The Earl's Mistress by Liz Carlyle Page A

brandy?”
    “I would like you to stop, ” Isabella gritted. “I don’t know what you want. Do you want me to beg you? Is that it?”
    He laid the crop down beside her hand and cupped his body around hers. Bending over her, his chest pressed to her shoulder blades, he set his lips to her ear.
    “I would love you to beg,” he said, drawing one finger through her thatch of curls, then probing deeper, “but only if you want this. Shall I make you learn to want it, Isabella?”
    “I—I don’t know !” she said, her chest falling.
    Her hands were still splayed on her mattress, her head hanging. Lifting his knee, Hepplewood nudged her legs wider, giving his fingers access. He slipped one into her soft folds, gingerly probing.
    Isabella was wet, but only a little. And perhaps a little too frightened. There were many women, he knew, who had no natural inclination for this sort of business. Some could be taught. Others not.
    He reached out and dipped his fingers into the jar he’d taken from the table. But when his hand brushed her inner thigh, Isabella yelped.
    “Shush, sweet,” he crooned, slipping his slickened fingers into the softness. “Just relax, my dear, and urge yourself against my hand.”
    She made some feeble effort at compliance. Pressing his erection firmly along the cleft of her hips, Hepplewood forced her against his hand. Gently he stroked, running one finger round her swelling nub until a pearl of her own wetness leached out.
    “Good girl,” he whispered.
    Again and again he circled, sliding the other hand up to stroke and pluck her nipple. Isabella made a sound; the faintest sigh, and at once he felt the need begin to bubble up inside her, awakening to his touch. He stopped, stepped away, and took the crop to her arse again.
    She gasped, her breath seizing and her buttocks jiggling.
    It was his turn to swallow hard.
    “God Almighty, Isabella,” he rasped, “but I am hard-pressed here.”
    “Hard-pressed to what?” She began to turn, then, thinking better of it, froze.
    “You don’t want to know,” he managed. “Turn back to the bed. Give in to me, Isabella.”
    “Y-yes,” she answered, but the word was feeble.
    He resumed his position, trapping her between his cock and his fingers, rubbing and circling, this time probing her with one finger and then a second. But Isabella was as tight as a virgin, and for an instant, he wondered. . . .
    But it did not matter. She was his now for the taking—and he burned for her in a way that felt altogether too dangerous. But he’d be damned if he’d turn back now.
    This time as he stroked she began to breathe more rapidly, and he could feel the confusion stirring inside. He brought her a little nearer the edge, then stepped back and whipped her again. Just a smart snap across the cheeks.
    “ Ohh, ” she moaned.
    Again and again he repeated the process, edging her nearer pleasure’s abyss, then steeling her to the rod with one swift stroke until she trembled. Until, on the twelfth blow, he surrendered to sheer weakness, his cock throbbing impatiently.
    Turning Isabella, he pushed her back onto the bed. Still standing between her legs, he ripped free his buttons to release himself, shoving roughly at the tangle of fabric. Then, wisdom overcoming lust, he slicked one hand down his rigid cock, desperately glad he’d frigged himself.
    Isabella was watching him beneath her fringe of black lashes, her eyes somnolent and glassy, her mouth slightly parted, one knee drawn up and tipped outward. It was a position of carnal surrender; the need to be taken. Her fear had faded, and the hunger was coming upon her in earnest.
    Taking himself firmly in hand, Hepplewood pressed the head of his cock inside her. Despite the sweetness that flowed from her, it was no easy job. Hepplewood might whip a woman—into a sexual frenzy, or perhaps just as a reminder—but never had he willingly drawn blood. But Isabella was so tight, so damned tight, that he began to fear