Sacrifice (Fashionably Impure Book 3) (21 page)

The End.

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excerpts from my other works.

A Measured Risk by
Natasha Blackthorne

A MEASURED RISK features a shy,
intellectual, strong-willed widow with real life curves (Rubenesque/BBW) and a
protective, possessive Dominant, alpha male hero. This is a story of Dominance
and submission with light BDSM, emotional healing, trust and love.

He is her most dangerous temptation and now
he is demanding her submission. Dare she take the risk?

 
Book
one in the Regency Risks Series

Emotionally scarred in the horrific accident
that took her husband's life, Lady Cranfield is imprisoned by her lingering
terror of horses and carriages. She longed to be closer to the fascinating Earl
of Ruel. She sensed intuitively that he could teach her how to overcome the
terrors that held her in bondage.

And now she's willing to risk almost
anything-her reputation, even her virtue-to find out. But what he proposes
startles her.

When the shy, studious and socially awkward
young widow approached him, Ruel instantly sensed she would be the sweetest,
most submissive experience of a lifetime-if only he can gain her total and
complete trust. He makes her a non-negotiable offer. His help in return for her
submission and obedience.

But Lady Cranfield grew up neglected by her
ducal parents, raised by servants and then later ignored by her handsome,
charming husband. She's learnt to protect her heart at all costs and she trusts
no one but herself.

How can the jaded Earl of Ruel break through
her self-protective defenses and show her how to love when he has spent his
lifetime avoiding that tender trap?

Reader Advisory: This is a BDSM romance.
This book contains anal sex, spanking, light bondage, D/s themes and brief F/F
touching.

This is a work of historical fiction, it is
not meant to be an accurate portrayal of or guide to how people recover from
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. As a work of historical erotic romance, it is
also not intended to portray modern BDSM or D/s lifestyles.

A Measured Risk
is published in British English and uses British Spelling.

Excerpt from A MEASURED RISK

Copyright
© Natasha Blackthorne, 2012, 2013

“Why did you run away?” His deep voice settled
in her belly, rich and warm, like
crème brûlée
on a cold winter’s night.

“Because I wanted you to follow.” She tried to
sound sophisticated and seductive, but her voice choked off on the last word.

Ruel placed his hand on the shelf above her
head and blocked her path to the door. His tall, solidly muscled body leaned
over her, surrounding her with the sumptuous, sinful scents of tobacco, Scotch
whisky and something masculine and undeniably dangerous. A slow, sensual smile
stretched his hard mouth.

He appeared different. Softer. More
approachable.

At the change, her insides seemed to flip over.

“Well, sweeting, getting us off alone was a
very inspired idea.” He touched one of her fallen ringlets. “I am bored to
distraction with endless hunting and fencing.”

As he slowly wrapped the curl around two
fingers, he brushed her collarbone. Fiery sparks tingled down her spine, so
intense that she shivered and her nipples beaded, pressing against her stays.
By some instinct she hadn’t even known she possessed, she arched her back,
presenting herself for his assessment.

His eyes shone so vividly blue against his
bronzed face that they resembled cornflowers. She swallowed tightly and wished
for a long drink of claret. This more personal side of him suddenly seemed far
more hazardous than his usually fierce exterior.

Well, no matter. There was nothing to fear. She
would allow only as much contact as need be to get to know him a little. Since
being torn from her lonely yet secure life in Ireland and thrust into society
at age sixteen, she’d spent her time allowing people only as near as was comfortable.
She was an expert at emotional evasion.

It should be easy to regain her control.

But now, as late afternoon sun rays played over
his pale hair, turning it to the colour of winter wheat, all her carefully
rehearsed words flew away.

Say something—anything—else he will think
you’re a bird-wit.

An intimate smile, one that invited her to
play, tugged at his mouth.

“In a situation like this, alone with a
gentleman, it’s perfectly normal for a lady to feel some apprehension.” His
hushed voice, barely audible above the piano and boisterous singing from down
the corridor, accentuated their isolation. His gaze became so piercing that she
had to lower her eyes.

He brushed his fingertips over her cheek. “She
will invariably ask herself if he will try to kiss her.”

She jerked her eyes back to his face. God, he
couldn’t mean to—Not yet, surely… Peculiar, heated chills swept over her. She
tried to take a step back, but found her arse flush against the bookshelf.

He leaned closer; so close that his
Scotch-scented breath tickled her face. “And just in case you are wondering,
Lady Cranfield—the answer is most assuredly yes.”

She should demand that he put his arm down so
she could pass by and leave. She really should. But she couldn’t stop looking
at his hard mouth and wondering what it would feel like upon hers. He was so
close to her that his breath blew on her lips. If she moved but a fraction,
she’d be kissing him.

Kissing him.

Dear God. Her breath began to come very fast
and short. Her throat went tight with a suppressed moan.

His eyes burnt as brightly as aquamarines. He
looked so fierce. If he kissed her, if he dared… Oh God, it would be so harsh.
That cruel-looking mouth could express itself no other way.

Excitement rushed through her, sending tingles
to every point of her body, even her toes.

But no, he wouldn’t. Not yet.

He kept leaning closer. He didn’t close his
eyes. Instead, he seemed to focus all the harder upon her.

Heart pounding and unable to move away, she
braced herself for his assault.

His lips brushed hers, barely. A gossamer
caress.

He lifted his head.

It was done.

Ended.

And it hadn’t even begun.

He held her chin, appearing so cool, so
unaffected. His kiss had seemed to sear her. An urge to put her fingers to her
lips arose in her. She resisted it, for it would give away too much of how she
was affected.

Never show your feelings.

He traced his thumb along her lower lip,
slowly, deliberately, as he studied her with eyes that now glittered with
something powerful and predatory. Heat pooled in her pelvis, low and spreading
even lower.

She went weak all over, as if she’d lain in a
sunny window seat for too long. Her knees almost buckled. She forced them to
lock. To be strong.

It should not have affected her so profoundly.
It had just been a peck—not a true kiss at all. William had poured out all of
his skill upon her and hadn’t garnered even a tenth of the reaction in her that
this man’s peck had.

Ruel traced her jaw line with his fingertips.
Unthinkingly, she leaned in to his touch.

“Of course, once he has kissed her, then it’s
his turn to wonder…” His voice sounded unnaturally loud to her ears. “How will
she respond? Will she withdraw, or can he ignite some hidden fire?”

She sensed that he was toying with her. She
didn’t understand flirtation—why had she imagined she could carry this ruse
off? Was he making advances in order to have a laugh with Francesca and her
simpering friends later? Hurt blossomed in her chest. She resented him for
that. She ought to feel indignant, superior, uncaring—anything but hurt.

“Please don’t make sport of me.”

She cringed. Was that quavering, pleading voice
really hers?

An infinitesimal pause. “Now, why on earth
would I do such a thing?” His voice was as smooth as velvet.

“To please your vanity,” she replied, trying to
regain her wits.

“Here.” He placed her hand to his chest. The
contours of his muscles were hard, powerfully developed. Even more so than
she’d expected. His body heat radiated through the satin and, beneath her hand,
his heart beat was rapid and strong.

“Is that vanity?” He put a finger under her
chin, giving her no choice but to face him. “Is it?” He gentled his grip.

The warmth in his voice settled over her like
luscious hot chocolate. Melting her insides to quivering burgoo, rendering her
speechless, unable to move.

“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, 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 opened 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 was 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.