Mastering The Marquess (Bound and Determined #1)(24)

“What?” She sounded breathless.

“Tomorrow, when you are home, I want you to take a hand mirror and look at yourself, look at yourself there, between your legs.”

“I couldn’t.”

“I am sure that you will find you can. Look at yourself and imagine me watching—and I will imagine I am there. Is that really such a big thing? No one need ever know.”

“I will try.”

“I want you to promise.”

She was quiet for a moment. He watched her breasts rise and fall as she pulled in a large breath, then released it. “I promise.”

And he knew she meant it.

He just stood and looked at her for a moment. She truly was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. He wondered what she looked like in her clothes.

The thought made him laugh.

He saw her stiffen. He hurriedly explained, “No, it’s not you. It is I. I just realized that I’ve never before wondered what a woman looked like dressed in a gown and jewels. I am always busy wondering how they look without their clothing.”

She snorted, an actual snort. “I should have known.”

“I do assure you, all men are the same.”

“Not all men,” she replied.

Her husband. If her husband had liked other men, he must have shown no interest in her, left her doubting her appeal. He would have to rectify that.

He climbed back on the bed, settling on his knees between her legs. “Spread them farther. Show me how wide you can go.”

The flare of humor faded as desire flickered back to life—not that it had ever truly died.

Very slowly her legs spread farther apart.

He waited until she stopped, her legs almost spanning the bed. His cock jumped. She was so desirable, so vulnerable. Again he felt the urge to move up over her, to just plunge in—virginity be damned.

He held back.

“Just a few more inches, my sweet. Let me see.” It was about command, and only command.

Her legs moved. And then moved a little more.

Running a finger up one leg, from ankle to calf to thigh—and higher—he watched her, watched how her skin shivered, watched her breathing grow deep, watched the flush rise upon her breasts.

Those breasts—he had not yet paid them their proper due. How had he been so remiss?

But he had other tasks to perform first.

He ran a finger up her other leg. When both fingers were at the apex of her thighs, he ran them back and forth across the tender skin where leg met body. Small gasps escaped her with each stroke.

He didn’t even approach her actual folds, instead playing about the outside, teasing and caressing. “Shh, don’t move. Just stay still. I know it’s hard, but it does please me.”

When her small jerks intensified, he leaned forward and blew once upon her dark curls, inhaling her scent. Then he ran his fingers up along the outer edge of her curls, stroking her lower belly before progressing to her navel. He lingered there, circling it slowly, before leaning forward to press a gentle kiss upon it and then delving into it with his tongue. He imitated his earlier movements and watched her body clench in response.

And then up to those breasts. He had waited a long time for this. He eased forward on the bed and then straddled her hips, not allowing her any movement.

He held himself up and stared down at her. A starving man presented with a feast, he knew not where to begin.

Left? Right? The valley between? Lower curves or nipple?

He hummed with pleasure as he allowed himself to consider.

And then he leaned forward.





Chapter Eight





She hadn’t known sex would be such torture—or at least, not this type of torture. She’d been prepared for pain. What woman was not after having the wedding night explained? But this was like no wedding night she’d ever heard of.

Every time she thought she understood, he changed the rules.

And the not moving. How could she not move when he did—did that.

A warm palm descended on her left breast, and then another on the right.

She wanted to rise up on the bed. She wanted to run her fingers over him—through his hair, across his chest, and down, down lower. She wanted to lift her hips to him, to make him ease the ache that was again rising deep in her belly.

His fingers massaged each of her breasts, his palms flattening the tips. Why didn’t he press harder? Why didn’t he play with her nipples? They cried for his touch.

She felt a plea rise within her, but held it back. She would not beg.

He kissed the area between her breasts, his tongue moistening and tasting.

It was exquisite.

It was torture.

Why didn’t he hurry?

Weren’t men supposed to hurry?

Surely that had been part of her mother’s long-ago speech.

But her mother had been wrong about so much. Could she have been wrong about this too?

Please …

The cry filled her mouth, but she held it in.

And then his hands moved—not much, but they drew back, his fingers encircling her nipples, pinching, pulling.

It brought some relief. A sigh eased from her. But then it grew worse, the added sensation only drawing her farther along the path.

She tried to raise her hips, to grind them into him, but he held her down.