Mastering the Marquess (Bound and Determined)

by Lavinia Kent

  The sounds that came from him were almost animal now. His second hand joined the first in her hair, speeding the pace, increasing the urgency.

  His hips rose from the chair, thrusting against her.

  Power filled her. Power and desire and need—his and her own, the throb between her legs growing steadily as she felt him coming undone.

  Tears again formed in her eyes as she strained to stay soft, to stay as he needed, to keep her throat open to him.

  With sudden force, his fingers dug into her scalp, his hips rising to piston against her as he pressed deeper, faster, harder. She fought to match his pace, and felt the vein that beat against her tongue grow, felt the sudden press of warmth as he thrust deep, his seed spurting fast and strong.

  His hips strained hard, holding themselves raised and tight as her name filled the room.

  It was all she could do to swallow, but she did so, again and again as he continued to come, filling her with each pulse.

  Finally, his breath grew shallow and his hips eased down to the chair, the muscles of his clenched thighs relaxing.

  She held still, cradling him with her cheeks and lips as the strong member softened and reduced within her mouth. Then she eased back, sliding her lips along his length as he slipped from her.

  It took a moment, but she raised her head then, looking to his eyes to give her answers, to give her reward.

  Satisfaction filled her—and yet want, too. There had been such pleasure in her efforts, but now her body ached with its own needs.

  His eyes were warm. Yes, the reward was there. He held out a hand, helping her to her feet, before fastening the closure of his trousers.

  “That was very good,” he said softly, the rich tones surrounding her.

  Her tired cheeks lifted in a smile. He raised his hand and brushed it upon her swollen lips. “You don’t know how long I’ve dreamed of that. Every time I saw you in those tight, contained braids I imagined you on your knees before me, your lips parted. I imagined feeding myself into you until you could take no more and then fucking these sweet lips until I lost all thought.”

  Her whole body clenched at the image, her unmet desires raging.

  His hand slid along her cheek to bury itself again in her hair, pulling her to him. He laid the softest, most delicious of kisses upon her lips, his tongue sweeping along the closed seam, but not pressing for entrance. Did he taste himself? Did he delight in the flavor as much as she?

  She felt light-headed with need, her body floating toward …

  “Don’t worry. We are not done yet, my dear.” His hands dropped to her breasts, the palms pressing flat against the aching peaks.

  Why didn’t he pinch her again? She needed the squeeze, the sting. She just needed—and needed more.

  He did not oblige.

  She squirmed against him, trying to demonstrate her desires.

  “Turn around,” his voice demanded.

  That was not what she wanted. She squirmed again.

  “Do it.” His voice had grown sharp.

  Still she resisted.

  “Louisa.” There was no mistaking the absolute command of the word.

  “But …”

  “Turn around.”

  Unwillingly, she complied.

  “Bend forward. Lay your body across my desk.”

  She stopped, but then did as he asked, the blotter of paper soft against her breasts.

  “Lift your skirts.”

  Again, she felt a shiver of discomfort, but obeyed, her fingers gathering the fabric until it lay above her hips.

  “Stretch your arms forward now, and grasp the front edge of the desk. Do not move them from there. No matter what.”

  No matter what? The question echoed through her mind, but she did not voice it. Obedience was what he needed, demanded, and so she offered. It was a long reach to grasp the far edge of the desk, but she did so willingly, pressing up on the balls of her feet until she was standing on her toes.

  He stood behind her, the weight of his legs pressing into her thighs. He placed a hand on each of her buttocks, massaging and separating. He’d done this before, but only in the dim light of night.

  She felt so exposed, unable to see him while he saw her all, her every hidden spot.

  The chair creaked behind, his legs eased away. Had he seated himself? Was his face level with her—with her cunny?

  Her inner muscles clenched. Was that his breath she felt upon her thigh?

  It was hard to tell. Her angle allowed her to see nothing but the bright sun shining on the patterned oriental carpet. At least it meant that Geoffrey could not see her face, which she was sure was red with embarrassment.

  His fingers stroked her flesh, sending little shivers of excitement to her core. She closed her eyes again, trying to focus on sensation instead of the vulnerability of her position.

  Her cleft was aching with need, dripping. His fingers wandered close, but refused her what she so desperately wanted. Her hips tried to push nearer, but the precarious position forced her to remain still.

  Was that a chuckle she heard?

  Moaning, she tried again. His fingers clenched tight, sinking into her soft flesh.

  She felt him shift behind her, one of his legs brushing against her own, high above the knee.

  He was not sitting then, not staring straight at her seeping cunny.

  His fingers stilled, then slipped lower. “You were slow to obey me before—you resisted. I trust you will not do so again?”

  Her mind was focused completely on his fingers, not his words. When his hand left her, she nearly begged.

  She wanted his touch, needed it.

  When the hard swat landed, she cried out in surprise—and pain.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  “I will ask again: Now will you listen?” Geoffrey asked, his gaze upon the reddening imprint that marked her pale flesh. God, he had needed that. His demons were free, brought forth by her slight disobedience after the outpouring of emotion and vulnerability that he’d allowed. He’d needed discipline and control.

  Again she did not answer.

  He raised his palm and brought it down again, and then again, the hard slaps sounding through the room, the sting rising from his hand up his arm, his mark upon her darkening. She was his.

  “You spanked me,” she sputtered.

  “Will you do as I say instantly next time?” He ignored her outburst, raised his palm again and brought it down, twice in rapid succession, feeling his demons rejoice, his cock rising fast and hard, demanding.

  “Yes. Yes, I will do what you say.” She spoke so rapidly her words blurred.

  He brought his hand down again, but gently, caressing the pink skin. He wished she could see how pretty she looked, all pink and glowing.

  She murmured a protest, but did not resist, her fingers still wrapped about the front edge of the desk.

  It should have been impossible for his cock to swell again so quickly, but from the moment his palm had landed upon her quivering flesh he’d felt the blood rush down. He traced the outline of his palm print with a single finger, watching her shiver at his touch. “Does it burn?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you feel increased tenderness, feel how the slightest touch inflames?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you understand how my every touch, my every breath, will be enhanced, magnified?”

  “I … I don’t know.” Her voice shook as she answered.

  He leaned forward and blew, his breath washing across her bruised behind. Gods, he loved the sight of reddened skin, the knowledge that he had marked her, that she was his. He hadn’t intended to take her, had thought to pleasure her with his mouth, but now he felt the need to be in her, to bury himself deep in her tender flesh.

  “Oh,” she murmured. “Maybe I do understand.”

  His cock jumped again at her words, eager to again be free.

  He pulled air into his lungs. Control. This was the moment for control. He’d had h
is pleasure. He’d administered her punishment—although it was not truly punishment for either of them. Now was about her. He needed to teach her the rewards that came with obedience. His own reward could wait.

  He blew again over her tender skin, watching the muscles of her stretched thighs twist and tighten.

  With extreme gentleness he placed his hands back on her ass, kneading softly.

  She drew in her breath sharply. Realizing the sensation was still extreme, he slid his hands higher, rubbing the tight muscles that edged her spine. That brought forth a sigh of delight. Her skin was satin beneath his fingers; he could have massaged and played for the rest of the afternoon, but her hips shifted against him.

  He allowed a smile to rest upon his lips. “Patience, little one. We will get to that. I am worried I may have left you a trifle sore.”

  “No. Please. Now.”

  Lust and desire throbbed through his veins. He wished he could turn her, lift her legs to his shoulders, and plunge into her depths. He’d rest his hands upon those breasts, tease the nipples until they stood like ripe cherries. His mouth watered at the thought.

  But no. That would have to wait. He did not want that tender ass bumping hard against the desk.

  Her hips thrust again.

  He let his hands slip lower once more, until they brushed the edge of her cleft. This time he did not tease, but ran them down into the slick heat.

  A slight whimper escaped her lips.

  His fingers moved deep, one hand moving to sink into her, opening her, preparing her. The other hand moved forward, finding the hard nub of her clit. Her whole body jerked upon the desk as he stroked it, his fingers feathering in short, quick flicks. Moisture bathed his fingers, her womanly perfume rising to his nose.

  Control.

  Control.

  It had never been so hard to stay detached before. Always he’d found that inner space that even in the sharp moment of relief kept him separate, removed. Now, emotions burned with each motion. He could not separate the physical from the emotional.

  And he did not like it.

  Not one bit.

  He should stop, pull back, walk away—save himself.

  She moaned again.

  Louisa needed him. And—he had never been a man to fool himself—he needed her.

  He reveled in that need, gave in to it.

  And in it, found the control he’d been seeking all this time.

  He straightened up, his focus falling on the woman before him: his woman, his wife.

  She was straining against the fingers that had stilled as his mind filled with thought, straining in the timeless rhythms of woman and man. He pulled his hand back, and then plunged deep, his thumb flicking across her clit. Her womb sucked at his fingers, wanting more, begging for more. He moved his thumbs faster, feeling the answering quivers deep within her. He’d held her on the brink for far too long.

  And himself as well. He might have found release only moments before—and what a climax it had been—but his body was crying for more. His cock strained against his trousers as he sank to his knees, his face level with his wife’s slick folds. This was where he was meant to be.

  He leaned forward, inhaling the scent of her honey, let his tongue flicker out to gather the barest taste.

  “More, please. More.” Her soft cry burrowed to his core.

  He licked again, harder, firmer, using all the skill he had. He pulled the tight bundle of nerves into his mouth, working it with care, the slightest pinch of teeth, the hard suck, the gentle lave of tongue.

  Her thighs tightened about his head, her whole body moving in rhythm with his mouth. He placed a hand on each of the outer folds, opening her fully to him. He continued to fondle her clit with his tongue as he again moved fingers into her, feeling up the walls of her womb for that one special spot. Her body lifted from the table as he found it, and pressed tight, beckoned her onward, the hard wood of the desk beneath her belly allowing him to increase and decrease the pressure with great control.

  He felt the vibrations start deep within her: the clench and release of muscle, the sudden spasm of desire. He increased his pace, added an extra scrape of teeth. And then he bit, his fingers pressing hard, moving deep. Her thighs squeezed against him, her upper back rose from the table, and she cried out, his name echoing about the room.

  Again.

  Again.

  And then with a last sob of pleasure, her every muscle softened, her whole being relaxing against him, the last spasms of desire spending themselves against his eager tongue.

  He pulled back, his face damp.

  She lay before him, her ass still red from his slap, her thighs slick and damp, the folds of her cunny still quivering.

  He pushed himself up, enjoying her beauty, the deep satisfaction of seeing his mark upon her. His sex throbbed hard against the tight fabric of his trousers. It knew where it wanted to be—now.

  He forced his mind away from the fucking he so wanted to give her. It was not the time.

  “May I move now? Release the desk?” She turned her head to the side, seeking him over her shoulder.

  “Yes. Please.”

  She rolled to her side, easing her feet fully to the floor, but not rising from the desk.

  He saw the wince as her tender buttocks knocked against hard wood, but she didn’t move, only raised herself to her elbows so that she could look at him, her naked breasts rising and falling with each heavy breath. Her eyes came to his face, seeking, searching—finding reassurance. A small, easy smile formed upon her lips.

  And then her gaze fell lower: over his chest, still attired in tightly buttoned shirt, past his waist, down to the tented fabric of his trousers. She stopped there, again worrying at that swollen lower lip that had started this all.

  She slid her legs apart, not far, but enough that his eyes were drawn to the slick moisture that spread across her thighs. His sex grew fuller—if that were possible.

  Keeping her eyes fixed upon his cock, she slipped back upon the desk a few inches, her feet lifting again from the floor. She ran a hand across one of those inviting breasts, stopping to pinch at the turgid peak in much the same manner as he had.

  He wet his lips, his mouth suddenly dry.

  When she raised her feet to the desk, bending her knees to settle them beside her hips, he moaned. Her invitation was so clear, so welcome.

  He stepped toward her. “You are too sore. It will hurt, will burn.”

  “I know.” The smile stayed upon her lips.

  “But …” He took another step in her direction.

  “What did you teach me about resistance and being slow?”

  He might be stubborn, but he was not a fool.

  Swanston took the last step toward her, his hands dropping to his buttons.

  Was she a fool? Louisa sank deep into her second bath of the day, her mind jumbled with questions.

  What had happened this morning, and how had she let it happen?

  Each moment had made perfect sense at the time. Each reaction had been true—in that moment.

  But now, now as she sat in her lily-scented tub, her every muscle stiff and strained, she had to wonder.

  Had all of that been normal? Acceptable? Had any of it?

  Her mind still resisted, but even aching as it did, her body cried yes a thousand times.

  If only she were not so ignorant … not that she thought the majority of women were better educated on the subject—at least not the majority of wives. She’d heard plenty over cups of tea, but she’d never heard anything about—about—blast, she didn’t even know a word for it.

  Geoffrey had spanked her—and not lightly.

  It had not truly hurt—not past the moment of occurrence—but surely a woman should not like such a thing. It did not matter that her insides still vibrated at the mere memory of all that had happened, that she had never felt such pleasure as she had in those moments afterward, that he was right that her skin had been so sensitive, so welcoming. Even l
ater, when her sore behind had thumped upon the desk, each spike of discomfort had only added to the experience.

  It was wrong.

  Or was it?

  He had not injured her. She’d worn shoes and hairstyles that caused far greater and more lasting pain.

  And from their conversations she’d even begun to understand him, to understand it—his need for control and domination.

  But …

  The thought trailed off in her mind, because no matter how many times she examined it she had no answer, no knowledge on which to base her conclusions.

  She lay back in the tub, the damp tendrils of her hair sinking into the sweet-smelling water. The scent was new, purchased by Marie—Louisa’s attempt to find something that suited the woman she was becoming. White lilies. Freshness and summer.

  Was it right?

  Was she right?

  Everywhere she looked there were only more questions.

  And there was no one she could turn to, no one she could ask.

  For a moment she considered speaking to her husband, speaking to Geoffrey. He would answer her honestly. She knew that. If she asked him about what had happened he would explain, tell her the truth.

  But would it be his truth or the world’s truth?

  So much of what he felt was tied to his family, to his mother’s death. Could he see the situation separately from that? And did it even matter?

  He knew what he needed. And she was prepared to meet his every need.

  Or was she?

  Whips. Hot wax.

  After today, the Countess’s words felt far more real.

  Could she really do that, even for Geoffrey?

  A spanking was one thing. It had not been brutal. Her governess had done far worse with a hairbrush.

  But, a whip?

  Even as she newly understood the relationship between pain and pleasure, that was going too far.

  Closing her eyes, she sank beneath the water, her hair waving about her. What could she do?

  She sat up with a start.

  Madame Rouge. She could talk to Madame.

  Surely she, of all the women in the world, would know the answers.