Mastering the Marquess (11 page)

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.”

“I can too. Or, at least, I could. I daresay it’s been at least a dozen years since I tried.”

“I beat you there. I was out a week ago with my nephew.”

“So you have a nephew.”

And two nieces, but that he did not say. “Yes. Now it is your turn to tell me something.” The risk might be worth it to learn about her.

“I fell in love with my husband when I was four, but you probably do not want to hear about that.” He could feel her withdraw.

He should not want to know, and yet he did. “No, tell me.”

“I had gotten a kitten for my birthday. My mother did not approve of pets, but I had begged for one for months. I do not remember that part, but she never did cease telling me about how much she sacrificed for me. She claimed it made her sneeze, although I never saw her so much as sniffle.”

“Go on.”

“Well, my kitten—I called her Mittens—had gotten up a tree. I sat at the bottom in tears. I was frightened to tell my mother because she would have taken it as an excuse to get rid of Mittens. And my father … well, I never bothered my father. I was so scared I’d never get Mittens down. I can still remember that feeling of absolute terror as I huddled at the bottom of the tree. I was too scared to even cry. And then John appeared. He must only have been about eight, but he seemed so large and capable to me, a real knight in shining armor. He was up the tree in about a minute.”

“And so you loved him for rescuing your kitten.” He could have done the same if he’d been there.

“Yes, but it was more than that.” She rolled nearer on the bed, the mattress sinking beneath her. “You see, Mittens was not at all sure she wanted to come down, and she did have some very sharp claws—and teeth. Poor John looked like he’d been rolling in the briar patch by the time he got her down. And to make it worse, while Mother might have pretended to sneeze, John’s nose began to run, his eyes puffed up, tears streaming down, and by the time he got to the base of the tree he could hardly breathe. And he never once complained. He never said anything against Mittens. He just did what was needed. When he was down he handed me my kitten, kissed my tearstained cheek, and left. I am not sure he even said a word.”

Now that was hard to compete with, although he’d certainly never been known as a complainer.

Grace’s small hand came to rest upon his chest as if feeling for the beat of his heart. “It’s your turn again. Tell me about your first love.”

Had he even had one? It would certainly not add to her fantasies if he said that he hadn’t. “My true first love stood sixteen hands and had deep bay hair. He could run like the wind and jump any obstacle set before him. He broke my arm once, but never my heart.”

“Your first love was a horse?”

“I imagine many boys are the same. Girls were silly, but Foxtail was magnificent. He was my father’s favorite hunter. I would sneak down to the stables with my pockets full of carrots and sit in his stall until dinner. I don’t think anybody cared that I was there or worried what I was doing, but I always acted with utmost secrecy. Some of my best moments were spent in the stables.”

“I have a secret about the stables, too.” Her fingers beat a light tattoo upon his chest. “I cannot sing. And I mean I really cannot sing. Even the footmen cringed when I tried, and it took a lot to make my mother’s footmen show any sign of emotion. The problem is that I love music and love to try my hand at a tune. When I was a child it was the only thing that ever made my mother scream; usually she just spoke in a tone that let me or my brother know we had done something very, very wrong.”

“And what does this have to do with stables?”

“In the later years of my marriage, when I was left alone, I would sneak down to the stables at night and sing to the horses. They never seemed to mind, although I confess I often brought a couple of ripe apples with me. I am sure some of the groom’s boys knew what I did but they never said anything. I felt so free when I was there.”

Her head joined her hand upon his chest. Normally he hated these moments, saw them as false caring, but this felt quite right. He wrapped his arm about her.

“I’ve never felt free, or ever wanted to,” he replied. “It must sound odd, but my family could be too free, and so all I wanted was order, order and reason. I was probably the only boy who fled
to
the schoolroom instead of away from it. When I was sent to Eton it felt like being sent to heaven—all those rules and regulations. I knew what I should do and what would happen if I did not. It was wonderful.”

“That was not how my brother described it.” She snuggled even closer, all soft and warm and sweet.

“Your brother went to Eton? When?”

He felt the intake of her breath. Her body pulled away slightly. “No. I didn’t say that. I just meant that he went away to school and most definitely did not find it wonderful.”

He wasn’t sure if he believed her or not, but he was certainly not going to speak in challenge. “Can I ask you something?’ he said, changing the subject. “I fear you may find it a bit embarrassing, but I probably should have spoken before.”