Mastering the Marquess (50 page)

“I think, my dear”—he ran his thumb over her full lower lip—“that we will refrain from kissing and other mouth play for a few days.”

Her mouth moved to protest, but he stroked her lip again.

“Or perhaps I should say you will refrain. My mouth has no such wounds, and I will use it as I see fit.”

He saw her swallow, imagined how he would use his mouth, let his thoughts show in his gaze.

“Yes,” she said, swallowing again. Her tongue darted out to moisten those dry lips.

“And do not think that I will be distracted. You will trust me in this. I want you to rest those sweet lips. Yes?”

“Yes,” she said again.

He placed another kiss on the tip of her nose, cradled her against him. “I do like it when you listen.”

“I know.” She smiled, and he saw the strain on the corner of her mouth.

He supposed it was unreasonable to command her not to smile, however … “And I think—just this once—that I would like you to be silent unless I ask you a direct question.”

“But …” She trailed off as she caught his raised brow, and nodded.

“Good.” He moved his hand away from her lips and stroked it over the sore cheek. “You will need to be very still. Yes, I know that you’ve played that role very well—even when not asked to—but I want to be absolutely sure you do not hurt yourself by shifting.”

He looked at the pile of scarves she’d laid beside the bed. Her intent was unmistakable—at least he hoped it was. Was she ready? She’d been bound so recently, and he could not imagine that she wanted a repeat of the experience. Or did she? He certainly knew his own desires on the subject. Whips he could give up with little qualm, but binds? He had spent many a night fantasizing about tying up his lovely wife, about having her at his mercy, about giving her more pleasure than a body could bear.

The scarves were a multitude of colors and fabrics: blues and reds, silks and woolens. He formed the image of creamy skin spread across his sapphire coverlet. Reaching over, he lifted two silk scarves of deep emerald Chinese silk, the fabric thick and strong. One more … Aah, that ruby one would work well. He lifted it and then held them before her eyes.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

She nodded, her face becoming flushed.

Oh, she did like the thought of the scarves. “I want to hear you say it. I give you permission to speak,” he said.

Her chest rose and fell; her voice quivered with suppressed excitement. “Yes, I am ready.”

He lifted the silk and rubbed it against her cheek. “I will be binding you tight—so that you can hardly move. The stiller I keep you, the less you will hurt yourself.”

She gulped, loudly. Her darkening eyes focused on the scarves.

“It will be different than, than … I will not keep you too long, and anytime you ask me to stop, I will. This will not be a game. If you say stop, I stop. Instantly. Do you understand?” He lifted a hand and turned her face until their eyes met and locked.

He saw her answer there: desire and need.

“Yes,” she said aloud.

“Answer fully. At this moment I want to hear your words. Does being tied frighten you?” He rubbed the silk against her cheek again, and she turned her face into it, purring like a cat.

Her eyes drifted closed. He could not see her thoughts.

“I want it,” she whispered. “I am not sure that I should, but I do. For all I wanted to move
in the past, there was something about imagining you telling me to hold still that made my womb tighten. I want to understand what it truly is to be at your will.”

Her words bit into him. His cock swelled until he thought it would burst the seams of his trousers. She wanted to be under his power—at least here, in this chamber. God. What had he done to deserve such a woman? He would love her endlessly.

He nodded, suddenly unsure of his words as emotion undid him.

He would deal with the practical. Turning, he looked at the bed, grabbed a couple of the pillows, and placed them for her hips. They would provide extra cushioning and allow him to position her however he wished. “I want you on your back. I want to see your face, your eyes. Is that a problem? Do you think you would be more comfortable if your ass were not pressed to the pillows?”

“And would you not be pressing into my ass?” she asked.

Cocky minx. He had been looking for a yes or no, but he would let it pass. “On your back then. I will enjoy playing with your breasts, teasing them until they can take no more.”

She shifted from foot to foot, her breath growing rapid and shallow. He could see her nipples peak against the thin fabric. Yes, there were very subtle forms of playful retaliation—and forced anticipation was one of them.

He looked over the bed, turned away from her. “Take off your dress. Lay it over the chair. Then get on the bed—in the middle. Be sure your hips are on the pillows, that you are comfortable.”

“Aren’t you going to …?”

“I think it is time for you to be silent.” He did not look back at her. If she wished this to be, and to go on, she would need to learn not to question, to learn that he had reasons for what he asked. He walked to the dining table and lifted his wine, taking a deep swallow, and then another.

Calm. He needed calm. Calm and control.

He closed his eyes and gathered himself.

The floorboards creaked as she shifted to remove her gown. He heard the sound of her steps as she laid it upon the back of the chair. Someday he would fuck her in that chair, her legs spread wide over the arms, first with his tongue and then with his cock. Maybe he’d even pull out a mirror and some toys.

Blast. The things this woman did to him. He’d come in tonight wondering if they’d ever have sex again, if only to procure an heir, come in unsure if he’d ever find the courage to touch her after what she’d been exposed to, and now his mind was filled with ties and dildos. Gods, he just wanted to fuck her, to pound himself into her hard and fast. How had this turnabout happened so quickly? And yet, he wanted so much more. More than sex. He wanted to cherish her, forever. Was there any more frightening thought a man could have?

The bed groaned as she climbed into it. He heard the pillows shift and a slight sigh from her as she settled herself. Had it hurt much lying down? He hoped not, trusted not.

And, Gods, if she didn’t hurry he was going to explode, here and now. He reached down and pressed a hand tight against his swollen shaft, willing it to obedience.

He waited.

A sudden meow broke the silence.

He turned just as Charlie jumped onto the bed, eager for his mistress’s caress.

Doing his best to ignore his naked wife, Swanston marched to the bed, patted the cat once, then lifted him, strode to the connecting door to her chamber, and placed him on the other side of it.

The cat might have led him here, but some things needed no audience.

He turned to his wife. Was that a smile playing about her lips? He adopted a firm expression. Yes, that definitely was a smile.

And what did it say that he was staring at his naked wife, spread across his bed, and the first thing he noticed was her smile?

He strode over to the bed, fighting the grin that played about his own lips.

She was so beautiful. He could probably just sit and watch her and think that thought over and over for the next few hours. He’d certainly thought it enough tonight. He glanced at the fire, which heated the already warm room—and she wouldn’t even get cold.

He shook his head slightly.

The woman clearly had him bewitched. When did a man think about just looking instead of doing? Part of being a man was that the looking was all about thinking about the doing. He shook his head again.

God, she was beautiful; he didn’t even attempt to stop the thought. Her mane of hair spread about his pillows like a mermaid’s. Her full lips beckoned him, their succulent fullness
drawing him closer, leading to thoughts that definitely needed to wait a few days. Her dark eyes whispered of longing and desire.

And her breasts—if he’d been a poet he could have written sonnets about the full globes, about their sharp rose-colored tips, crying to be touched, pulled, teased, suckled, nipped.

His arousal pressed hard against his trousers, but he ignored it. That was for later.

Picking up the scarves, he walked to the foot of the great bed. He’d never had another woman here, never tied a woman here, but he’d certainly thought about it.

Her legs were close together, ankles touching, in the center of the bed. He lifted one of her dainty feet and, after placing a quick kiss upon the arch, wrapped a strip of the emerald silk about it, careful not to pull it too tight, but making sure that the knot would hold. He pushed her leg to the side until the silk reached to the great post at the corner of the bed. A quick knot and she was secure. Repeating the process with the other leg, he kept his gaze on her face as he pulled her legs apart, watched her awareness of just how far she would be spread, of how open she would be.

Pearly teeth came out and nibbled at her lower lip; her breath grew shallow, but she said nothing, her eyes focused on his hands.

He would have to remember to be sure they had longer scarves. These were great for the moment, when he wished her to have very little movement, but there were many activities that might require a little more … flexibility.

When both legs were secure, he took a step back and surveyed her. It was better than any of his fantasies. Her legs looked endless in their vibrant bonds, and the pillows angled her up so that all—and it truly was all—was revealed to him. Now he was the one to bite down on his lips, as he forced his eyes away, his mouth watering with the desire to taste her.

Moving to the side of the bed, he took up the red silk scarf and gestured for her hands. He bound her wrists tight together, testing to be sure the bonds were not too tight and that there was no chafing as a result of her time with the Countess, and then drew them high over her head. He grabbed another scarf and tied it to the end of the first until it was long enough to reach the single finial that decorated the center of the headboard. He pulled it tight, and then tighter still. Her breasts arched from the bed as the bonds pulled at her.

He waited a moment to see if she would complain, to be sure she was comfortable, and then knotted the silk.

He stepped from the bed and again looked over her.

Perfection. White flesh and colorful silk, her whole body open for his gaze, for his pleasure. Helpless. Vulnerable. His.

As he was hers.

Damnation, but he wanted her. Wanted her now.

He strode back to the dining table and turned the chair until it faced her. He sat, lifted up his wine, took a slow sip, then wet his lips with his tongue.

She gave the slightest groan. He took another sip, repeated the gesture.

Her whole focus was upon his mouth, her thoughts clearly on what exactly he might do.

He smiled and lifted the fork, taking a large bite of the ham. A man did need his strength.

He leaned back in the chair and watched her.

She clearly wanted to protest, but held back her words, her eyes questioning.

Under other circumstances he could have stayed like this for a good hour, watching her and waiting, but he did not wish to overwork her sore muscles.

He stood again and walked to his dresser, opening a lower drawer. First he pulled out a short wide candle in a quite large shallow holder. It was designed not to tip—no matter what. He lit it quickly with one of the other candles and then placed it on the bed so that it illuminated her sweet cunny, her honey glistening in the flickering light.

Her eyes grew wide. Surely, he thought, she did not know all the uses for candles and hot wax? Tonight he wanted only extra illumination.

He walked back to the dresser and looked in the drawer again. His own bottle of cinnamon oil sat there. He would have to dispose of it. He did not ever wish to smell that scent again. He pulled out a small satin bag and then another larger one. He placed them upon the dinner table. He opened a box of clamps and then shut it again with a click. No. Definitely not. Perhaps never again.

He lifted another bottle of musky oil. This one didn’t cause sensations, but was perfect for a massage.

He placed it on the table beside the two bags. The drawer shut with a click and he retook his chair.

Opening the first bag, he pulled out a string of large pearls with no clasp. Playing with them, he slid them from hand to hand. He glanced up at his wife and saw her curious gaze. Aah,
there were some things she still did not know. Things he would enjoy teaching her.

He let the beads roll through his fingers one more time, then placed them on the table.

Opening the second bag, he watched her eyes grow large, her anticipation palpable.

He ran the strands of the suede flogger across his palm before laying it on the table.

Chapter Thirty-five

He’d taken out a whip.

Her eyes focused on it, taking in every strand of the leather.

She stopped breathing.

Was she frightened? She knew she should be; after everything that had happened, how could she not be? She was tied to a bed unable to move and Geoffrey had taken out a whip.

Yes, she should be frightened.

But she wasn’t, not the least iota.

She drew a deep breath in, watched as Geoffrey’s eyes followed the rise of her breasts, felt the power of that look.

Geoffrey was holding a whip and she was anything but frightened.

Her legs longed to clench tight, her skin tingled, but with anticipation, not fear.

Geoffrey would not hurt her, would never hurt her.

Closing her eyes, she let that realization settle about her.

She’d known that Geoffrey would never hurt her, but now, in this moment, she truly understood. Geoffrey would never hurt her, and he had brought out the whip to prove that to her.

Opening her eyes again, she stared at the thing.

It was very different from the crop. That had been hard leather. This looked almost soft, soft and velvety. Would it even hurt? She wasn’t sure.