Mastering the Marquess (9 page)

“But no tickling.”

“No tickling. Now, what I want you to do first may seem strange, perhaps a bit awkward, but I want you to trust me. Can you do that?”

Chapter Seven

Trust? It all kept coming back to trust. The problem was she did trust him, even after his laughter. She had been more mad at herself than at him.

“What do you want me to do?”

He let out a deep breath. Had he doubted her? Surely he realized she was here to stay—although perhaps not, after her behavior of a moment ago.

“Stay as you are, but turn so your feet are toward the bottom of the bed,” he commanded.

Which way was the foot of the bed? After all her turning and scurrying, she did not know. And much as she strained, she could not tell where the fire was and orientate herself that way.

“Put your feet here.” He tapped the bed as if understanding her confusion.

She shuffled her behind around, following his direction.

“Now release your knees and let your arms fall to your sides.”

She did.

“Lie back, but keep your knees bent, just as they are.”

How did one do that? Putting her arms at her sides was easy, but lying back with her knees bent? She fell with a graceless flop, quickly bringing her ankles together.

His fingers wrapped about each ankle, holding them still. “Take your arms and reach over your head. Yes, just like that. God, you are beautiful. I wish you could see yourself, see how you look with your arms high, your breasts spread and waiting.”

She squirmed, uncomfortable with his words, with the reminder of her nakedness—and yet the roughness of his voice caused springs to begin coiling deep in her belly. She tried to bring her thighs together, but he kept his grip on her ankles tight.

“Stretch just a little farther,” he said. “Try and place your fingertips on the headboard. Yes, just so.”

The wood was cool beneath her fingers and she tried to concentrate on that, tried not to think about him looking at her, staring at her. If only she could see what she looked like—although it was probably best that she could not. This was embarrassing enough.

Using his grip on her ankles, he pulled her legs apart, spreading them.

She tried to resist. She knew it was foolish after standing before him, bending before him, but still, she could not bear for him to see her—not there.

“Trust me.” His voice was quiet, but left no room for question.

“But …”

“You promised to try. You can ask me to stop later.”

She closed her eyes beneath the blindfold, imagined she was in her garden at midsummer, and relaxed her legs. He spread them wide, almost to the point of pain but not quite. He held them there for a moment and groaned softly. She knew the meaning of that groan. He was staring at her, right at her. She’d never even seen
herself
there. No memory of roses and mums was going to keep her from realizing what was happening.

Another groan. This one deeper.

He desired her. She could picture his cock rising—and all because of her.

The embarrassment, the need to close her legs shut, was still there, but there was a growing excitement. He wanted her.

She wished she could see him, know exactly how he was responding, how he was reacting.

Or at least touch him.

She started to move her hand.

“Stay still.” It was almost a bark. Or a growl.

Instantly she froze.

“Now, I am going to release your legs, but I do not want you to move, not one inch. If you move, I will stop.”

How could he stop? He had not even begun.

His hands let go, and she had to struggle to keep from moving. She felt him shift upon the bed until he was directly between her legs.

She hoped the blindfold covered her face adequately. She didn’t want him to know how she felt—how nervous she was, how excited she was. She felt damp there, there between her legs. Was she supposed to be? She knew the man produced seed, but did the woman do something? She wanted to ask, but knew she could never say the words. At least not yet.

“Your honey is dripping for me. You like this more than you know.” Once again it was
almost as if he had read her mind.

“Honey? Am I sweet then?”

A low laugh. “You definitely are sweet, although perhaps not quite in the way you mean.”

His finger stroked her and then was gone, before she could complain—or even think.

Another groan. “Damn, you are sweet.”

He hadn’t tasted—had he? She remembered the taste of him and felt her mouth grow dry.

And then another quick stroke. He leaned over her, not touching, but still she could feel his heat, his weight. And then his fingers were against her lips.

She held them tightly closed.

“Taste.”

He could not really want her to … It was hard to even think about.

“Taste.” His voice was more insistent.

With some trepidation, she parted her lips.

His fingers slipped in.

“Suck.”

She complied. It was like nothing she’d ever tasted before. It certainly wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t bad, but … She didn’t know what to think.

That was her taste. Her flavor.

He held his fingers in her mouth for a moment, drew them back, then pressed them forward. And then again.

By instinct, she sucked tight with each thrust.

His voice whispered by her ear. “Soon it will be more than my fingers you taste, and then you’ll know the taste of us—together.”

The images the man conjured. She didn’t know whether to be appalled or … The urge to press her thighs together grew greater—and now not from embarrassment.

He removed his fingers from her mouth, pulling away from her. He placed a hand on each of her knees, forcing her stillness, not giving her a chance to disobey.

“Do you really like the taste?” she asked, unable to help herself.

“Don’t you?”

“I don’t know. It is strange—not unpleasant, but I have nothing to compare it to.” She
licked her lips and considered.

“Should I show you how much I like it? Yes, I rather think I should.”

Before she could think, before she could protest, she felt his breath there, there on her—on her cunny. He blew softly, parting her curls. Was he supposed to do that? She’d never heard of such a thing. Not that any of this was within her realm of knowledge.

He blew again, harder. A shiver ran up her whole body. How could anything be so hot and so cold in one instant? And then she felt another breeze.

If he had not held her knees she would have closed them tight. Her body was reacting without thought, without reason.

A finger traced her—right there. Right at her center. A single line. And back again. Her whole body jerked when he touched a certain spot. His finger ran again, his breath just above.

A soft cry fell from her lips.

Another stroke. He paused and swirled when he reached that spot, playing.

It was too much. She moaned—no, she groaned, her understanding of him growing.

And still his breath tortured her, hitting her just above his finger, betraying where he would move, where he would stroke, where he would play, where he would lave …

Great gods! She almost jerked upright on the bed.

It was not his finger. It was his tongue. He was devouring her, tasting her.

She had not understood what he meant.

Aahh.

He hit that spot again and her whole body lifted from the bed.

“Shhh. Stay still. You don’t want me to stop, do you?” Her flesh muffled his words.

Did she? Did she want him to stop? The sensations were almost too intense to be borne—and yet … She held still.

He lapped her again. Now that she understood, she could tell exactly what was happening.

And then he nipped her—right on that magical spot.

Shock shot through her entire body, every muscle strained.

And then his soothing tongue.

Tightening, he sucked hard, engulfing that special spot, and then just when she could take no more, he’d pull back, letting her breathe.

And then again.

It was good he couldn’t see her. Her eyes were probably rolling back in her head.

She’d never even imagined.

That spot again.

She was panting, her whole being caught in a few inches of flesh.

His tongue circled, darted. She could feel his whole mouth now sucking at her, devouring her.

He was breathing fast, too, small groans and cries leaking out between licks.

It sounded like he was feasting, feasting on her.

He really did like the taste of her.

A moment to breathe, to think—and then his hands were on her upper thighs, pushing them wider. His fingers reached out to spread the folds of her flesh. His tongue circled and pushed to enter. To enter that place no one had ever touched.

It was not as intense as that other spot, but still quite wonderful.

And just as clear thought began, it ended as he used his fingers on that spot, catching it between finger and thumb, while still his tongue plunged in—out—in—out.

Her whole body shook with the effort not to move; tears formed in her eyes.

His finger rubbed again. His tongue delved deeper.

His breath filled her.

Something was happening. Her body grew tight and tighter.

She wanted—damn, she didn’t know what.

But something. Something had to happen.

She could not bear it.

She almost asked him to stop.

She was going to break—break apart and never be whole again.

And then she couldn’t think. She could only feel.

And then she did break—her whole world came apart in an explosion of color and darkness.

Her body spasmed from the bed. She could not hold it; he could not hold it.

A single rush—and then another.

And then she was reborn, her whole body arching out and then sinking into the mattress.

And she was whole again. Whole as she had never been before.

God, what a woman! He’d never felt anything like the climax of pleasure that swept through her, through him. It was lucky he had not come again. He felt almost as if he had—although parts of his body were quite sure he had not.

He lifted himself on his elbows, admiring his favorite spot on the female body—oh, hell, he didn’t have a favorite spot; he loved them all. But this, pink and glistening, swollen from his mouth, was definitely one of the best.

Licking his lips, he pushed back farther and then carefully reached out and brought her legs together, pulling them straight. She moved as if boneless, only the slightest purr escaping her lips.

He rolled to his back and stared up at the canopy, observed the frolicking nymphs and satyrs. Not one of them looked as happy, as contented, as he felt.

He turned his head and looked at her, her lower faced softened by the candlelight. She looked pretty pleased too.

It was a good moment to be alive.

He rested for a minute and then crawled up the bed to place his head beside hers on the pillow.

She turned toward him, and he was more tempted than ever to push the blindfold down, to stare into her eyes, to know her, to … Why was he thinking these thoughts? Tonight was about sex and pleasure, only sex and pleasure.

But, somehow it had become more.

He could not deny that. There was something about her that called to him, that made him … Bollocks. He refused to have these thoughts.

He rolled to his side, placed his hand upon her breast.

She jerked, startled, but then moved closer, cuddled against him.

He’d always hated cuddling, spooning—all the things women wanted after sex. After sex was about moving on—or sleeping—or having more sex. It was not about hugs.

He leaned forward and kissed her lips lightly.

It was their first kiss—at least on the lips.

He smiled to himself and kissed her again.

“That’s nice,” she sighed.

“Only nice?”

“The kiss is nice—the rest I don’t even have words for.”

That earned another kiss.

“I taste myself. It is quite strange. I would not know the flavor if you had not made me taste before. I feel like I should be … be shocked. And yet I am not.”

“I am glad. And you do taste very fine, like a strong red wine.”

“I think I understand that,” she replied. “Something you’re not sure about at first sip, but that grows on you with each swallow. And then suddenly you want nothing else.”

“I could not have said it better.” Another kiss.

And then he pulled her tight in his arms, holding her close against him.

It was something he wasn’t sure he’d ever done, except in the midst of coitus, but here, now, it was the right thing. The only thing.

Her hands ran down his back, feeling his muscles, rubbing, massaging.

It was his turn to purr.

She buried her face against his chest, her breath hot, her tongue darting out to lick. She nipped his nipple, paused, and then moved forward, her mouth feeling and exploring.

He felt himself stir against her leg. He shifted, trying to find ease, comfort.

Her hand slipped between them, wrapped about him.