Page 23 of Mistletoe Minx

Frances chanted his name, her hips churning as she frantically rubbed her clitoris, then her body arched like a bow as she succumbed to a powerful, endless release. Watching her come again for him, hearing her ecstasy, hurled Dalton over the edge and a primal roar unleashed as he branded her with his seed, lashing her perfect backside over and over with hot pearly fluid.

Bloody hell. Never in his life had he come like that.

Gulping in air, Dalton pulled away and braced himself against the side table. Then he removed the toy from Frances’ backside and tugged down her gown, before pouring her a glass of wine and placing it atop the railing.

The urge to hold her close, to toss away that red wig and stroke her blond curls was overwhelming. But he needed time to think. To plan. To fully comprehend his new reality: that the duty wife who rejected his touch in the library had subsequently followed him to a hedonistic house party, enthusiastically submitted to his every demand, and orgasmed repeatedly in a manner that suggested she loved such play. That she needed it, too.

It was…astounding. Life-changing.

“Thank you, Mrs. Jones,” he said softly. “We’ll meet again tomorrow.”

CHAPTER 7

The following morning, Frances sat on a cozy window seat looking out over the pristine, tree-lined and snow-covered valley below. Thankfully for everyone, the snow had fallen overnight, trapping them on the Warenne estate rather than trying to get to it.

If she’d missed out on that wondrously life-changing experience…

Frances shuddered and shifted restlessly on the window seat, solely for the reminder that her backside remained tender after being thoroughly owned by the jade phallus. Not even practicing beforehand had prepared her for the exquisite burn of rough penetration, her pleasure entirely controlled by a master who gifted or denied as he pleased.

To think she had nearly ruined everything by speaking.

That terrible moment of desperate weakness could have been her downfall, but in her own defense, it was impossible to imagine anyone remaining silent when so mindless with need. Perhaps she might be Fortunate Frances after all—her voice had been too hoarse and pleading for Dashford to recognize. Her secret was safe, for now at least.

What new delight would her husband introduce her to today?

Frances’ pussy clenched at the thought of his arrival. Last night, when he’d departed the minstrel’s gallery, she had been utterly bereft. And disgruntled. Like there should have been so much more than a glass of full-bodied red wine to sip. However, her mood had improved walking back to her chamber, for dozens of women had stared not with judgement but naked envy. They all wanted to be the one with a waddling gait, chafed nipples and seed-soaked skin because Dash had taken them so hard, and it had certainly added an extra sway to her hips, a touch of catlike satisfaction to her smile. Mrs. Jones was indeed a naughty little minx.

“Morning, madam!” said Glory cheerfully, as she bustled into the room holding fresh towels. “I’ve laid out a new gown for you; yesterday’s one is certainly for the rag pile with all those stains on it…must have been a memorable evening!”

Heat scorched across Frances’ cheekbones. “Last night was…”

Glory giggled. “No need to explain, everyone near the gallery heard your joy. Oh, Mrs. Jones, I am so glad you were matched with Dash. Every woman should know what it feels like to come that hard. My husband is a senior footman here and has learned several tricks by watching the guests, to my everlasting happiness. Now, I know you had a sponge bath last night, but I have a copper tub for you and some lovely rose soap. Let’s get you clean so Dash can make you dirty again!”

Frances couldn’t help grinning. The fine details of this wicked tale might even have Rachel and Celia swooning. “That sounds like an excellent plan. What do guests usually do for breakfast?”

The maid winked. “My instructions are, you must be bathed and dressed by nine o’clock. Dash will escort you to the dining room.”

Soon, Frances eased gratefully into the steaming hot water, groaning as it surrounded her tender spots. Glory knelt beside the tub and expertly lathered her back and arms, then Frances took the soap and washed her front and legs. Once she had been scrubbed until her skin glowed, Frances twisted up onto her knees so Glory could pour jugfuls of clean water to rinse her off.

When a perfunctory knock came at the door, they both yelped.

“Surely it cannot be nine already?” said Frances in alarm.

Glory turned and peered around the bathing screen. “It’s not, madam. Only half past eight. But it must be Dash, no one else would disturb you at this hour.”

Panic flared. Dashford couldn’t see her like this, she wasn’t yet ready to face him as herself!

“Quickly,” blurted Frances. “Fetch my wig and mask. Then answer the door.”

“Yes, madam.”

Somehow, she managed to settle the wig in place and secure it with its pins, and affix the demi mask to her face before her husband strolled in, bold as brass.

Frances swallowed hard. Dashford had never interrupted her bathing; there was something very intimate about him witnessing such a personal task. But for brazen behavior, she could only offer one response: equally brazen. And that was infinitely easier with a mask.

“Good morning, Dash,” she said huskily in her best Mrs. Jones voice, cupping her palms to collect water and trickling it over her breasts. “Oh, beg pardon, perhaps I’m not permitted to speak. But then…you have invaded my boudoir. Early.”

Dashford didn’t reply straight away, instead he stared hungrily at her naked form. And was that…yes, his shaft was hardening before her very eyes!