“I’m listening.”
“I was so happy. We talked and laughed together so easily, and the way you tended to me, spanked me, taught me to take your cock in my mouth and swallow your seed, and later when you bedded me…Oh God, the way it felt when you came deep inside my cunt…ahhh…” she paused on a low cry as leather kissed skin, hard enough to sting. “…I was so sure you wanted to marry me.”
“I do,” he said, teasing her again with another brush of her nether curls. “And will.”
“But then came that note. And your footman said that everyone was pleased you had found a nice mistress and that a mistress and wife should get along, and if we did everyone would be happy…oh God oh yes…”
Rachel panted for breath and sank back down onto the rug. That strike had been his firmest yet, forcing her up onto her tiptoes, and causing more spicy juices to trickle down her inner thighs.
“Unfortunately, Jimmy has the brains of a turnip,” said Arran irritably. “But rather than allowing me to explain, you ran away.”
“I was devastated. And afraid that I had gotten everything wrong, and you didn’t care for me.”
“Incorrect,” he snapped, and Rachel shrieked as two stern blows landed on her upper thighs in quick succession.
“So, I ran. Back to Lady Farringdon’s school. Where I worked. Yes, worked. As a maid. That’s what I’ve done my whole life. Cleaned. Been nobody and nothing. Until I met you, and became Mrs. Elliott, and learned about tenderness, and pleasure and discipline and how it could make me whole…”
Her voice trailed off, and abruptly she couldn’t speak or think at all, only feel, as the riding crop swished and thwacked again and again on her bottom. Right up on her tiptoes again, Rachel could only sob and cling to the bedpost as the delicious and most welcome pain jolted through her. With each harsh, expert blow, more and more of her soft flesh burned and prickled, cleansing her mind of sorrow and hurt, and freeing her spirit to soar.
“And so, Rachel?”
Tears of joy and gratitude and relief rolling down her face, she turned her head and looked up at him. “I love you.”
A primitive sound tore from Arran’s throat. He stared at her for the longest moment, his gaze so fiercely tender she could scarcely breathe, as he tossed away the crop and tore the buttons on his trousers. Seconds later her bindings were in pieces on the floor, and she sat astride him on the bed, moaning in ecstasy as she sank down onto his engorged cock.
“Take me, kitten,” he gritted out, holding her tightly as he forced himself deeper into her soaked, greedy cunt. “Take all of me. That’s it. You feel so damned good. So hot and tight and wet.”
Rachel arched her back, and he captured one taut nipple in his mouth, sucking hard and scraping with his teeth. She cried out, anchoring her hands on his shoulders as a maelstrom of sensation threatened to overwhelm her, rocking against him, desperate for more, desperate for the orgasm just dancing out of her reach. Then his hands moved, one finger shallowly penetrating her back entrance, while the thumb of his other hand pressed hard on her clitoris, and her world exploded in a white-hot flash of pure pleasure. “Arran!”
“Yes, come for me. All over my cock. Christ, yes,” he groaned, thrusting brutally hard as she writhed against him, the wild pulses of her orgasm continuing on and on, radiating out like a sunburst from her center. And just when the intensity began to dim, he came inside her in harsh, wracking spurts that lasted and lasted, and she screamed as it set her going again.
Eventually, Arran fell back on the bed, taking her with him. Rachel ripped his shirt in her haste to cuddle against his bare chest, reveling in the scents and sounds of passion, their panting breaths, their frantically beating hearts, the way their slick bodies slid against each other.
Nothing had ever been so perfect.
Until he brushed a stray curl away from her face and kissed her. “You are so beautiful,” he said quietly. “Rachel Lindsay, soon to be Lady Kyle. I knew you were special from the moment we met. So bold and wicked. And yet so sweet. But then I learned you were brave and strong. I have never admired anyone the way I admire you. I know you will be a wonderful wife and the most magnificent mother. This little one we made together will know nothing but care and security. Together we’ll make this townhouse a home for our family. However. You are not permitted to run away again. My heart couldn’t take it.”
She smiled through her tears. “I solemnly promise. Now say it. Tell me you love me back.”
“Disobedient kitten, issuing an order,” he growled, but his gray eyes were shining.
“Tell me!”
His arms tightened around her, warm and protective. “I love you, my mistletoe mistress. And I’ll only love you more tomorrow, when you are my marchioness.”
“Tomorrow?” she said, startled.
“That’s right. Life is too precious. We aren’t going to waste a single moment.”
And they didn’t.
December 1814
Glaring ferociously at the paper in front of him, Arran tapped his quill against the oak desk in his library. He’d probably used a quart of ink attempting to write this bloody speech on wheat and barley crops alone, but he was determined to be a knowledgeable voice in the House for farmers. So many of the peers who stood up and made decisions on behalf of those who lived beyond London’s outskirts had never set foot in a field, and it irritated him no end. Nor had they thought about how investment in land and improvements in tools would result in greater production and wealth. Some laughed and called him Farmer Kyle behind his back, but he had the ledgers and contented
