Page 25 of The Duke's Bartered Mistress

Touched her like she belonged to him? Like he owned her?

Oh my.

But it had been his fingers which sent her to oblivion. The fact he’d cared. He’d cared enough about her experience to reach for her clitoris, to make sure she found pleasure. That had been the part Georgia wasn’t certain she could recover from.

Five more weeks of this?

Dear Lord, five more minutes of this and she’d be a whimpering pile of goo at his feet.

Behind her he exhaled slowly, then she felt his hand on her rear end. Not holding it, but…he used some sort of rag to wipe her. First his spend from her arse, then her core, using gentle, soft strokes.

Georgia squeezed her eyes tighter shut and tried to stop her hips from bucking against his ministrations.

You do not know this man. You do not know him well enough to know his signs of arousal, you do not know when he’s being kind. You do not know him.

But she’d granted him use of her body, and there was no way she could regret that now. Not with her body still thrumming with pleasure.

To her surprise, when he was finished cleaning her, Georgia felt him pull her chemise down over her arse. Biting her lip, she pushed herself upright until she could see his reflection in the mirror.

He didn’t meet her eyes, but instead helped her slide backward until her booted feet touched the ground. Then he cleared his throat. “Dinner’s at seven.”

“What?” Georgia whispered.

His gaze flashed once to hers in the mirror, then away. “Dinner is at seven o’clock.” He stepped away.

Her eyes followed him, confused. He expected her to dine with him? “I thought…” She shook her head, then struggled to turn around and face him. Weakly, she gestured around the room. She’d cleaned parts of the castle today, and the contract had made it clear she belonged to Endymion’s master.

“Am I not a—a servant?”

From the way his chin jerked at the question, he was surprised by the thought. “Ye’re a guest,” he growled, his attention locked on a spot over her head. “And as such, ye will dine with me.”

“And…” Georgia swallowed, trying desperately to maintain her sense of purpose, her independence. To keep from falling beneath this man’s spell entirely. “And if I prefer to dine with Mrs. Kettel and Mary?”

Demon’s pale gaze snapped down to hers, anger blazing there. “Yer preferences dinnae concern me.”

Her spine stiffened. “Clearly. I have nothing to wear to dinner.”

For several moments, the only sound was his breathing, his chest rising and falling as he struggled to maintain his—what? His anger? Then she saw it softened before her eyes; the muscles in his jaw loosened and one side of his mouth relaxed.

Finally, he quirked one brow. “Ye’d be surprised how fine ye look in a transparent chemise, but if ye’re going to be picky, the rest of yer luggage should be arriving soon.” He spun on one booted heel, his stride purposeful as he headed for the exit. “Write to yer family and tell them to send more of yer things. Ye’re here until Hogmanay.”

The heavy oak door closed on that prophecy. Georgia blew out a breath and slumped against the wash basin.

Good heavens, write to Father? Well, she would need to. She’d…she’d tell him a fib about needing more time to convince Baron Endymion, and her plans to stay in Scotland “a bit longer.” Yes, that would do. Her father’s housekeeper would send her things along, and the clothing she’d packed for this adventure—left in Banchot—would be enough for tonight.

She pressed a hand to her forehead. She was actually considering following his orders and dining with him? Well, why not? She’d followed every other order.

Come for me.

Even now, her core hummed in the memory of his touch. His cock.

Would he expect to do that again? Most certainly…but when?

Not at dinner. He expressly said you would be dining.

Well, assuming her luggage arrived, she did have a suitable gown for dinner with a Baron. Keeping in mind Mrs. Kettel and Mary seemed to represent the full contingent of house servants at Endymion, Georgia would likely have to learn to press the thing herself—

What was she thinking? Father wasn’t here to comment on the state of her gown, or judge her if she was wrinkled. And Demon…Demon didn’t strike her as caring how wrinkled her gown was. Or if she was even wearing one.

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