Marquesses at the Masquerade(34)

She pushed her hands through the thick waves of his hair and slid them over the light bristles on his cheeks. Her blood rushed deliriously through her body, chasing every sensible thought from her head. All she knew was that she needed Marcus with everything she was.

“Rosamund,” Marcus rasped. His hands shaped her bottom and pressed her against his hips, letting her feel what she had done to him. With deft fingers, he unbuttoned her gown and loosened her chemise, baring breasts that were so lovely he ached at the sight of them.

“Rosamund, Rosamund,” he whispered, drunk on her name, on her.

He kissed her satin skin and captured her nipple in his mouth, blood roaring in his ears. Guiding her backward, he helped her to the bed, and they collapsed onto it, laughing.

“So beautiful,” he said, positioning himself at her feet. Pushing her skirts up as he went, he kissed along the inside of her leg.

“You.” Kiss.

“Are.” Kiss.

“So.” Kiss.

“Beautiful.”

Every inch of her intoxicated him, and he drank her in like a man dying of thirst.

By the time he reached the tops of her thighs, they were both trembling, and he dragged himself up her body to taste her mouth again. For a moment, the thought penetrated that if Poppy was the woman for whom he’d waited his whole life, who was Rosamund? Because he couldn’t imagine any woman being more to him than Rosamund was right then.

Aching for her, his breath coming in pants, he nudged her legs apart and slipped his hand through her intimate curls.

“Marcus?” Her voice was a shaky whisper, and he smiled crookedly and rubbed one little spot in delicate circles. “Oh, Marcus,” she whimpered.

“Yes, love, I know.”

She was ready for him, and thank God, because he didn’t think he could wait another minute.

He’d never been with a virgin before, but he knew how this might be for her. “I’m sorry, sweet, this will probably hurt a little,” he said as he eased himself to her entrance, dearly hoping it wouldn’t hurt very much.

“I don’t care,” she whispered urgently, wiggling against him.

And then all words were beyond him, because she was so tight and slick, and it took every ounce of control to go slowly.

As he inched more deeply into her, she stilled. “Marcus, wait, this is too much. You’re too much.”

“I am?” He paused, though his blood was screaming.

“Maybe,” she whispered, “you’re too big.”

A pained chuckle escaped him. Chest heaving, he rasped, “I’ll fit, trust me. Just another”—he pushed a bit farther and reached her resistance—“moment.” And then he was through.

“Oh,” she gasped. She began squirming again, making his eyes roll back in his head. “Oh, I don’t think—”

“Shh,” he said, beginning to stroke slowly, resisting every urge driving within him. “I want this to be good for you. It gets better.” At least, he desperately hoped it would. It was taking everything he had to go slowly when she felt so incredible.

When her breath caught a few moments later, he felt her desire shift. She clutched his back. “Marcus, I—I want—”

“I know,” he grunted. “I know what you want.” With sweat-inducing patience, he worked her slowly and was rewarded with her cry of pleasure. And not a moment too soon, as his own climax raced through him, filling his veins with the sweetest sensation he’d ever known. Wanting nothing more than to stay buried deep within her, he forced himself to pull out and spent himself on her stomach.

He collapsed against the mattress, not quite certain what had just happened to him. Making love with Rosamund had made him feel completely overtaken. He was hardly a novice in the bedroom, but he felt as though he’d been only practicing before, and now he had finally arrived at the real thing. As if everything in his life had prepared him for this woman. As if he’d been waiting for Rosamund all this time.

His brows drew together slightly as he recalled that he’d had a similar thought the night he’d met Poppy.

Rosamund lay quietly beside him. After a few moments, he reached for his coat and pulled a handkerchief from the pocket and gave it to her with a rueful look.

“It seemed unwise to risk pregnancy.”

“I appreciate that you were thinking more clearly than I was,” she said, accepting the cloth.

“I’m not sure I can take credit for much clear thinking just then.” He shifted onto his side toward her. Her hair had come loose and fell across her chest in long, straight sections of brown satin.

“I didn’t know how it would be,” she said, “but that was...”

“Amazing?”

“Yes,” she admitted, sounding dazed. He grinned, ridiculously pleased that he’d put that note in her voice.

“You know”—he leaned forward to kiss the back of her hand—“you never told me your last name.” He chuckled. “I really think I should know it, considering.”

She stiffened in his arms, and the next thing he knew, she was sitting up and pulling the coverlet around her. “I don’t.”

He laughed, puzzled by her reply. “Why not? You’re being oddly mysterious.” He traced his finger along the back of her arm, stopping to circle the pointed place where it bent. Even her elbow fascinated him. “Unless there’s something you’re hiding?”