The Earl's Mistress by Liz Carlyle

the creamy swell of her arse was the stuff of a man’s fantasy. He allowed himself the luxury of setting both hands to it, weighing the plump globes in his palms, and slipping his fingertips into the sweet cleft between.
    Shocked by the sudden intimacy, Isabella caught herself on the mattress, bracing her hands wide. “W-what are you doing?” she said over her shoulder.
    For an instant, he hesitated, but the temptation was too much. “You struck me, Isabella,” he said very softly. “That day at Loughford. Do you remember?”
    “Y-yes,” she said, her voice very small. “I’m sorry.”
    “Are you?”
    “Very.” As if sensing what was about to happen, Isabella shifted nearer the bed.
    Lashing an arm round her waist, he yanked her back a little roughly and smacked her hard across her buttocks. She cried out and half turned, eyes shying wildly.
    “Don’t move,” he growled. “Did you like that, Isabella?”
    Obediently, she turned back. “No,” she said huskily, “but I . . . I deserved it, I suppose.”
    “Yes,” he said, “and then some.”
    He turned his attention to his night tables. They were a matched pair set on delicately turned legs, the interiors bespeaking the hand of an exquisitely skilled French craftsman. Hepplewood gave the upper cabinet a little push. With a mechanical snick! it spun on its axis a quarter turn to reveal a drawer that opened from the hidden side.
    He pushed a latch concealed in the satinwood banding, and the drawer slid open. Isabella watched warily, cutting a sidelong glance at the fitted velvet interior. Carefully he lifted out the few items he meant to use, then selected a slender leather crop.
    She drew in a deep breath and opened her mouth as if to protest, but immediately shut it again. His hand, he noted, had drawn a pink rush of blood to her bottom.
    “We have to get through this, Isabella, you and I.” Hepplewood drew the tip of the leather between his fingers. “Don’t ever raise your hand to me again. Not unless I tell you to.”
    “No, I-I won’t,” she choked. “And I wouldn’t have, but you—”
    He snapped the little crop across her backside, causing her to yelp and jerk upright.
    “Set your palms back atop the mattress,” he said calmly, “or I can bind you. Would you like that, Isabella?”
    “I . . . I don’t think so.” Shaking a little now, she set her hands wide on the counterpane, bending forward at the waist to do so.
    “You might be surprised, my pet.” He trailed one fingertip down the delicate arch of her spine and felt her skin prickle. “I can teach you. Some women enjoy it vastly.”
    “I wouldn’t, ” she whispered, “b-but if it’s what you wi—”
    He gave her another snap, making her jerk, the soft orbs of her arse trembling.
    “That stung!” she said.
    “It should,” he said, striking her again. “You need to learn a lesson, Isabella. But it won’t sting for long, I promise.”
    Then, tucking the crop under his arm, he stroked his hands soothingly down her buttocks, circled lightly, then urged them a little apart.
    “Wh-what are you doing?” she whispered.
    “ Deciding, ” he said gruffly. “And don’t ask a third time, my dear, or you mightn’t like the result.”
    The truth was, he realized, he wanted suddenly to push himself inside; to work himself deep beyond that tight barrier to invade her in that most carnal of ways. It was not his general habit, but it was the safest way for a man to take his pleasure. And with an arse like that . . .
    Still, Isabella was far from ready for that sort of erotic adventure. And he was not, he hoped, a cruel man.
    Musing upon it, he extracted the crop and struck her twice more—just hard enough to pink the skin, not welt it. Isabella jumped, then sniffled a little pitifully.
    “Would you like something to ease the sting?” he suggested, drawing one finger down her cleft. “You haven’t yet learned to savor this, my darling. Shall I pour you a