How to Marry a Marble Marquis(20)
He wanted her. There was little sense in denying it. He wanted to have her beneath him, legs around him, fingernails scoring his chest and her teeth at his neck; wanted her on her knees, helpless and keening as he rutted into her from behind, his knot swollen and kissing the lips of her cunt. He wanted to dip his tongue into the sweet nectar between her thighs and wanted to see her heavy-lidded gaze as she looked up at him, his cock in her mouth. He wanted to claim every part of her before she left for her ball, before another beast would have her. He wanted her before she became lady so-and-so to, forever tethered to another noble. He was desperate to have her, and in doing so, wasn’t he actually helping the girl? Wasn’t this part of the education he had promised her? The art of seduction? The ability to turn any of the monstrous noblemen at the ball into putty in the palm of her hand?
In any case, she did not put up any resistance as he turned her out of the ballroom into a smaller salon at the back of the house, empty and dark, save for the moonlight that spilled in from the glass doors, overlooking a small balcony — perfect for an illicit tryst.
“Are you feeling better prepared, Miss Eastwick?” he asked, lifting her as if she were a doll, landing on a backless chaise lounge with her half in his lap. “We’re only a little more than two weeks away now.” The only answer he received was her gasp, just before his lips met hers savagely. Her fingers raked through his hair as he kissed down her jaw, gasping what his fangs caught at her sensitive earlobe. Silas felt a ripple down his back as she stroked the base of one of his horns with her nails, and the cry that broke from her throat as he pressed his mouth to the top of her breasts was like a lightning bolt to his cock.
She had dressed for dancing — a scoop-necked gown with short, puffed sleeves, and the temptation to free her breasts was too great for him to ignore. She was fuller-busted than was fashionable, and he could tell by the small, unconscious adjustments she made to her clothing — constant little tugs, pulling at her neckline, straightening her waistline — that she was self-conscious over her ample assets. She needn’t have worried, for she was always adequately covered in her oddly unfashionable wardrobe. They may have been a source of self-consciousness for her, but they had been an object of lust for him since the moment he bent to kiss her hand that very first night, imagining their softness. He wanted to bury his face into the pillowy mounds of flesh, wanted to kiss and suck and tease her nipples with his tongue, and there was no time at all, he decided, like the present.
“I have wanted to kiss these luscious breasts since the very first night you had me to tea, Miss Eastwick,” he growled against her. “I do hope that whatever wardrobe you have planned for the ball, it shows them off as the glories they are.”
She squealed when he pulled at the neckline of her dress, her body arching against him, freezing when he pulled a creamy globe free. “My lord,” she gasped, her nails scrabbling his shoulders. Silas hesitated, wanting to ascertain that he had her permission to continue before going any further.
“Do you want to further your education this evening, my dear, or would you prefer to call it a good night?” He punctuated his words with a tongue against the peaked nipple before his mouth, a long, hot lick, followed by the cool air of him blowing gently, his balls throbbing as she moaned at the sensation. “The choice is yours, Miss Eastwick. I don’t wish to pressure you into something you’ll regret. This is an education in pleasure, not a lecture on force.”
“Just — just a few minutes longer, my lord,” she panted. “But please, no further than this. At least . . . not just yet.”
“As you wish, my dear. And if you want to stop, we stop.”
Her nails traveled down the back of his head as he spoke, scraping through his hair and down his neck until they reached the collar of his coat, an insufferable impediment that he wanted to cast off along with his waistcoat and shirt, kicking his fine leather boots out the window, and setting fire to the tourniquet of his trousers. He wanted to shred her dress with his claws, free her of her stays and shift; wanted to leave her in nothing but her long gloves and pendant necklace, naked beneath him.
“Absolutely stunning,” he murmured against her breast, sucking her nipple into the hot cavern of his mouth and suckling like a babe as she mewled against him. She smelled like lilac water and fresh cream, soft and sweet, and very much wanted to spend the duration of the evening exactly where he was. “You’re going to be leaving me in quite a state, Miss Eastwick,” he rumbled once he released the swollen bud with a pop.
“W-what do you mean?” she gasped out, keening as his fangs dragged against her skin.
Silas took her hand, stroking her small fingers, kissing her knuckles reverently, and nuzzling his nose to her wrist . . . before placing her open palm against the straining shape of his rock-hard cock at the front of his trousers. “See what you’ve done to me, little moth?”
Eleanor struggled to sit up, as if she wanted to see what she’d just felt, her cheeks reddening when she did so. She allowed him to place her hand on his bulge once more, slowly dragging her nails over the shape of his tumescence, squeezing until he grunted against her. So snug were his trousers and so swollen was his cock, that she was able to press the tip of her nail to the thick root that ran up the underside of his shaft with ease, finding and tracing a snaking vein with a feather-light pressure that left him panting. Her gaze flickered from the shape of his erection to his heavy-lidded eyes, lip sucked between her teeth as she gave him another tentative squeeze.