Trust Me (41 page)

“My dear, lovely Lady
Cranfield, I am going kiss you again.”

Then he touched his
mouth to hers, more firmly this time. Delicious, steady pressure. Her lips
trembled and she clutched his lapels. He lifted his head. At the loss of his
touch, a throaty, pleading moan sounded in her ears. Had it really come from
her?

Clearly, now was the
time for her to reassert some control over her reactions. To put him at a more
comfortable distance.

“Kiss me back.” At
the commanding edge in his voice, hot, sweet honey pooled in her belly.

No. Focus.

What had she wanted
to ask him? Focus? Dear God, what rubbish. She could scarcely remember her own
name, much less anything else. What madness had made her think she could
maintain control over him?

He traced her mouth
with his tongue. Deliberately; lingeringly. This time she couldn’t hold back a moan.
She had grown to dislike it when William kissed her open mouthed. It had always
seemed such an overheated, messy thing. But where was her coldness now? She was
burning to know what it would feel like to know Ruel’s full kiss. She had to
know—just once—or she would surely die.

Just once. Certainly
once wouldn’t hurt.

Tentatively,
tremulously, she opened her mouth.

He thrust inside, his
tongue like a bold blade of flame as it touched hers. He tasted of whisky and
something smoky, too sensual to be borne. Fire burst within her, spreading over
her breasts. Of their own volition, her hands slid up his muscled arms and she
gripped his shoulders and moaned again.

She twisted and
pressed her breasts against his chest, trying to increase the sensation on her
taut, aching nipples. However, her stays prevented it. Her frustration vibrated
deep in her throat, another longer, more intense moan.

The sound startled
her and, for a moment, it was as if she were staring down at the two of them.
She didn’t recognise herself, but she couldn’t stop kissing him back. Couldn’t
stop rubbing her breasts against him.

Who was this
uninhibited strumpet?

His breathing
changed, growing heavier. He cupped her face with his large, long-fingered
hands, angling her head. She went even more boneless and allowed him to move
her as suited his desire.

He probed more
forcefully with his tongue, went deeper, compelling her to open further, to
melt against him more completely. He slid his hand to her neck and threaded his
fingertips through her hair. He lifted the heavy mass off her neck. Cool air
rushed over her nape. In one quick movement, he tightened his hold on her hair
and, with gentle but firm pressure, he pulled her head back. Her shocked gasp
came out as a mere whimper, muffled by his demanding mouth.

No man had ever
handled her like this. She’d never even suspected a gentleman would handle a
woman—even one of his whores—like this. If she had any sense left, she ought to
be frightened, offended—enraged.

Instead, her nipples
pebbled painfully and heat twisted through her insides.

He tore his mouth
from hers. As she gasped for breath, a sense of loss hit her so intensely that
she felt disorientated. She stood there, leaning against his hard body, panting
open-mouthed, with her head pulled backwards by his grip.

He studied her and
tightened his grasp, pulling more harshly this time. A violent shaft of desire
stabbed her, womb-deep.

Warmth, and what
looked very much like satisfaction, shone in his gaze.

He laid his other
hand along her collarbone in what could only be called a blatant, sexually
possessive manner. The skin crinkled around his eyes. He was smiling, ever so
slightly.

Something had just
happened. She didn’t understand what. If only she could think, she would be
able to reason it out. However, liquid warmth pooled in her lower pelvis and
flowed out between her legs in a gush that came so suddenly she gasped. Her sex
throbbed as if it were a beating heart.

Coherent thought was
impossible.

He shifted and
throbbing heat seared her, even through their clothing.

His erection.

Its long, thick
weight was more substantial than William’s.

Ruel brushed his
fingers against her back. Tugging, pulling.

Undoing her laces.

She froze and placed
her hands on his chest. “Don’t.”

The gown slipped and
she automatically clutched the dark purple silk to herself.

He took hold of her
wrists, easily encircling them with the forefinger and thumb of each hand. “Let
the gown fall away.”

He used the voice.
The one from the dreams she only reluctantly admitted to herself. The
 
confident, commanding tone that the
nameless, faceless man used in her nocturnal fantasies. Her secret lover who
would press her down and—

“I want you to remove
the rest of your garments and then I want you to lie on that crimson divan and
display yourself for me.”

She threw a glance at
the divan, her favourite spot in this whole house. The image his words
conjured—her, lying naked on the crimson velvet, open for his perusal—burnt
into her brain. Her inner muscles contracted several times—hard. The folds
between her legs swelled and grew slicker.

Of course, despite
her wayward dreams, she didn’t really want to do something like that.

She couldn’t
possibly.

She barely knew Ruel.
Yet there was that innate sense that she could trust him. That she could give
in to his whims and it would be safe. A secret shared between them. Temptation
tingled through her, increasing with every beat of her heart.

Reckless.

She had never been
reckless in her life. A trembling began in her legs.

She turned back to
him. His features were tight with desire, his stare commanding and compelling.
She wanted to be reckless with this man.

“The door is locked.
The others aren’t going to come in here—the gentlemen are all occupied with
fencing and the ladies are busy with their watercolours.”

She’d never allow
herself the luxury of surrendering to this. For this was pure emotion and it
would be giving him too much of herself.

“I won’t do it.” She
had intended to make her tone resolute. That thready, pleading voice couldn’t
possibly be hers.

“It would please me.”
His firm tone sent a new wave of lassitude through her limbs.

Need twisted in her
lower stomach and a fresh cascade of wetness slicked her intimate folds. It
slid down her inner thighs.

Wait—How had they
come to this moment? Where the devil was the reserve and sexual coolness that
had driven William into other arms? This virtual stranger held some kind of
special power over her. God. It was unthinkable. It was terrifying.

“No.” Her strident
denial echoed jarringly in her ears.

He released her
wrists.

She pulled the gown
up high and clutched it tight. She wanted to run. She should run. But his
large, strong body still stood between her and the exit. Would he really
attempt to stop her if she tried to flee? Her heart pounded at the thought.
Because she knew that if he put his hands on her and stopped her, especially if
he did it as forcefully and firmly as he’d behaved thus far, she’d melt for
him.

What a revelation!
She’d never suspected such a creature existed in her secret heart, waiting for
someone to come along and draw her out.

“You’d better leave
now.” She pushed the words past her shaking lips.

Also
From Natasha Blackthorne

HER
MYSTERY DUKE

Erotica Romance
~ Light BDSM ~ Rubenesque / BBW ~ Regency
Historical ~ May-Dec ~ Non-virginal Heroine ~ Kept Woman / Courtesan ~ Novel
Length, approx. 85,000 words.
Is he insane? Or is he the answer to all her naughty dreams?
Jeanne Darling spent her adolescence coping with her father's increasing
illness and insanity. Left alone following his death and plunged into poverty,
she did what she had to do to survive. Now, still reeling from the overwhelming
physical and emotional demands her father's care required, she values her peace
above all. She doesn’t need anyone or anything except her writing and the
safety of her rented garret chamber. She's about to rise above her past
and create financial independence for herself. What she absolutely does not
need is the mysterious and possibly insane stranger who walks into the coffee
shop and into her life.
David Somerville, the Duke of Hartley, has known pain and betrayal from the
people closest to him. Born to privilege, power and wealth, and filled with an
idealistic vision for humane change, he gives all of himself to his political
career. He keeps his life circumspectly under control. But one day, all the
carefully arranged threads of his life unravel and his life intersects with
Jeanne's in a way that challenges his view of everything he thinks he knows.
Leagues apart in society, they can have only one possible future,
that of protector and mistress. And neither wants to risk deeper connection.
However, their overwhelming attraction and resulting sexual games provide them
with pleasures neither of them has ever known. Will their sensual journey lead
them to discover a more emotionally profound side to domination and submission?
Or will their seemingly insurmountable differences and passionate personal
goals drive them apart?

HER MYSTERY DUKE is a work of historical erotic romance. Though it contains
elements of light BDSM, it is not meant to be a guide to or an accurate
portrayal of modern BDSM lifestyles or practices. This story contains graphic
descriptions of sexual acts and frank sexual language. It also contains light
bondage, anal play, sexual toys, cunnilingus, fellatio, masturbation, voyeurism
and spanking.“Tender moments, HOT BONDAGE, feisty heroine...Everything a good
erotic historical novel should have.”
 
~
An Amazon review for HER MYSTERY DUKE

 
“Smokin' Hot Regency...Seriously Erotic...I
want a man like that for my own!” ~ An Amazon Review

 
“Classy, very well written tale brings you
back in time...sexy, sensual and erotic...light BDSM that makes you burn...you'll
be fanning yourself while you melt in your seat.” ~ Five Stars From Let's Get
Romantical

“The
erotic elements in this book are off the charts! I cannot give you the words of
how sexy and hot it was. There are light BDSM tones to the scenes and let me
tell you, mmmmm...mmmmm! I read a couple of scenes twice. Another author who
makes me so glad the BF is on speed dial...lmbo!!! Seriously though...Her
Mystery Duke is a well executed and thought provoking read. If you have a love
of Historical Romances with an erotic twist to the tale...then
ladies!...ladies, you have to read Natasha’s work. You will become a fan...I
guarantee it.” ~ Salacious Reads

Excerpt from
HER MYSTERY DUKE

©
Copyright 2013 Natasha Blackthorne

Chapter One

London, England

January 1813

Indecent. The tall gentleman’s
stare was the most blatantly indecent assault Jeanne had ever encountered.
Deeper than intense. Intimate, as though he knew everything thing about her.

That penetrating gaze set her
palms sweating and made her mouth dry. It was a direct threat. No one could
possibly know her. She kept herself too well protected, hidden beneath layers
of aloof disinterest. Yet she found herself unable to look away. She just sat
there and let that gaze burn her. Burn through the wall she kept between
herself and the world. It even seeped under her skin and melted her blood into
warmed honey.

A single pane of rain-splattered
glass separated them. The thudding of her heart in her ears blocked out the
sounds from the common room of the coffee shop and created a sense of
isolation.

He wore no hat and his hair lay
plastered like spilt black ink streaked across his high, broad forehead. Rain
dripped over hard, chiseled cheekbones, down an aquiline nose and square jaw,
over shoulders that were made even more impossibly broad by a dark blue
greatcoat.

He was like something from a
dream. A harlot’s very naughty dream.

Oh, really. A handsome,
mysterious stranger, one who was intensely interested in her and seemed to know
all about her? Her imagination was running away with her, taking on a life of
its own. She closed her eyes and shook her head slightly. The wine hadn’t been
that strong as to make her conjure carnal fantasies in mid-afternoon. In
public. She dared to look again.

The tall gentleman was gone.

There, see? An author of fairy
stories couldn’t be fooled by a waking dream. And yet cold, heaviness sank
through her insides, a feeling of loss. How utterly ridiculous. Irritated with
herself, Jeanne bent over her mug, inhaling the fruity, spicy scent of mulled
wine, and listened to the low rumble of conversations around her. Mrs. Roberts
had a new blue bonnet and she was preening like a peacock. Mr. Taylor announced
to his friends that he’d just become engaged to Miss Smith and his companions
were alternately ribbing and toasting him.

Once a week, she ventured from
her garret to this coffee shop to be among people, as an observer. A customer,
keeping a protective distance.

“Miss Darling.” The slightly
nervous, boyish voice broke into her peace. “You usually come here on
Saturday.”

She forced the irritation from
her expression and looked up to meet his freckled face. “Yes, Paul, this week I
decided on a change.”

She kept her tone cool and
polite, as always.

Mr. Ratherford, her publisher,
had sent a note, informing her that she should present herself at his offices
in two weeks and bring the fairy tales he’d requested. As an author of
children’s stories, she’d been working for months on the stories but she still
had one more story to write, the grand finale in what she hoped would be a
published leather-bound volume of the stories. However, she’d been unable to
write for several weeks. The harder she tried to create a story, the less she
liked anything she wrote. Today, that note had put her into a state of
desperation. She’d come here to try and stimulate her mind. It had worked a
little too well judging from the daydream of the handsome, mysterious stranger.

“A special occasion?” Paul’s
words cut into her thoughts again.

Oh bother!
She took a deep breath and
struggled to find more patience. Once Paul Cook started, he never let up. But
he was just a boy, and a kind one at that. She bit back an impatient response.

Her concentration, her peace,
however: they were gone. Never mind. The wind was howling with more intensity
outside, and the winter’s day was growing dark far too early. It was time to
leave.

As she reached down to retrieve
her reticule, the odor of wet wool intruded on her senses, mingled with the
citrus-soapy scent of a gentleman’s shaving lotion. A body close to hers. Too
close. She jerked her head up and faced her waking dream.

His greatcoat was opened to
reveal a fine, silk, embroidered waistcoat that encompassed a broad chest,
which narrowed into a flat-as-boards stomach. Water dripped from his hair,
leaving wet spots on his hopelessly crushed cravat. He didn’t seem to be aware
of his dishevelment.

She met his eyes. His gaze
intensified, turning to brilliant, intimidating greenish fire, like an emerald
catching the sunlight. Thick, dark lashes and heavy black brows made the color
appear even richer.

“Thérèse.”

His voice was deep yet hushed and
utterly masculine. It sent another curl of heat through her, stronger,
penetrating all the way down from her chest to her navel and into her womb.
However, it was the note of despair that made her catch her breath.

Pressure swelled in her throat, a
pang of sympathy. Sympathy for others was the most dangerous emotion of all. It
could lead one to make painful, unwise sacrifices.

She’d never had such an immediate
reaction like this to any man. Tingles raced from her midsection to her toes,
not arousal this time but an urge to run. He was dangerous.

And Thérèse? Clearly he was
grossly mistaken. Or foxed.

She stood, then took a deep
breath, released it, and raised her brows in a haughty mask. “Pardon me, sir?”

His expression sharpened. He took
her arm, harshly. “Don’t toy with me.”

She pulled back and he tightened
his grip. His hand was large. His hold stronger than any gentleman she’d known.

He leaned so close she could have
brushed her lips against his. “Don’t pretend that you don’t know me!”

His deep, hushed voice sent
pleasurable shivers through her but Jeanne pushed the sensation aside. As his
hot breath wafted over her, she inhaled deeply but couldn’t detect any odor of
spirits. Nor were the pupils of his eyes dilated, as they might be if he were
under the influence of some strong drug. Prickles raced over her scalp like a
thousand needles.

Perhaps the gentleman wasn’t in
full control over his mental faculties.
Dear God.
Just like Papa. She’d
spent her youth caring for her father in his varying stages of insanity. Life
with him had become a prison. Since his death, she had lived in fear of the
unbalanced. Another series of prickles raced over her scalp.

She met the stranger’s gaze
levelly. “What’s your game?”

“Thérèse, don‘t be this way.” His
whisper, laced with steel, was so low, that she unwittingly leaned closer. “We
needn’t make any dramatics here. We’re going home.”

This near to him, Jeanne noted
the glassiness of his eyes. Again, she sniffed. No hint of alcohol. But then
again, having experienced all of Papa’s variances of sanity, she had an
instinct for spotting others who were likewise afflicted. This man was
definitely afflicted in his mind.

This was the exact situation she
always dreaded. Since her girlhood, she always watched others, seeking any sign
of madness. She’d had to cope with Papa, that had been her duty, but she was
always careful to keep others who showed any inkling of mental instability at a
safe distance. How stupid of her to have let herself be distracted by this
man’s masculine beauty.

Angry at herself, she jerked her
arm, trying once again to free herself. His grip remained relentless.

“Thérèse!” Again, the low steely
whisper. “Behave yourself.”

How unwise of her. An insane
person could react unpredictably. She ought not to provoke him. Yet she knew it
was important to present a strong, confident front.

“Sir, I am not your
Thérèse
and have no wish to be. So please unhand me.” Her heart was hammering at her
chest wall so violently, she had trouble keeping her voice even. She lifted her
chin and stared at him steadily. “Now.”

“You are deliberately pushing me,
Thérèse. I don’t appreciate it.”

Boots sounded on the floorboards.
The sound drew her attention to how quiet the public room had become. She
glanced around. The other patrons were staring.

“Miss Darling, is everything all
right?”

The tall gentleman turned to Paul
and regarded him with an icy, haughty stare. “The lady is a friend. Please go
back to your counter and mind your business.”

At the velvet over iron tone, the
young man’s eyes grew round. He took one step backward and then another, then
stood looking uneasy.

“Are you having a spot of trouble
here, Miss Darling?”

Jeanne turned to face the shop
owner, a large, barrel-chested man.

The stranger exhaled long and
loud. A sound of complete exasperation. “As I told the boy, the lady is a
rather close friend. I would appreciate a little privacy.”

The shop owner turned to her.
“Miss Darling?”

Her heart froze and her chest
constricted. She placed a hand to her throat. She didn’t know what to say.

“The gent don’t look right to
me.” The owner’s wife squinted at the stranger.

Jeanne glanced at the gentleman’s
handsome profile and the proud jut of his jaw. He gazed at her sideways and she
caught her breath. There was something about that brief gaze. A lost,
disorientated air. Just like Papa when he had been in one of his worst spells
and he was trying to hide it by acting arrogantly assertive.

But she had seen. The stranger
was truly not in his right mind.