Mastering the Marquess (Bound and Determined)

by Lavinia Kent

  She’d kept the coronet—obeyed him. Pleasure filled him. He would have to enjoy these small pleasures in the years to come as he fought against his inner beast.

  Her lips parted; he heard an intake of air as she prepared to speak and then paused, her teeth coming down to settle on that lush lower lip. Her eyes met his and then dropped, her fingers clutching at the blue silk she held so tightly against her breasts.

  His sapphire blazed upon her finger, the mark of his possession.

  She was his to do with as he liked, as he desired; all things were possible. And yet, she was his wife—his lady wife.

  He stepped nearer to the bed. His fingers dropped to the tie that held closed his emerald robe. He hesitated and then loosed the tie, letting the robe drop to the floor.

  He heard her sudden intake of breath.

  Was his nightshirt really so shocking?

  Though he’d never worn one before, he couldn’t imagine what would cause that crimson stain to rise upon his bride’s cheeks.

  This was going to be a difficult night.

  He gestured for her to slide across the mattress, giving himself room to slip in beside her.

  The linen sheets were warm with her heat, and the scent of her perfume was upon his nostrils—lavender and lemons, so very delicate and ladylike.

  “Are you going to blow out the candle?” Her voice was hesitant, questioning.

  He hadn’t planned on it, had always preferred to see—to see everything, unless he was playing games involving darkness and mystery, exploring the extremes of the other senses. “Would you like me to? Is it what you are used to?” He could only hope he did not sound too gruff.

  “I am pleased with whatever you desire.” She turned her face to him, slowly raising her lashes.

  The words were perfect, the gesture perfect. If only he could trust that she really meant all of it.

  Would she have mentioned the candle if it was not what she wanted? He was used to anticipating his partners’ desires, catching the smallest of clues indicating what they really wanted, but now he did not know.

  It was better to be safe. Turning, he pulled the heavy silver stick near and blew.

  Darkness surrounded them, a blanket of quiet and solitude.

  “Oh.” It was more of a puff than a sound. She inched nearer to him on the bed, but did not quite bring herself into contact with him. Then he heard and felt her settle, lying back on the high pile of pillows.

  For a man of such experience, this was surprisingly difficult. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see the starlight seeping between the curtains, allowing a hazy type of vision. It was far from true dark.

  He shifted onto one hip, settling himself against her thigh, letting his full length rest against her.

  Another “Oh.”

  Reaching out, he touched one finger to her lips, dark against her pale skin even in the shadowy room. Her flesh was so soft, so welcoming. Why had he not kissed her before? Let her feel his need before?

  Her breath was moist against his finger, and her lips trembled—with fear or something else?

  Carefully, he trailed his finger over the swell of her lower lip, the indent below, the curve of her chin, down the velvet skin of her neck to the little hollow at the base of her throat. He played there for a moment, letting her grow accustomed to his touch. He stroked from side to side, up and down, and then in small swirls. Her breath grew shallow and he could feel the quickening of her pulse beneath his touch.

  Wetting his lips, he let his fingers trace down her chest until they stopped by the lace border of her gown. He paused there, waiting until her breathing settled before slipping beneath the band.

  This was not so different from his play of the past—letting his lover grow used to him, to his desires—but the end point would not be the same. He needed to remember that.

  Caressing the upper swells of her breasts, he relished their size, their softness. He wanted to relight the candle—hell, he wanted to light a dozen candles—to push back her gown, to rip it off and enjoy the pleasure of her beauty. But he knew he must not.

  His wife was a lady and had to be treated as such. He would remember that if it killed him—and he was beginning to think it just might.

  With great care, he circled her right breast, never approaching the sensitive peak. The rise and fall of her chest grew even faster, and he could feel the soft moisture of her breath upon his cheek. But she gave no other sign of pleasure, no other indication of what she wanted.

  Her hands still lay at her sides, palms flat upon the crisp linen sheets.

  It was impossible not to move—and yet she managed. She would be proper if it killed her. Her hands longed to run through Swanston’s hair, to caress his shoulders, to feel the heat rising on his flesh. Her lips wished to settle above his heart, to feel its beat, to taste the salt of his skin.

  She wanted to press her face into his chest, rub her cheeks back and forth over the mat of hair, to revel in him, to experience him.

  She didn’t even know if he had hair on his chest. That nightshirt hid everything.

  Well, not quite everything. His cock lay stiff against her thigh. She could feel it jerk and move as he touched her.

  If everything Charles had told her was true, then Swanston was clearly finding pleasure—in her stillness, in her lack of response. She dug her fingers into the bedding as she fought to maintain her passivity.

  His cock told her everything she needed to know.

  His cock. She could hear Charles saying the word, whispering that it was a far better word than “penis.”

  Charles—she should not think of him now. It was disloyal.

  But how could she not? He had been her one lover, her only lover.

  Was it not natural that she thought of him?

  He would not have minded her movement, her passion.

  And yet she could hear him ordering her to stillness, forbidding her to move. Her thighs clenched tight at the thought, that small bud between them prickling with desire.

  That had been a game: a show of dominance, of control. This was different; Swanston’s wants were different—and yet she could not help but combine the two men, imagine one was the other, imagine that orders had been given, that her pleasure depended on pleasing him.

  It seemed wrong somehow—and yet, the thought of Charles’s laying her back on the bed, of his beginning to tease her while forbidding her any response, was almost more than she could bear.

  Closing her eyes tight, she let herself pretend, pretend that all movement was forbidden, except that which was requested.

  Measuring each breath, she concentrated on the feeling of Swanston’s hands upon her breast. She wanted more, wanted him to move his fingers upward to her nipples, wanted him to squeeze, to press, to play—to lick and lave and even bite.

  God, she wanted. It was hard not to squirm and wiggle as the need grew between her legs.

  God, was this ever going to progress?

  Her breathing had slowed. What did that mean? Was he rushing her? God forbid, because if he went any slower he’d explode—and he meant that literally. The feeling of her warm thigh through the fine linen was more than a man could bear. He wanted to rear above her, to flatten her into the bed and push up the skirts of her gown, to bury himself within her so deep that their worlds would collide.

  He wanted …

  No, he would not think of what he wanted, only what she wanted, what she needed. It was not really so different from his usual games. If he thought about her, then he could ignore himself, find pleasure in pleasure—and in the end his own desires would be met, more than met.

  She’d liked when he circled her breast softly, ever so softly. He would do so again.

  Her skin was warm and smooth beneath his touch, the curve of where breast met ribs ever tantalizing. A man could get lost in the delicacy of that spot, in the subtle difference of the skin, in the slight dampness and saltiness. He had not tasted her, yet he knew her flavor. He traile
d his fingers along the underside of her breast, feeling her slight gasp. She did like that.

  He stroked again.

  She gasped again.

  He wished he could press his lips against the nape of her neck, allow himself access to another of those precious female spots. He thought of turning her, of spooning himself against her backside, pressing his cock into the cleft of her buttocks as his lips nipped and sucked at the tender flesh just before her hairline. His hands would have free access to her breasts then; he could pinch and play as much as he liked.

  Surely that would not be so shocking?

  Or would it be? If only he had more idea what her experience was … but there were some questions that could not be asked, could never be asked.

  Holding his own wants in check—again—he lifted himself up on one elbow so that he was angled over her.

  Her eyes were shut, her lips closed. That much he could see in the dim starlight.

  Should he kiss her? A soft peck, or something more, something deeper?

  What was she expecting?

  If only she would give him some clue, but instead she held herself still, so still—and waited, waited for him to proceed.

  He allowed his hand to move up the curve of her breast, to outline the nipple—and then crest its peak.

  Her lips parted at that, a long slow breath and then a deep inhale.

  Her lashes fluttered, dark against her pale cheeks.

  If only he could see her, could know her.

  Would she shy away if he pushed her gown down, allowed himself to stare at that tight pebble, to taste it? Were her nipples soft pink, or rose, or some deeper shade? How would they change if he worried at them, pinched them, nipped them, made the blood flow to them until they swelled firmer than ripe berries, ready for a man’s lips and teeth.

  He shifted his hips upon the bed, his arousal almost unbearable. In any other circumstance he’d bring himself relief, or bury himself deep between those full lips. He’d fuck her sweet mouth until sanity returned and …

  No. He could not think that way. He needed to think of Louisa, to think of her pleasure, her desire … her climax.

  And then he set himself that goal.

  He would make her come for him, make her cry his name.

  He would work through her womanly reserve and win. And he would do it all while treating her like a lady. It would be one of his greatest challenges—and he did love a challenge.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Something had changed. Louisa wasn’t quite sure what, but as Swanston lifted himself beside her she could feel it. His fingers still caressed her breasts as softly as a kitten’s whisker. Even when he’d progressed to playing with the tips, he had done so gently—so softly that it was the most incredible tease. She wanted more, needed more, but the rules she had set herself prevented her from moving, from in any way indicating what she wanted.

  All she could do was lie back and feel—and that was killing her.

  How could too little be too much?

  Every time he touched her it drove her out of her mind.

  She was close to shaking with the effort not to move, to hold herself still beneath his touch. These slight, tantalizing touches should have been easy to withstand, but with each little stroke the sensations grew, and with them her desire to know where the next brush would fall.

  He shifted more, pulling his arousal away from her thigh. She bit her lip in an effort not to cry out. She had held strong this long; she could continue.

  Do not move. Not an inch. The voice was not real, but she let it run through her mind.

  She was his to do with as he wished, even if it was this, these small touches designed to drive away the last of her sanity.

  Swanston transferred his weight farther away and then, in a move that was both sudden and careful, shifted over her, his legs coming to straddle hers.

  Drawing in a sudden breath, she reveled in the feeling of weight settling about her thighs, of his cock pressing tight against her. There were two layers of fabric between them, but still she could feel him, hard and heavy and just where he needed to be. Against her will her legs began to slip open, but his thighs held them tight, preventing her from granting him further access.

  “Shhh, just relax and be easy,” he said. They were the first words that had been spoken since the candle had been extinguished. At least the first words not strictly in her mind.

  “I will,” she replied, her voice that breathy whisper she always seemed to adopt around him.

  “You can tell me if you don’t like anything. I will not be angered. I do not wish to distress you in anyway.”

  Then bloody well get on with it, she wanted to scream, but did not. And as his hands, both his hands this time, settled upon her breasts it became almost impossible to say anything. His hands ran over her in one long caress, swirling, circling, working magic, then they glided up her breasts and he pinched the tight nipples—not hard, but again, that was almost worse. And almost better. It was all the ultimate tease.

  She felt his hands glide up again until he reached the neckline of her gown, and then he was untying the knot, sliding the gown down until she was bare before him. Thank heavens the lights were out. She was not sure that she could have remained still if she’d been able to see fire in his eyes. And what if she’d seen something else, seen that she displeased him, or that he found her own obvious arousal unsettling?

  It was enough to cool her blood. Almost.

  She forced breath after breath into her chest, feeling her breasts press into his hands, as she fought to settle herself, to reveal nothing that might displease Swanston, displease her husband.

  And then he lowered his mouth to take her, to suckle her, to … and it was all too much, first the faint gentle caresses and now the sudden intense sensation as his teeth scraped over her. Her head thrashed, turning from side to side, her eyes still tightly shut as she fought the waves of delight that flowed through her.

  God, she was beautiful. He couldn’t see well in the dim light, but her curves, designed for a man to touch—and to taste—were vision enough. He couldn’t wait a moment longer. Swanston stared at the dusky peaks for the barest of moments and then lowered his mouth, unable to resist further.

  Her taste was everything he had desired, everything he had dreamed—and she almost bucked him from the bed as her whole body suddenly arched up to him.

  In another woman he might have taken the movement for desire, but here, with Louisa, that did not seem likely.

  Had he disgusted her?

  He’d heard talk from other men that wives did not like such things, that breasts belonged only in hands—and even there, as little as possible. He’d never thought it true.

  He’d certainly seen enough ladies at Ruby’s to know that husbands and wives did not always agree on what should happen in the bedchamber; seen enough to know that women could want far more than their husbands would ever have dreamed.

  But Louisa was such the perfect lady, so quiet and refined. Perhaps Brookingston had never placed his mouth upon her except in the most decorous of kisses. And Swanston had not even tried that.

  Blast. He should have kissed her, should have measured her response to that.

  His chest heaved as he sought control. With the greatest of care he placed his hands back upon her breasts and began to caress them again.

  She had liked that.

  He was sure of it.

  She had displeased him. Louisa could sense his withdrawal, even as his hands began to tease her again, to move in those endless circles that never led anywhere, that never took her where she needed to go.

  He’d felt her passion and he’d pushed it away, made it very clear where he wished her to go, how he wished her to act.

  She commanded herself to think of something else, to try to cool down. To try to be what he wanted, to act how he wanted.

  If only she had more experience, more understanding of men. Charles had shown all that could be on that one
magic night. But Charles was not ordinary, not regular, and clearly she needed to change her expectations. If only it were John with her—John she could have asked. Only, of course, that wasn’t true. She’d never been able to talk with him about these things. That was what had led her to Madame Rouge.

  His caresses felt so good. She wanted to purr. It might all be teasing, but it was the most pleasant of teasing.

  Deep breath. Measured breath. She concentrated on her left hand, which still lay flat upon the bed. She pressed it into a fist, tight, oh so tight. And then relaxed. Tight. And relaxed.

  Her whole body became that one hand as she pretended nothing else existed.

  It worked—or at least it almost did. It was impossible to truly ignore what was happening to the rest of her, to pretend she didn’t know when one hand left her breast and moved lower, when his fingers stroked her legs and moved higher. His hand skimmed over her thigh and then reached between her legs and paused, the barest of tickles against her curls.

  “I need to touch you, to be sure you’re ready. Do you understand?” Swanston’s voice was gruff.

  She drew her hand tight again, and relaxed again. She could do this.

  Her chin nodded, slightly.

  His fingers parted her, delved between her folds. She bit down on her lip to keep from moving, from shifting to even the slightest degree. Both hands clenched and then released.

  One long stroke across her full length. She was wet, almost dripping. Would that deter him?

  Charles had liked it, but …

  She had to put Charles from her mind, concentrate only on the here, the now.

  If only she could respond, could give in to the feelings that shook her.

  He stroked her again, his thighs lifting as he shifted them between hers. Her gown was up about her waist now. If the lights had been brighter he would have seen everything, known how much her body longed for this, for him.

  He moved again, and she knew that he’d drawn up his nightshirt.