Mastering the Marquess (30 page)

He returned to the bed, sat, debated his next action.

It would be very easy to blow out the candles and return to life before this night.

Well, perhaps not easy. He felt the stiff determination emanating from his wife. The subject of Ruby’s would have to be dealt with in more detail, but not tonight.

Combing fingers through his hair, he waited for inspiration.

It did not come.

It was his move to make, whether Louisa knew they’d begun the game or not.

Even if Ruby’s were removed from the table, he needed a wife who did more than lie abed, staring at the ceiling. Unless, of course, that was what he commanded her to do.

Turning his head, he gazed at her small huddled figure, almost buried by the pillows she lay against, that magnificent hair spread about her.

She should have looked pathetic, but she did not. His wife was brave and strong. It had taken him far too long to realize it.

And as he watched her, other thoughts began to waver about the edges of his consciousness. This was all too familiar: the huddling, hiding woman and the smell of roses and cinnamon.

He knew why it was familiar, but was not yet ready to think too much on it.

“May I rub your back?” he asked. Few women refused that.

“Rub my back?”

“Yes, nothing but rubbing your back.”

“I will allow that.” She did not sound as sure as he would have liked.

He waited, but she did not move.

“It is best if you lie down on your belly,” he said after a while.

“In the same position I was in before?” She spoke with hesitation.

“Yes.” He had not thought about that, but it was not the time to reconsider.

She inched across the bed before slowly moving into a prone position. Her body remained stiff, her head turned from him.

He reached over and laid one hand upon her upper back, waiting until her breathing slowed to position the other.

He did not speak or move, just sat there with his hands upon the pink silk.

Her muscles relaxed—not completely, but enough.

Easing his hands up and down, from her neck to the small of her back, he let her grow accustomed to his touch. The friction of the silk warmed her beneath his touch, but still he continued with long, slow strokes.

“That feels nice.” They were the first words she had spoken without prompting.

He did not answer, but continued his strokes, pressing more firmly.

He took a moment to shift his weight and kneel beside her. Her body tensed again, but then relaxed as he returned to his long, slow touch.

Her breathing grew even, and he knew that she was relaxed even to the edge of sleep. That was not his goal, although he would not fight it if it happened.

“I am going to straddle you. It makes it possible for me to put more of my weight into the rub while still retaining control—and yes, it will be the same position as before, but I trust you will feel the difference.”

She remained still. Her breathing halted as he shifted his body, settling into the softness of her buttocks while holding much of his weight with his thighs.

Up and down. Up and down his hands moved. His fingers did not stray; no wandering to the sides to feel the curve of breast, no slipping lower to caress her ass.

“I’d like to move the straps of your gown aside. It makes it easier to ease the tightness in your neck.” That was not strictly true, but bare skin against bare skin was almost always preferable.

He waited. She said nothing and he eased the straps aside, pushing them farther down her arms than was strictly necessary.

This time her muscles did not even tense at his movement. His confidence grew. This he knew how to do.

His fingers roamed up her neck, massaging the area at the base of her skull where her tension often lay. Then they ran down the length of her neck, the length of her spine, pulling her gown lower with each motion.

When he slipped the straps all the way down her arms, pulling her gown to her waist, the silk sliding beneath her, she did not demur, although he sensed she was now far from sleep.

Bending, he placed a single soft kiss at the nape of her neck, his tongue longing to dart
out and taste the secret spot.

With the greatest care he let his fingers encircle her neck; he applied not the slightest pressure, but let her feel his power, his strength, his control.

He felt her swallow, once and again.

His hands stayed still. He neither released her nor took the gesture further.

She remained perfectly still—and yet, how different this was from every other night they’d been together.

He shifted his hips, aware of his own discomfort, his own desire. He flexed his thighs forward, pressing his cock tight against her, feeling the quiver of her buttocks as he settled near home.

He flexed his fingers once, not even enough pressure to be called a squeeze, and then let them relax and trail down her back.

Louisa’s face turned to the side, and he could see her bite down upon her lower lip again, her teeth finding the red indent that already marked her.

Another kiss upon her neck. And then slightly lower. He marked each shoulder blade with his lips.

And then, moving up slightly, he closed his mouth about the curve between neck and shoulder, letting her feel his teeth. He did not bite, but let her experience the barest moment of anxiety before turning the gesture into a long, lingering kiss.

A shudder ran through her, her buttocks clenching about him.

It took effort to suppress his own reaction.

He sat back and ran his fingers all the way down the indent of her spine, pausing at her waist where her gown was clumped.

“Can I take this off? I’d like to move my rub lower, to massage your—your behind.” Was that the proper word to use with a lady, a wife?

Her head turned back into the pillow as if hiding from him, her uncertainty almost palpable.

“I think I would like that, like it if you rubbed my … my … my ass.” She almost squeaked the last word.

He could not believe she’d said that—although he liked it very much, both her exploring her boundaries, pushing herself further, and the word itself being uttered in those soft, ladylike
tones.

“I’ll need you to lift your hips.”

“Then I’ll need you to lift yourself from me.”

He complied, amused at the matter-of-factness of the exchange.

Amusement was good: It helped hold back his demons of desire, demons that faced a long wait before they could again roam free.

Slipping her garment down the length of her legs, he paused as he reached her ankles, liking the restraint the tangled fabric exerted there.

He settled himself again upon her ass, this time his heavy length slipping over bare skin. He allowed himself a couple of slow pelvic thrusts, picturing himself pulling those cheeks apart and watching as he plunged into her.

It felt so good—and could feel even better.

But not yet. He gritted his teeth and shifted his weight lower, resettling so that he was seated upon her thighs. Again, he caught much of his weight with his own legs. It would not do to crush her.

He placed one large palm upon each cheek and then held them quiet, waiting while she adjusted to the new angle, to the feeling of cool air upon her ass, and to the knowledge of all her position offered to him—the knowledge of what he could do, of what he must be thinking.

And he enjoyed—enjoyed the appearance of his own sun-darkened hands upon her pale, innocent flesh, enjoyed the knowledge of how that skin could redden and swell with a single firm swat of his hand, of how her body would clench and sigh beneath him. She was so pretty, so firm and pink and—God, he wanted to bite her, to devour her like the sweetest of fruits, to mark her as his and only his.

The thought was so exciting he almost had to withdraw his hands to keep from marking her prematurely. Instead, he flexed his fingers, letting her feel the firm squeeze on each cheek, the slight separation of flesh from flesh.

He squeezed tight, but not too tight. Hard, but not too hard.

And again.

With each movement he separated the cheeks more, letting himself see the hint of hidden secrets, soft, moist, womanly flesh.

He could smell her arousal now. His lady wife liked this very much.

“Lift your hips.” For the first time, he did not ask; instead, he commanded.

A moment passed. She did not move.

Another moment.

Slowly, very slowly, her knees inched forward on the bed. Her hips rose.

A wave of pleasure swept him. It was such a simple thing, her obedience, but it meant all.

Leaning forward so that the length of his body covered her completely, he reached for a couple of pillows. The sound of her breath was muffled in the covers, but there was no mistaking its unevenness and speed.

He pulled back with care, letting her feel the brush of his weight in its entirety. When he was once again on his knees he slid the pillows under her hips, raising them farther, positioning them just how he liked.

Again, he placed a splayed hand on each buttock, spreading them wide, but this time his thumbs rubbed at her outer lips, teasing the swollen fresh. She was almost ready, her need apparent—and so was his own. Each second seemed an hour as he held himself back.

His thumbs slipped deeper, moving closer to her womanly core, working the moisture until it covered her, slicked her. Then he moved one thumb lower, sliding it along until it found that hard nub of hidden flesh. He heard her gulp. Her head thrashed once, but then held still, face buried in the thick mattresses.

“You may move,” he said, aware of how the position limited her.

She shuddered and then turned her head as far as she could, her eyes seeking him through the wild mane of hair. She caught his gaze and held it, and then unhurriedly brought her arms back so that they supported her body and gave her leverage. Her elbows did not straighten much, but each inch gave her freedom, raised her head from its nest of pillows.

He sat back on his heels and admired her. What a picture she made: arched spine, achingly delicious behind covered by his hands, hanging breasts with heavy tips.

For a moment familiarity overcame him. He had been here before, seen this before.

He brushed it off. This was not a moment for memory.

He circled her clit again with his thumb, watching for every nuance of her reaction.

The new position gave her more freedom, but it also meant she needed to support more of her own weight. Her arms shook each time he teased and played.

He wanted to bury his face between her legs, to taste the dripping honey, but still he
restrained himself.

Lifting his thighs from his calves, he moved closer behind her, letting her feel his weight. He thrust his hips forward, letting her feel the tip of his cock against her entrance.

When he pulled back, she moved as if to follow. His fingers tightened about her flesh, holding her still.

And still his thumb moved in its magic pattern, bringing her closer and closer, her flesh weeping with want.

Steadily he moved his other thumb upward until it brushed across that other, more puckered, entrance, brushing it with moisture. He did not press or probe, but merely brushed—a butterfly’s wing.

He felt the sudden intake of air into her lungs, felt her hesitation.

He brushed again, waited for her mind to process the sensation, waited to see if rejection would follow.

Her hips shifted back, moving against his legs. She did not reject, but clearly had other priorities.

That was fine. His only purpose was to breed familiarity to his touch.

He was thinking too much—and not enough. Keeping his mind occupied, even if it was with fantasies of the future, kept him from the edge, gave him control, but enough was enough.

Her hips shifted, seeking even greater contact. He moved his upper hand away, using it to grab himself, to coat himself in her slickness. Moving forward, he positioned himself, letting his other hand slip about her hips to the front, before again finding those hidden nerves.

She tried to move again, to press again, but he held her still. “Do not move. This is for me.”

Instantly she quieted, although he could feel her strain with the effort.

She was his, his to command.

Holding her tight, he thrust forward, thrust home, sinking his entire length into her.

Her head arched back, her dark hair cascading onto the pale skin of her back.

He waited. There was no other movement.

He looked down at their joining: the press of dark curls slick with moisture, the hungry flesh longing to be one. Dark and light. Soft and hard. If it was possible, he felt himself grow even thicker, felt her swell to accommodate him.

It was an effort to hold himself still. He wanted to give in to the cries of his body—and his demons.

He held back, waited—and then began to move with great purpose.

In and out. Each movement designed to push them both further, but not far enough.

His thighs strained with the effort of holding back. He caught his lower lip between his teeth—and bit, the pain bringing him just enough sanity to continue.

She would come to the breaking point first. He was determined.

He would push and push until there was no option but surrender.

Her head fell forward again as she gulped in air in great gasps.

His fingers still played between her legs, catching, rubbing, pressing. With each thrust of his hips he would add a little pinch to her sensitive nub.

In—and hold. Out—and wait.

Thrust again and again. Hold the pace.

God, it was good. So tight, so warm, the give of her flesh almost undoing him.

He needed—no, not yet. Not yet.

Her legs began to quiver against his, and he found himself supporting her weight along with his own.

And then he felt it begin: the spasm of flesh, the clenching of muscles.

“Now, yes, now.” It was not merely a statement, but a command and order.

Her head fell back again, her whole body arching, a cry forming on her lips.

He felt it happen, felt the moment, felt the joy take her, her whole body tightening about him, squeezing him, milking him—God, it was glorious.