Mastering The Marquess (Bound and Determined #1)(115)

He reached forward and placed a hand just above her hips. “How sore are you? I was going to pull you onto my lap, but I am afraid …”

Oh, how she wanted that closeness. “I am still sore, but it is not unbearable. I don’t think I’d want to ride a curricle over a bumpy road, but a cushioned chair—or I daresay your lap—should present no problem.”

“Are you saying that I am cushioned?”

“No. And stop trying to change the conversation, and the mood. Why would you not let me pleasure you, bring pleasure to us both? I know that you like it. Don’t you?” A flicker of uncertainty churned in her gut.

His eyes centered on her mouth again. He swallowed. “Yes, I like it, but … but it was not the time for it yet. Can you really doubt that I like it, love it even—God, I’d probably give over half my estate to feel your lips around me, feel your cheeks press upon me, feel—” He moved to take her hand, pulling it to his lap. “Does that feel like I don’t like it? Even thinking about it, talking about it, has me ready to burst free.”

She stroked his length, feeling him swell and move beneath her touch.

He forced her hand to stillness. “Do I need to say no again?”

“But …”

He spoke with some force, but his eyes remained on her mouth. “You are determined, aren’t you? No matter how many times I say that I think you need more time, that I want to be sure that you are ready, that I am not sure it is wise so soon after, you are going to keep trying. Am I right? You are determined to be disobedient.”

“Probably.” She wiggled her fingers beneath his hand. “And you did not say any of those things. You just said no.”

“I thought you knew me well enough to understand what I was saying. I just want to cherish you, Louisa. You often show amazing insight; why not this time?”

“I don’t know.” She looked down at their joined hands. How to explain her insecurities?

“So will you listen?”

She moved her hand again, determined. This was her moment. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Louisa.” Exasperation filled his voice, but there was no mistaking the meaning of that underlying husky tone.

Excitement flared within her. “Why, will you punish me if I disobey you?”

His eyes flashed at her words. She was deliberately provoking him. But then, he dampened their glow. “Do not push me. This is not wise. I do not even know how you can joke about it.”

“Perhaps I am not joking.”

Another flare of emotion. “It is best to wait, to be sure, to give yourself time to think.”

“I have done nothing but lie abed and think these last days. I am sure.” Her voice grew serious, and she looked up at him. “I need you, and I need you now. Waiting will not make anything better. It will only deprive us of time together.” He blew out a long breath.

She took her other hand and ran it up his thigh, taking advantage of all he had taught her.

“You are insistent,” he stated flatly, but she could feel his leg jump beneath her touch.

“I am afraid so.” She lowered her eyes, pretending a demureness she definitely did not feel.

His muscles coiled, gathering beneath her fingers. His hands rose, taking her by the shoulders, and then one moved higher, lifting her chin so that her eyes met his. He stared deep into her, both seeking and commanding. “If we do this, we do it my way.”

She smiled inwardly. Of course it would be his way. Was there another? “If you say so, Geoffrey.”

“And be careful, Louisa. A man does not like to be managed.”

She knew that, but of course it only applied if the man knew he was being managed. “If you say so, my lord.”

“Minx,” he whispered—and then with more command. “Now, turn around and lift your skirts.”

What? That fast? She turned and obeyed, a small shiver descending.

There was a sudden intake of breath.



Swanston examined the long welt that ran across her left inner thigh. The line was deep red and slightly scabbed. It stood out boldly against her pale skin. It was much less noticeable than when he’d washed and cleaned it, but it was still not pretty.

Normally he’d enjoyed seeing his mark upon a woman. He could still remember the way he’d felt after spanking Louisa, in seeing the imprint of his hand upon her white flesh. He’d felt like it made her more his, that for the few hours the marks remained she was stamped as belonging to him. Even now his cock jerked at the thought.

He wanted to own her, all of her. And if he gave her himself in return, that was only right.

This mark, however, was different.

This mark was not his, and it had caused her pain, great pain.

As he leaned forward to examine it, his half-hard prick grew limp against his leg. This was not a mark of desire—it was a mark of shame. Carefully, he reached out a single finger and ran it over the line, wishing he could erase its very being. Leaning forward, he kissed it gently.

She flinched, but did not pull away.

He pressed down with his finger, just enough to indent the flesh. “I am sorry, so sorry. Does that hurt?”

“No.”

He could not let it go. “Do not lie to me, Louisa. Never lie. If we are going to proceed, that needs to be the first rule. I cannot make judgments if I do not have honest information. So, I will ask again: Does that hurt?”