Mastering the Marquess (10 page)

He bit down. Shit. He held his teeth clenched.

“Oh dear,” she breathed against him. “What about you? I thought that you—well, I didn’t really think, but …” Her fingers began to move.

He was forced to reach down and grab them, to stop them.

Hell, he doubted she was ready for more yet—and he was more than ready.

He gritted his teeth. “I am fine.”

“You don’t sound fine. Should I do to you what you did to me? Is that what you meant when you said I could taste later?” She sounded almost … eager.

Blast. She really was going to kill him, inch by inch. “It is not later yet. Rest a moment and then we can move on when you are recovered.”

She pushed away, rose on one elbow, and looked down at him. Well, she didn’t look down at him, as she could not see, but he still felt that she was staring into his soul. “I am quite recovered. Do you need more time?”

He reached up, wrapped a hand about her head, tangled in her hair, and pulled her down.

This kiss was not soft, was not kind.

It was fire. It demanded to be fed, and fed and fed.

His tongue pressed through her lips, not asking for permission. It swept her mouth, deep and hard. He would show her what, however innocently, she was asking for.

But she met him. Taste for taste. Thrust for thrust.

One second gentle, the next demanding all.

He could feel her heart race against his chest, her breasts flattened by the force of his hold.

And yet she did not whimper, did not pull back. She gave and gave.

Offered more.

Finally it was he who pulled back—needing breath, his lungs crying for air.

“Are you sure you are ready?” he gasped.

“Do you need to ask?” Her hands brushed across his chest, stopping to pinch at his small, hard nipples.

“I always ask. Permission is needed, even when I demand. I am, in fact, asking.”

“Oh. Then yes, I am ready. What would you like me to do?”

He hadn’t thought that far ahead. His mind filled with images. Her on her knees, his cock deep in her mouth. On her hands and knees, himself behind, shoving in hard. Her bent over a chair, her legs parted, waiting. Her spread on his bed, against his dark coverlet, her hands bound, her legs quivering with want. And other images. Darker images that she would never be part of.

But then, she’d never lie upon his bed, either.

He would think about now, about what they could do now.

Rising up, he looked down at her.

He would not tie her, but he could certainly spread her, have her lie upon the bed like the sacrifice he had imagined. Indeed, it was a relatively customary way to deflower a virgin, to take her flat on her back in a large bed. The images in his mind might not always be so normal, but his outer actions could be. Well, almost. And she would never know the difference.

She accepted whatever he asked of her. Why would she think anything of his asking her to hold herself still again?

He’d enjoyed her arms up before, imagined the single rope tying them. Should he do that again or have her spread them? He could hold them either way, imprison her with his body.

That might be an even more exciting thought than actual bondage.

“Make your body into an X.”

“I am afraid I don’t understand.”

“Spread your arms wide above you—and the same with your legs. Open them wide.”

Her arms went up immediately, reaching toward the bedposts. Her legs edged open slowly. Six inches. Then a foot. A foot and a half.

“I said wide.”

Another foot.

“Wide.”

An inch or two.

“Surely you cannot be shy after what we just did? Or are you sore?” He had not even considered that possibility. She was surely unused to what he was asking her to do. Her muscles might be protesting.

“No, not sore. I know I should not be shy, but it still seems strange to open my legs, knowing you are looking.”

“And I promise you, I am looking. I wish you could see how beautiful you are. In different circumstances I would position a mirror to show you.”

He could see her shock. Her mouth gaped open a bit. “A mirror?”

“Yes, a mirror. Would that bother you?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never even considered such a thing.”

He slipped off the edge of the bed and moved about the foot of it, memorizing every inch of her, locking this moment in his mind. He had never seen a more splendid sight than Grace, spread wide and awaiting his pleasure. He would have enjoyed actual bondage, but there was something erotic in her self-enforced stillness. “I want you to do me a favor, not now, but later.”

“What?” She sounded breathless.

“Tomorrow, when you are home, I want you to take a hand mirror and look at yourself, look at yourself there, between your legs.”

“I couldn’t.”

“I am sure that you will find you can. Look at yourself and imagine me watching—and I will imagine I am there. Is that really such a big thing? No one need ever know.”

“I will try.”

“I want you to promise.”

She was quiet for a moment. He watched her breasts rise and fall as she pulled in a large breath, then released it. “I promise.”

And he knew she meant it.

He just stood and looked at her for a moment. She truly was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. He wondered what she looked like in her clothes.

The thought made him laugh.

He saw her stiffen. He hurriedly explained, “No, it’s not you. It is I. I just realized that I’ve never before wondered what a woman looked like dressed in a gown and jewels. I am always busy wondering how they look
without
their clothing.”

She snorted, an actual snort. “I should have known.”

“I do assure you, all men are the same.”

“Not all men,” she replied.

Her husband. If her husband had liked other men, he must have shown no interest in her, left her doubting her appeal. He would have to rectify that.

He climbed back on the bed, settling on his knees between her legs. “Spread them farther. Show me how wide you can go.”

The flare of humor faded as desire flickered back to life—not that it had ever truly died.

Very slowly her legs spread farther apart.

He waited until she stopped, her legs almost spanning the bed. His cock jumped. She was so desirable, so vulnerable. Again he felt the urge to move up over her, to just plunge in—virginity be damned.

He held back.

“Just a few more inches, my sweet. Let me see.” It was about command, and only command.

Her legs moved. And then moved a little more.

Running a finger up one leg, from ankle to calf to thigh—and higher—he watched her,
watched how her skin shivered, watched her breathing grow deep, watched the flush rise upon her breasts.

Those breasts—he had not yet paid them their proper due. How had he been so remiss?

But he had other tasks to perform first.

He ran a finger up her other leg. When both fingers were at the apex of her thighs, he ran them back and forth across the tender skin where leg met body. Small gasps escaped her with each stroke.

He didn’t even approach her actual folds, instead playing about the outside, teasing and caressing. “Shh, don’t move. Just stay still. I know it’s hard, but it does please me.”

When her small jerks intensified, he leaned forward and blew once upon her dark curls, inhaling her scent. Then he ran his fingers up along the outer edge of her curls, stroking her lower belly before progressing to her navel. He lingered there, circling it slowly, before leaning forward to press a gentle kiss upon it and then delving into it with his tongue. He imitated his earlier movements and watched her body clench in response.

And then up to those breasts. He had waited a long time for this. He eased forward on the bed and then straddled her hips, not allowing her any movement.

He held himself up and stared down at her. A starving man presented with a feast, he knew not where to begin.

Left? Right? The valley between? Lower curves or nipple?

He hummed with pleasure as he allowed himself to consider.

And then he leaned forward.

Chapter Eight

She hadn’t known sex would be such torture—or at least, not this type of torture. She’d been prepared for pain. What woman was not after having the wedding night explained? But this was like no wedding night she’d ever heard of.

Every time she thought she understood, he changed the rules.

And the not moving. How could she not move when he did—did that.

A warm palm descended on her left breast, and then another on the right.

She wanted to rise up on the bed. She wanted to run her fingers over him—through his hair, across his chest, and down, down lower. She wanted to lift her hips to him, to make him ease the ache that was again rising deep in her belly.

His fingers massaged each of her breasts, his palms flattening the tips. Why didn’t he press harder? Why didn’t he play with her nipples? They cried for his touch.

She felt a plea rise within her, but held it back. She would not beg.

He kissed the area between her breasts, his tongue moistening and tasting.

It was exquisite.

It was torture.

Why didn’t he hurry?

Weren’t men supposed to hurry?

Surely that had been part of her mother’s long-ago speech.

But her mother had been wrong about so much. Could she have been wrong about this too?

Please …

The cry filled her mouth, but she held it in.

And then his hands moved—not much, but they drew back, his fingers encircling her nipples, pinching, pulling.

It brought some relief. A sigh eased from her. But then it grew worse, the added sensation only drawing her farther along the path.

She tried to raise her hips, to grind them into him, but he held her down.

And then the plea did come out. “Please. I can’t take it anymore.”

“I think you can—and you will thank me later.” His tongue moved up the curve of one breast, tracing the edge of her nipple, but not touching the center.

Her whole world began to focus on that one small inch of flesh. In this moment, without her sight, that was all she knew.

She could smell him: musk, amber, and still the lingering scent of apples. She could feel him, his weight on her hips and fingers and mouth, playing, teasing—persecuting.

And then just when she could take it no more, his lips locked about her nipple, sucking it deep. Heaven.

Rapture.

Euphoria.

And then it all began again—the need growing and growing, never ending.

His teeth scraped her.

He nipped and laved.

Moved to the other breast.

A cry escaped her, sharp and needful.

His lips left her. “Aah, my sweet, are you trying to tell me that you’re ready? That you need me? Need me now?”

“Yes. Yes, please. Please.”

“Let me see.” One hand slid down between her legs. “You do feel ready.”

“Please.”

“Stay still then.” She felt his weight leave her, the bed sinking between her spread legs as he settled.

His breathing was loud and steady. She strove for some other sign of what he was about to do.

She could not feel him, could not hear him—except for those breaths. Only the shift in the mattress told her where he was.

“I want you to close your eyes.” His voice was that of a snake charmer. “I know you cannot see, but I want you to picture yourself. You, lying on the bed, spread out for my delight—white skin, full breasts swollen from my kisses, dark curls damp with moisture, with desire for me, and only for me. Imagine those sweet nether lips crying out for satisfaction, crying out with
need.

“Now picture me between those legs. Remember my body, remember how it grew for you, surged for you. I am on my knees, my thighs spread just a bit to steady myself—and all I can see is you, the beauty of you, the need of you.”

Her body grew tighter with each word, her mind filled with his images. She could see him: the broad shoulders, the muscled chest sprinkled with dark hair, the hard muscled thighs and lean hips—and his cock, long and thick, the tip darker and wider, that single drop of moisture at the end.

Her body clenched with need, her inner muscles drawing tight.

“Need” was right. Her body was crying for him.

If only she knew his face, his eyes—knew the look of his want, his desire.

She’d thought to put her husband’s face there, but she could not.

Charles was Charles. There could be no other.

“I am stroking myself now.” His voice pulled her back to the moment and out of her imagination.

“I wish I could actually see.”

“Strangely, I do, too,” he said softly.

She wanted to ask him why he’d said “strangely,” but before she could form the words she felt him shift, his weight lowering over her.

“I am poised just above you now. Are you ready? In another moment you will no longer be a virgin.”

“Yes. I am ready.” And she was—but still her body stiffened with nerves.

“Relax. I know it’s hard, but try to make your body soft, welcoming. It will go easier if you do.”

How could he ask that of her now? Did he have any idea how she felt? The combination of nerves and excitement made any thought of relaxing her body impossible.

A finger stroked her, parted her, and then she felt him there, just in that spot.

“Breathe in—then out.”

She obeyed. His voice left her no choice.

And then in a single thrust he filled her, a second of sharp, biting pain—and then it was over and she was full, stretched. It did ache, but she wasn’t sure it was in an altogether bad way.

Her hips shifted slightly as she tried to decide if she liked this feeling.

“How are you?” he breathed in her ear.

“I believe I am fine. Is it over?”

“You never cease to amaze me. I am going to move now. I will do my best to stop if you ask, but at some point that may prove impossible.”

He waited a moment and then eased forward, filling her further.

That did feel good.

He pulled back in a single smooth movement. She felt the loss of him inside her and her hips lifted of their own accord.