Page 22 of Mistletoe Minx

How could a stranger provoke this much lust in him?

Wincing at the agony of a stone-hard cock still denied release, Dalton tried to step back from his new lover. But the sight of Mrs. Jones quivering with need, her open gown framing those adorable little breasts, her spread thighs revealing the wettest pussy in England, and her backside swaying as she endeavored to keep it thrust high, was far too much temptation.

The woman was a goddess, made for fucking. In truth, he couldn’t decide what he enjoyed most: her beseeching moans and whimpers when he made her wait, or her wild, ecstatic cries as she orgasmed. Mrs. Jones was a master’s dream: eager, responsive, mostly obedient but just enough sauciness to warrant punishment. How unfortunate she’d married a blithering idiot like Mr. Jones—a man truly unworthy of such a treasure.

Breathing slowly in a futile attempt to cool his raging arousal, Dalton turned and selected a toy about the length and girth of two thick fingers from the tray sitting on the nearby side table. But when he turned back to move Mrs. Jones’ gown out of the way, he hesitated.

Christ. The scent of her. It wasn’t nearly enough to inhale such delicious muskiness; he needed the taste in his mouth immediately, even if it prolonged his own suffering. Bloody hell. Did Mrs. Jones even understand the power she held? He was denying himself release to further pleasure a novice!

“Forgive the delay, minx,” Dalton said gruffly. “I planned to use the toy at once, but got distracted by the delectable scent of your cunt honey. I could taste it from my fingers, but it’s so much better when sampled directly from source…”

Mrs. Jones’ moan was pure pleading, and he smiled in satisfaction. One taste, then she would learn the dark pleasures of having her backside stuffed full.

After tossing a chaise cushion onto the wooden floor for comfort, Dalton eased down onto his knees behind her. Next, he folded the back panel of the tunic up, securing it with the cord to leave her legs and backside entirely bare, and inhaled deeply. There was no headier scent in creation than a soaking wet pussy. Equally alluring: his lover had a truly exceptional arse—fuller than expected for someone so slender, and made to be plundered.

A growl of appreciation rumbled in his chest and Mrs. Jones trembled, her hips tilting further in blatant invitation.

Unable to wait a moment longer, Dalton parted her arse cheeks and roughly handled the creamy flesh until she gasped. Then he leaned down to get as close as possible, extending his tongue and licking her plump, slick labia, from her swollen clitoris to just below her anus.

She tasted like heaven.

Mrs. Jones’ hoarse, needy cry wrapped around his cock and squeezed. Dalton grunted as seed trickled from the head, dampening the straining fabric of his trousers, but he couldn’t stop now. Not when his senses demanded a feast of this sweet, succulent, wholly addictive cunt. Firming his tongue, he stabbed it over and over into her drenched sheath then dragged it back and forth along her labia to gather up the flow of silky nectar. All the while his wicked little minx panted and whimpered, her hips churning as she blatantly tried to steal an orgasm by rubbing her clitoris against his chin.

For such outrageous disobedience, Dalton stopped. Inexplicably, her wail of heartbroken dismay nearly shattered his resolve, but Mrs. Jones certainly required correction.

“You dare to try and come without permission, madam?” he asked sternly. “I decide when you orgasm. Is that clear?”

She squirmed at the chastisement, her thighs closing and pressing together, even as her head drooped into a mournful nod.

Dalton sighed, unwillingly amused. Mrs. Jones was simply delightful; it was an actual crime she had married the wrong man. Such a jewel should be rewarded for submitting, earning pleasure or punishment as required, not languishing in a lonely bed. As any man about town could attest, honest, unfeigned, passionate responses like hers could not be purchased, nor could that streak of innocent yet impish provocation.

She reminds me a little of Frances.

At the unwanted, intrusive thought, he shook his head and rose to his feet while unfastening the fall of his trousers so his aching cock didn’t perish of fabric strangulation. Then he hooked his finger through the gold ring at the base of the sold jade phallus. “Now. I’m going to wet the toy in your honey to ease the way into your backside. It is supposed to be an uncomfortable stretch to start, but I do not want this to hurt you. If it does, you must immediately raise your hands. Nod if you accept.”

Mrs. Jones nodded enthusiastically, her fine arse bobbing in time.

For longer than necessary, Dalton swirled the phallus in her copious juices until it was well coated. Apart from some soft whimpers, Mrs. Jones was remarkably obedient and remained still. But when he teased the rosebud of her anus with the smooth, unyielding jade then breached her tight hole with the first inch, her ragged groan and hip jiggle thrilled him to the soul. Already she balanced on that razor-sharp edge between pleasure and pain.

“Very good,” Dalton praised, caressing her arse cheek with his free hand. “You are receiving the toy beautifully.”

Abruptly, Mrs. Jones thrust her backside toward him, forcing the phallus deeper and provoking a sharp cry from her own throat.

“No,” he growled, slapping her thigh in warning. “We do this slowly.”

But she made a sobbing sound, her hips writhing wildly as she attempted to fuck herself with the solid jade.

“Please, oh please…” begged Mrs. Jones. “Let me come, Dashford. I can’t bear the ache. I need it so deep…”

Shock jolted him to the core. Even unsteady and pleading, he knew that voice. Christ. Had some part of him recognized her, even though his rational mind hadn’t? Was that why the nickname of minx came so easily to his lips?

The hot-blooded wanton in disguise who yearned to submit was Frances. She had secured an invitation…and Juliette had matched them.

But more than that…Christ. He was the blithering idiot husband!

Dalton inwardly reeled as he tried desperately to regather the shards of his splintered thoughts. But it seemed his hands worked independently, for they were giving Frances what she craved: twisting and thrusting the phallus in her anus while the other stroked her pussy, coating his fingers in her juices before wrapping his hand around his engorged cock. This time, for the first time, they were going to come together.

“Touch yourself,” he snarled, something cataclysmic building within him as his palm slid up and down, faster and faster.