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He scratched his chin, gave a small shrug, and smiled slyly. “Wasting precious time lying around.”
The accusation of laziness annoyed her. She was mistress of not one but two grand houses and at least once a week she visited Willowby to ensure the quiet life of the skeleton staff was functioning satisfactorily. When Henry sent word of his return, the hall came alive with renewed energy and plenty to keep her busy. She deserved a moment’s rest. Matthew had not given up his work as a farmer, and although he was not required to muck in with his hands, the estate needed constant supervision. He led by example.
“I lost track of time.”
He helped her with the laces of her gown and she drew it over her head. She fiddled with the ties of her chemise and pouted. Sometimes coy expressions led to him skipping the need for a spanking and brought him to the bed quicker. Today, he tutted a warning and pulled the chemise off her shoulders. Moments later she was naked, kneeling on the stool with her belly flat on the bed. He propped one knee next to her and circled her arse with the palm of his hand.
“I should do this more often,” he said, “you’re already as wet as the morning dew.”
She buried her flushed face in her hands, betrayed again by his coarse words and her eager sex. “Just do it, will you.”
“Do it? Am I a slave to your whims or I am your master?”
She lifted her head and peered over her shoulder. “Whim? You know perfectly well that I am yours to command and will obey you, but at least allow me some scope for complaining. This is my arse, not yours.”
He chuckled. “I might argue that point, since I’ve the upper hand.” And with that accurate comment he dutifully brought his hand down with a resounding smack.
She winced but didn’t move. She had learnt to keep still and quiet. He worked his way around both rotund cheeks, flicking his wrist as he moved back and forth. She resumed the position of head burrowed beneath her arms.
“Fine,” he said. “If you won’t yield to my hand, then maybe a few swings of this bat.”
The lightweight washer bat, which was used to stir clothes in a tub, was the least fearsome of the collection downstairs. He had picked it up once when walking through the room and kept it in the bedroom ever since. Dara was too embarrassed to explain to the washerwoman that he had taken it.
The concept of yielding was a delicately balanced matter. Resisting with tears and drumming feet would result in him lecturing her about recalcitrance and obtuse attitudes, while lying pathetic and unresponsive swiftly led to him questioning her at length about the state of her mind, her happiness and wellbeing, as if paddling her bottom was a cure for any malady.
Today, she was perfectly in tune with him. She parted her legs obediently for his inspection and moaned softly when he fingered her.
“A few more,” he said softly.
The bat was not applied with any measure of force other than a slap. But that didn’t mean it failed to leave the impression of discomfort. The heat and soreness wa
s real. She squirmed and bit back a cry. Now tears pricked her eyes, the frustrations of the day bubbled to the surface.
“I want another baby,” she blurted.
Matthew stopped. “Aye, thought as much. Yearning you’ve been ever since you stopped feeding George.”
Since George’s birth, Matthew had diligently renewed the practise of withdrawing prior to his climactic finish.
She pivoted onto her elbow. “What say you, Master?”
He sat next to her. “Tis time, I look forward to it.”
She raised an eyebrow. “The baby or the making of it?”
He shrugged. “Both.”
Always a man of a few choice words. He took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “Whatever you desire, lass.”
He moved, flipped her over, and sat on the stool. Before she could snatch a breath, he had her legs over his shoulders and his mouth buried between her thighs, lashing her with his rough tongue, chivving her into a state of complete arousal. The tickles and flutters brought her to a swift climax. She stuffed her fingers in her mouth to dampen her squeals of delight. Then he was upon her, in her, thrusting below while kissing her throat. She clung to his shoulders, her feet hooked behind his back and her bottom bucking in time to his rhythm. A well-practised duet. She was rewarded with a low groan and a blistering shudder of his organ. He scorched her with his heat, keeping her entwined and knotted to him until he finished.
Matthew panted and finally opened his eyes. “I’ll write to his lordship and tell him to come a-calling in seven months, shall I?”
Dara smiled dreamily. “Perhaps a little longer than that, there’s no hurry.”
She snuggled against him and as she fell into a deep peaceful sleep of contentment, he recited verse after verse of French poetry, all in a perfect accent, and with great passion.
* * *
