Mastering The Marquess (Bound and Determined #1)(116)

He heard her hesitation. “Yes. It hurts, but not too badly. It stings whenever I move, but is almost unnoticeable when I am still, unless I sit on something very hard.”

He pressed again, more firmly, keeping the pressure steady. His stomach still churned from what had been done to her. “And this?”

“It hurt when you first pressed, but not at all as you hold it.”

“Not at all?”

“I suppose I can feel it. I know exactly where the mark is—but pain, no.”

“Bend over a little.”

He could feel her resistance to the command, but she complied.

“Spread your legs, just a few inches more.”

She did.

The welt ran up her thigh, but no higher. Good.

His hand lifted, his fingers eager for further exploration. He brought them back to his thighs, held them there. He had seen what he needed to—for now.

God, she was beautiful. Even here. Even now. He could not mistake how perfect she was for him, could not pretend he did not wish to lean forward and nip those perfect globes, could not hide the effect that it had on him to see the moisture beginning to form at the edges of her cunny.

He forced his eyes up, past the soft white linen pooled above her waist, the slender hands holding it there. Her hair was magical, the myriad of colors swirling in soft curls as it hung down over her shoulders. He had never decided whether he preferred it loose or tightly constrained. He supposed it was like much in his life—the tight constraint highlighted the beauty of what could be, and the free beauty made him long for constraint. It was an endless circle, and he would rejoice in every bit of it, in every bit of her. “You can drop your skirts and turn.”

This time she complied with no hesitation.

He patted the bed beside him, watched with care as she sat. Yes, there was a wince, but not a great one, and it did fade once she was seated on the soft mattress. Reaching out, he turned her face, examining the bruises she had hidden beneath her loose hair. They had begun to yellow at the edges. Leaning forward, he kissed them, as softly as he was able. Then he examined her mouth. The corners were dry and slightly cracked. He could only imagine the strain she had been through. He would never forgive himself.

“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.