Mastering the Marquess (Bound and Determined)

by Lavinia Kent

  “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.

  He pushed back in, deep and hard.

  That felt even better.

  Again.

  And again.

  Each time he thrust forward she felt the ache begin to grow, and each time he pulled back she felt the longing.

  And then she found the rhythm, began to match him thrust for thrust. Her hips rose and fell, her inner muscles clenched and loosened.

  His arms grabbed her wrists, holding her to the bed.

  His mouth captured hers, devouring her.

  And still she needed more. “Please.”

  He thrust in harder, and her body clenched about him, holding him, tightening around him. The ache within her grew, her whole being focused and waiting.

  She could feel him above her, hot, wet—the smell of man filling her nose.

  He pushed in again, his bollocks slapping against her flesh.

  And she felt it begin, tighter, tighter, every muscle growing taut. Her head arched back with the strain.

  She could take no more.

  The need, the ache, encompassed all.

  Deeper. Deeper.

  And then a scream left her lips, her body arching high to meet his, breaking and being remade.

  If she had thought she’d seen stars before, this was fireworks. Victory fireworks. Celebration.

  Bursts of color against the night sky.

  And then she heard his cry, “Grace,” echoing through the space. No sound had ever been sweeter. His body slammed into hers and stayed, his thighs tight and bunched against her own.

  And then, even as she thought she was coming down, it hit again.

  Her body releasing again and again. Waves of pleasure sweeping through her until she knew nothing else.

  And then peace.

  Her body sank to the bed, movement impossible.

  He lay upon her, his weight great and heavy, and yet she could not bear the thought of his leaving her.

  His chest pressed hard against her as he pulled in great gulps of air.

  And then he rolled away, leaving her cold.

  But suddenly she was in his arms, her head cradled against his shoulder. She turned her head and laid a kiss about his damp flesh. This was completion. At no moment in her entire life could she ever remember having felt his way, felt this need for nothing more.

  Closing her eyes beneath the blindfold, she let herself drift. She should have wanted words and sweetness, but she was happy as she was.

  He drew her closer, and she could only smile.

  And then she heard his snore. Not a big one. Not a grating one. But still, a definite snore.

  It reassured her as nothing else could have.

  This was how it was supposed to be.

  He came awake slowly, his body content and relaxed. God, he felt good—more than good. He started to stretch and became aware of the small feminine body pressed against him.

  Instantly, his body was much less content.

  Grace. Her name filled his mind.

  And then came the images, the memories of what they had done.

  His toes curled with pleasure.

  He had come completely undone. He’d meant to go easy on her, to be as gentle as possible, and instead he’d slammed and thrust into her like a madman—and she’d been with him every inch of the way. When she’d wrapped herself around him, her muscles milking him, he’d been unable to contain himself. He’d virtually exploded, pleasure as he’d never known taking him.

  He looked down at her. The blindfold had risen farther up one cheek, revealing the high, elegant curve of bone. He knew she must be unbelievably beautiful.

  He could push the mask up now and she would never know. He could see her, study her, know her. It could be his secret. He would never betray her even should he meet her again.

  But that would be a betrayal in itself.

  He reached down and stroked her cheek. He could not do it.

  A soft hum left her lips, and he felt her calves move. Her lips parted.

  She stiffened, her body drawing tight. Her hand came up, reaching for the blindfold.

  A moment’s temptation, but then he reached up, stopping her. “Don’t. You are safe, but you must keep it on. Do you remember where you are?”

  She held quiet for a moment, thinking. “Yes. You are Charles and I am no longer a virgin.”

  Aah, that was his girl, his woman. “No, you most certainly are not.”

  “It was far better than I expected.”

  “I am most pleased to hear that.”

  She pressed closer to him, the lines of her body conforming to his. Her breasts moved against him, soft upon his chest.

  Again his body stirred.

  She felt the movement. Her hand moved down, stroking and then wrapping about him. “You were right. You can do it more than once.”

  “But you probably should not. You will find yourself quite sore.”

  “I would like to say I am not, but I do fear you are correct—although it is a most wonderful sore.” Her fingers moved upon him, her own little dance.

  He reached down and grabbed her hand, stilling it. “You should rest.”

  “But I have not yet tasted.”

  Damn, she was temptation itself. “Perhaps later. We still have the rest of the night.”

  “But …”

  “Why don’t I gut the candle and you can sleep a little longer. I should not have woken you. There is no one waiting for you, is there?”

  “No. Even my maid thinks I am visiting a friend. I sent a note that I had decided to spend the night.”

  “That is good. So rest. Despite what you’re holding in your hand, I also could do with a breather, and, perhaps, a glass of brandy.” There was some truth to that. He could use a respite—only in normal circumstances, he would have taken it later. When did a man turn down a willing mouth—and such a full, lovely one. He ran a finger across her lips.

  She caught it with her teeth, sucked it in.

  Had he taught her that?

  He pulled away, from both her mouth and her hand. “Brandy,�
� he said, and swung from the bed, away from all that she offered. She truly did need rest and a chance to understand all that had happened between them.

  The fire had burned low, and he grabbed the poker and stirred the coals. He almost added another log, but stopped. Instead he poured his brandy and gulped it down fast. A shameful way to treat such a fine vintage, but he needed the burn. He set the glass down and turned back to the bed.

  Did a woman ever look more delightful than when tangled in sheets, her hair a tumble and her breasts marked with kisses? He stood and let his gaze linger over her. This was one picture he wanted to never leave him. If it had been possible he would have requested just this as a portrait. Instead he would have to trust in memory.

  “Are you coming back?”

  “Yes, just let me snuff the candles.” He quickly accomplished the task before returning to the bed. Once he’d climbed in he reached out and extinguished the final one.

  Darkness descended, the few coals on the hearth not enough to cast more than the faintest of glows.

  “Would you like me to remove your blindfold?” he asked.

  “No.” Her answer was quick.

  “I’ve put out all the lights. I can no more see than you. If I take it off I still will not see you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. And I would like to kiss you without it on. I would like us to be together in the same dark.”

  “But what about later?”

  “I will tie it to your wrist and you can replace it whenever you wish, perhaps before we sleep.”

  She rolled toward him in the bed and with great care he reached out, going by feeling up her arm and then through her hair, until he felt the knot. With practiced touch he untied it. “Give me your hand.”

  She did.

  Perhaps he should have asked her for both; the idea of bondage still held appeal, although if he could not see, it defeated much of the purpose. Those images would remain only in his imagination.

  Without further thought he quickly wrapped it about her wrist, tying it tight.

  “You are good with knots,” she whispered, her breath brushing against him.

  If only she knew. “I was taught by a sailor.”

  “Tell me something else about yourself.”

  This was dangerous. “I can fly a kite.”