Or—here’s a novel thought—how about I just go cut myself a switch from that birch across the lane?”

“I will be good,” she said, stiffening her body like a soldier. “But you are stark staring naked, Tony, and your . . . your thing is getting stiff again. I don’t think you’re going anywhere.”