Page 21 of Mistletoe Minx

Dashford chuckled, a dark, erotic sound. “Little minx. You certainly require a stern master. But you may show me how well you suck.”

Thank heavens for the practice phalluses! She could do this!

Closing her lips around the tip of his thumb, Frances drew it further into her mouth. But when she flicked the underside with her tongue, his indrawn breath thrilled her to her toes. More than that, a very rigid shaft pressed against her backside.

She was arousing a legendary rake.

Next, Dashford thrust his thumb into her mouth, making her suck him harder. Although she couldn’t move her hands from the railing, her hips had no such restriction, circling to rub her bottom against that delicious hardness behind her, wanting to show him how much she craved this.

Abruptly, her tunic gown loosened and separated into two parts, and his right hand delved under the soft green velvet to cup her breast.

“Hmmm. A perfect palmful,” he murmured, his finger teasing her taut nipple with featherlight touches until she wanted to wail in frustration. Then he pinched it. Hard.

Frances writhed at the sensual jolt, her joyful cry muffled by the thumb in her mouth.

Dashford tsked as he continued to tug and torment the peak to aching sensitivity, before moving his left hand down from her chin to attend to her other breast.

For the longest time he played with her nipples, his touch alternately gentle, even tender, then rough and ruthless, but always purposeful. The duke was studying her. Learning the extent of his power over her by the sounds she made, for no matter how hard she tried, it was impossible to remain quiet. Rational thought had long ago departed; only one need remained and it certainly wasn’t air or food or water.

Touch my pussy. Please, please touch my pussy.

Her need was unbearable, and every time Dashford stroked her too-sensitive nipples it only intensified. She had to rub herself or she would surely die.

In desperation, Frances pressed her thighs together, but the exact spot for relief remained elusive and an agonized moan escaped.

“Naughty minx,” chided Dashford, although he sounded pleased rather than annoyed. “Your hands nearly moved from the railing to touch your clitoris, didn’t they? Do not dare lie to me.”

Her mind swirled at the nickname she quietly adored, because it was so different from stuffy, old-fashioned Frances. Perhaps he called every mistress a naughty minx in that affectionately indulgent tone, but in her romantic imaginings he remembered a certain occasion in the carriage and was pretending Mrs. Jones was his wife. Every part of her yearned to answer him, but that would ruin everything. Instead, she forced herself to simply nod.

“Very well,” he said benevolently. “You are a novice and have been admirably obedient thus far. That deserves a reward. Spread your thighs wide. Wider.”

Frances waited, her breathing tiny erratic gasps as his right hand inched down over her ribcage to her stomach. Dawdling to the point of cruelty.

Hurry! TOUCH MY PUSSY, DAMN YOU.

When his fingertips brushed the thicket of hair between her legs, Frances groaned and bucked, trying to force his hand lower. Dashford nipped her neck, clearly a punishment, but the tiny hint of pain only made her wetter. Seconds later, his big hand slapped her mound and a wail of startled delight tore from her throat at the stinging, tingling warmth. That was it! That was the spot! A few more slaps and she would orgasm!

Yet even more cruelly than before, he didn’t repeat the sensual slap. Instead, his fingers continued down, parting her tight nether curls until he found slick, swollen flesh. This time it was her husband making a guttural sound as he caressed the silken petals of her labia, and it was wholly gratifying to know he was equally affected.

“So fucking wet, minx,” Dashford rasped as his fingertips swirled and danced, edging her ever-closer to madness. “A part of me wants to lay you down and feast on this hot little cunt for hours. But you haven’t earned that. So for now, I’ll just do…this.”

In one smooth movement, his hand cupped her pussy and his thumb pressed directly on the center of all sensations. Pleasure slammed into Frances like a spring tide, and she screamed as it buffeted her body in rolling waves that lasted and lasted. Yet the moment her knees buckled, Dashford’s strong arm wrapped around her waist like a manacle, forcing her to remain upright even as two thick fingers shallowly penetrated her channel. Then the heel of his hand rocked against her clitoris while he rubbed a certain spot inside her pussy, unleashing another cry of pure ecstasy as she flew to the heavens once more.

Orgasms were…everything. A shocking, splintering world of wonder, yet she still wasn’t sated? But how could that be?

When Dashford gently withdrew his fingers, the answer became clearer. Now she felt empty, yearning to be filled. Not just the tips of two fingers owning and wrecking her with pleasure, but every inch of his shaft buried impossibly deep.

Frances mewled in disappointment, leaning heavily on the railing, until a sharp smack to her bottom made her jerk upright again.

“Do you think we’re finished, Mrs. Jones?” asked Dashford, his low, gravelly voice nothing short of sinful. “Not even close. I understand you wish to receive a toy in your exquisite backside. To dance between pleasure and pain to please your master. Is that correct?”

Oh God, yes.

Frances moaned, eagerly tilting her hips in invitation.

She might not survive this heady storm, but what a way to perish.

Considering he’d met Mrs. Jones less than an hour ago and had not seen her face or heard her voice, his rapidly-growing fixation with her was alarming.