His Perfect Passion

by Raine Miller

  Marianne knew he was up to something as soon as he started in on the teasing. She could smell it on him.

  “What do you know, Darius?”

  “Only that your neck flushes when you get frustrated.” He smirked. “And you get a little crease, right here, between your eyes.” He brushed the place with his lips.

  “Well, yes I’m frustrated—I cannot find the books!”

  “Oh, I’m sure they’ll turn up, Marianne. Probably sooner than you think. These things have a way of working out.” He waved a hand in dismissal.

  She observed him carefully. He looked very smug and rather devious. “Did you want…something, Darius? You know, when you came in here?”

  “I s’pose a kiss would be nice, but that’s not why I came to find you. Actually I am in need of your opinion on something. Will you come and let me show you?” He held out his hand, a definite leer of mischievousness above that firm jaw.

  She took his offered hand and let him lead her down the corridor and into the south wing of the house. He stopped them at a door near the end of the hall.

  “What I want you to see is in here.” He smiled knowingly. “Now close your eyes.”

  “Another surprise? Don’t you get tired of surprising me, Darius?” She eyed him warily.

  “Never! Now be a good girl and close your eyes,” he growled.

  She obeyed because it was what she did when he gave her an order. She closed her eyes and heard him open the door. He brought her into the room.

  “You may open your eyes now, Marianne.”

  She looked around the elegant room and fell in love. It faced south and had a picture window with a view of the sea framed in one wall. A lady’s desk was arranged afore the window, for light. There were upholstered chairs in a turquoise silk and a large chaise set before the fireplace. The earthy colors of blue, green, and the dark brown woods appealed to her. The thick carpet was warm and luxurious. This was an absolutely flawless room.

  “What is this place?”

  He didn’t answer as she walked over to the desk. She put her hands on the English oak and splayed out her fingers. What a magnificent working desk, she thought. You could sit at this desk and view the sea anytime you wished. How pleasant it would be to relax in a room such as this.

  “Sit down, Marianne.”

  She pulled out the chair and sat. She looked out the window. The day was gusty, the choppy whitecaps bobbing for miles. A lone merchant vessel sailed by

  “Open the middle drawer.”

  The drawer contained engraved stationary for correspondence. Lifting a sheet of the heavy linen paper, she read the engraving, Mrs. Marianne Rourke, Stonewell Court, Kilve, Somerset. A breathy laugh escaped and she brought her other hand up to her mouth to muffle the sound. She could feel Darius had moved. He was directly behind her.

  “Now open the bottom, right drawer.”

  The sound of wood sliding against wood squeaked harshly in the quiet between them. The account books. Her housekeeping books were stacked neatly and ordered just as they should be in the drawer.

  “Oh…Darius…”

  “Do you like your new study, Marianne?”

  She leapt up and spun around. He was right there before her, smiling broadly.

  “Like it? No! ‘Like’ is an unsuitable word for how I feel about this room. Darius, I love this room!”

  She leaned up to kiss him on the lips. She put a hand to his cheek and asked, “Why?”

  He shrugged. “I know how much you like the views and thought you deserved a nice place for your work. A beautiful place for a beautiful woman.” He turned his lips to kiss her palm still resting on his cheek.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Deserved. There was that word again. He said she deserved this room, but really she didn’t. Would he still think her deserving if he knew? Still, she wouldn’t hurt his feelings. She’d accept his lovely gift and show Darius her appreciation as a dutiful wife should.

  “You might even be able to sketch up here, the light is good. Anyway, I’m glad you’re happy with it.”

  “I am, Darius. Very much so.” She embraced him and felt his strong arms wrap around her.

  The knock at the door alerted them that the tea had arrived. Both pulled out of their embrace at the same time. Sitting side by side on the chaise they watched quietly as the maid set out the tea for them. Marianne looked at Darius, so dignified and handsome as he waited for the maid to finish and leave them alone again.

  Darius picked up a strawberry from the plate and held it to her lips. “Open your mouth and bite.” His eyes awaited, looking covetous and hungry now.

  She covered the berry and closed her teeth over it. Juice squirted around her tongue, the tangy sweet perfume releasing into the air. She chewed the soft fruit and swallowed slowly, never taking her eyes off him.

  He lunged and was on her in an instant. His tongue pushed deep and swirled over every inch of her mouth, sweeping up traces of the lingering strawberry flavor.

  She felt herself go instantly wet for him. The heat flooded her between the thighs, and she had to clench them together for relief.

  He pulled back, arched his brow, and stared.

  She stared back.

  He touched her forehead gently.

  “What do you think about in that mind of yours, Marianne? So many thoughts you must have. When you look like you do right now…I wonder what you think about.”

  “Right now I’m thinking I want to do something…for you, Darius.”

  His nostrils flared and his eyes widened. “What do you want to do for me, Marianne?” he whispered with controlled breath.

  She moved from the chaise and knelt on her knees before him. Lifting her face, she pierced him with her eyes and rubbed her lips together.

  Darius opened his mouth in surprise, but no sound came forth. He was a tight as a bowstring and ready to snap, but choked out the command. “Tell me what you want to do. Say the words!”

  She was relentlessly frank with him. “I want to suck your cock, Darius.”

  A kind of whimper came out of him, and she liked the sound he made. She moved her fingers quickly, releasing the buttons that covered him. His cock sprang out proud and hot in her hands. Gripping at the base with one hand, she lowered her mouth. Her tongue licked at the tip. She could smell his musky male scent. He jerked sharply and then arched into her touch as she closed over the head and pushed him to the back of her throat.

  Darius moaned and strained under her onslaught. His harsh breathing just about matched the pace of her sliding strokes. He gripped her head and pumped into her mouth. And she liked every bit of what he did. From the first, Marianne had found pleasuring him with her mouth to be exciting—never unpleasant. He did the same for her, and she loved that, too. He gave her orgasms when he put his tongue to her. But Darius had never allowed her to finish him with her mouth. She wanted to know what it was like when he exploded in passion and her tongue was around him.

  She could tell he was close and doubled her efforts of sucking as he slid in and out. She enfolded his testicles in her free hand and squeezed the tightening sac. All in a rush it happened. She felt the burst under her hand and heard the gasping above her head. The warm gush filled her mouth, and she held it as he convulsed into her throat, feeling victorious, and strangely happy.

  When she pulled back from him they shared another look. He stared at her mouth. She slowly swallowed the salty tang and smiled at him. His face broke in an expression of near pain, and he answered her in a rush of sentiment, spoken in Italian, the words harmonious and flowing, but nevertheless unknown to her.

  Darius recovered quickly, restored his clothing, swept her up into his arms, and marched her all the way to their bedroom. Marianne’s clothes were stripped from her body the instant the bolt was thrown. He plucked out her hairpins, buried his hands in her hair, and was inside her before she could blink.

  He became a ravening beast who took her wildly, looming over her, his d
riving hips splitting her thighs as wide as they could go. He suckled her hard, too, leaving fresh love bites on her back when he flipped her and took her from behind.

  After that wild session, he settled down and slowed the pace. Languid and unhurried, he lapped at her cunny, tasting her, teasing her clit, making her climax again and again and again. He whispered more words to her in Italian. She still didn’t understand the meaning but found the sound of them to be very wonderful indeed.

  “Your Italian words are beautiful, Darius. Why Italian?”

  He looked surprised. “You do not know about my mother?”

  She raised her eyes to his. “Your mother was Italian, then? I’ve wondered. You’ve a darker complexion than most Englishmen.” Touching his hair, she smoothed it back over his brow, appreciating what a handsome man he was. “Did she die when you were a boy?”

  “She’s not dead. My mother lives, just not in England. Rome is where she resides, as she has done for many years. She named me. Darius is a Roman name.”

  “I had no idea. Do you visit her?”

  “Yes. I am a dutiful son.” Shifting against her, he settled her head firmly underneath his jaw, stroking over his favorite spot on her neck.

  She caressed his chest as she lay against him. When he spoke, his voice was different. Marianne sensed sadness and regret in him. “My mother is a cold sort of woman. Sometime we will go to Rome, and you will meet her. It is no large matter though. I no longer seek her favor.” He turned his face so she couldn’t see his eyes. “My father met her on his tour of Europe and brought her here after they married. She was unhappy and resented me, I think, because with a child to raise, she could not leave him and return to her homeland. There were no more children between them, but she stayed until I left for school—probably to assuage her guilt. My father made certain I saw my mother for regular visits.”

  Marianne’s heart ached for Darius. She pictured him as a lonely little boy seeking his mother’s love and finding the cold boundaries of duty instead. “She was not a proper mother to you.” Marianne frowned, thinking she would find it hard to be courteous to her mother-in-law upon such a time as she might meet her.

  “She was proper, just not very demonstrative. I wanted her to love me, but I don’t believe she was able to show it outright. In her heart, she is too constrained.” He kissed her hair. “You are nothing like her, Marianne.”

  “I do not want to be like her. I would show my children love because that is what a mother is supposed to do. Children are a precious gift, to be cherished and…protected.”

  “Do you want to be a mother, Marianne?”

  “Of course I do, Darius.” But I don’t deserve to be one.

  “Tell me. Tell me you will want my child, please. I need to hear that from you, Marianne.”

  He sounded almost desperate. The overwhelming urge to soothe and reassure him was necessary. Something she had to do. “I want your child, Darius. I do, truly.” She kissed him on his chest, feeling him relax. It was a small kind of comfort.

  “I am so glad, Marianne. You will be a wonderful mother to our children.”

  How could I be?

  “What of your father?” She moved from his embrace so she could see his face.

  He smiled fondly. “Father tried to make up for her. He was excellent. I was but five and twenty when he died,” he said wistfully.

  “I do remember him, vaguely, at church.” She touched his cheek. “You look like him, from what I remember and the portraits in the house. Very handsome, the both of you.”

  Her compliment seemed to affect him. She sensed melancholy and regret in him. It saddened her.

  “I wish he could have known you as mine.”

  “I do as well, Darius.”

  Very softly he said, “I think you perfect, Marianne.” He met her lips in a deep kiss. “Ti amo.” He whispered it so quietly she might not have heard. But she did hear.

  Again, she stilled.

  Oh, Darius, you should not love me!

  Marianne felt sick to her stomach, and guilty, like she had bewitched him with dishonesty. And she knew if he was aware of the truth about her, he would regret his declaration. But the selfish part of her waited for Darius to tell her to say the words back to him. The silence hung heavy as she waited for it.

  He didn’t. And the selfish part of her wanted him to command her to say she loved him. She wondered why he didn’t, and frowned. He had asked her to tell him she wanted his children. Why not this?

  Marianne got quiet then, and still, contemplating until she accepted the reason. Darius did not want her to say it. If there was one thing she knew about Darius, it was that he acted on his desires. He knew what he wanted and had no trouble voicing or demanding it. So then, that left only one possibility. He didn’t want love from her. He wanted her body and her companionship and her obedience to him. As it should be…

  * * * *

  The first time he’d said those words he was hardly aware, so often it swirled in his thoughts. This time, however, Darius was fully conscious his declaration was not returned, and the pain of that knowledge was excruciating. He’d observed her frown and felt her stiffen up, and that had hurt even more.

  The thing that attracted him to her in the first place—her submissiveness—had trapped him. He could tell her to do things, say words, and think thoughts, and she would, but he could not tell her to say that she loved him. He physically could not. Because if he did that, then he might never know if she only said the words to please him. Maybe he would never know the truth, but he simply could not bear for her to tell him she loved him when in fact she didn’t. Just couldn’t bear the thought of it. He vowed he’d refrain from voicing the sentiment aloud to her again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The two of them went along together in this way for many weeks, until Marianne’s father died. Mr. George aspirated his own vomit while passed out from too much drink. Darius was the one to tell her and to hold her while she cried her heart out. Grateful that Marianne was spared the burden of discovering her father dead, he took consolation in that at least. That dubious “honor” had gone to Mr. George’s housekeeper, who’d found him cold and already stiff in the bed.

  Marianne grieved, of course, the last member of her family dead, and under sad circumstances. Darius agonized for Marianne, wishing he could ease her pain. For all that he had disapproved of Mr. George, he was still his wife’s father and loved by her. She had shared fond memories of him from childhood.

  The sight of her mourning at the graves of her parents rent his heart. So sorrowfully beautiful, dressed completely in jet black, the only points of color being her blue eyes and the pearl crucifix he’d given her, would be an image of Marianne he’d never forget.

  Darius could see that Marianne missed her father, and he began to worry. He worried that Marianne did not have cause to need him anymore. It was not necessary to be reminded of how he’d won her. She had sacrificed herself to save her father. Darius knew that. Well, her father no longer needed saving. He was dead. And because of that, Marianne did not really need Darius any longer.

  She might not need him, but she was stuck with him, for he would never let her go. The very idea was an impossibility. She was his precious Marianne, whom he loved more than anything, the wife he loved, even though she clearly didn’t love him in return.

  Loving was never part of the plan, but in matters of the heart, things rarely go to plan. It was simple, really. He loved Marianne and had told her so. Hearing the sentiment returned was his greatest wish. On more than one occasion he had told her, and the pain of the absence of those words given back was acute.

  Darius didn’t know what he could do about it though. He’d made such a mess of everything and was now so entangled, he felt like a puppet bounced along on a string.

  There was also the idea Marianne might be pregnant. They’d made love nearly every day, and she had never been indisposed to him. Not once. The fear that she could resent being tied to h
im was reminiscent of his own parents. He fervently prayed she would welcome a child. Marianne would be a loving mother, he thought, nothing like his own. ’Twas part of why he’d chosen her…

  After the funeral, Marianne started having nightmares and awakened crying in the night. Darius always held her, speaking soothingly until she returned to sleep. Speaking in Italian to her seemed to help.

  Marianne didn’t appear to recall what she cried out in the dark or the things she said, but Darius heard every word as he held her fitful body close to his, crying out for someone she had loved dearly and who was lost to her now. She spoke the name with regret and anguish. The name she cried out in the dark was…Jonathan.

  * * * *

  …The squall had sprung up out of nowhere. Jonathan! She ran to the sea as fast as her legs could carry her. The terror pounding inside her chest overrode the bursting need of oxygen for her lungs. Their boat was overturned in the surf. She counted boys. Only two boys! Jonathan? Noooooo…it cannot be true! Where is my Jonathan? Dear God nooooo! I am sorry…sorry…so sorry, Jonath—

  “Shhh. Marianne, you are having a bad dream. Cara, I am here.” Lips kissed her forehead. Strong hands stroked her back.

  “Darius?” She awoke quickly, panicked and sweating, trembling in his embrace.

  “Yes, darling. It’s all right now. You were dreaming…again.”

  Relaxing into his arms, she became aware of reality. “I am so sorry, Darius, for disturbing you. I don’t know what is wrong with me.”

  “I think you are sad and missing those whom you have loved and lost.”

  “…You are probably right, Darius.”

  “Jonathan? You miss him?” His voice was low and clipped.

  “You know about Jonathan?”

  “It is his name you cry out in your sleep, Marianne. You loved him.”

  “Very much. I loved Jonathan the most. He was my light…”

  “I understand, Marianne, you grieve for him,” he whispered.

  “I do, Darius.”

  * * * *

  Marianne started taking solitary walks along the shore. She tried to do it when Darius was busy for she knew he would not be pleased. He had made her promise she would not walk alone, and she was fully aware of her disobedience as she broke the oath she’d made.