Chapter 6 #2
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.
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.