Mastering The Marquess (Bound and Determined #1)(54)

She’d kept the coronet—obeyed him. Pleasure filled him. He would have to enjoy these small pleasures in the years to come as he fought against his inner beast.

Her lips parted; he heard an intake of air as she prepared to speak and then paused, her teeth coming down to settle on that lush lower lip. Her eyes met his and then dropped, her fingers clutching at the blue silk she held so tightly against her breasts.

His sapphire blazed upon her finger, the mark of his possession.

She was his to do with as he liked, as he desired; all things were possible. And yet, she was his wife—his lady wife.

He stepped nearer to the bed. His fingers dropped to the tie that held closed his emerald robe. He hesitated and then loosed the tie, letting the robe drop to the floor.

He heard her sudden intake of breath.

Was his nightshirt really so shocking?

Though he’d never worn one before, he couldn’t imagine what would cause that crimson stain to rise upon his bride’s cheeks.

This was going to be a difficult night.

He gestured for her to slide across the mattress, giving himself room to slip in beside her.

The linen sheets were warm with her heat, and the scent of her perfume was upon his nostrils—lavender and lemons, so very delicate and ladylike.

“Are you going to blow out the candle?” Her voice was hesitant, questioning.

He hadn’t planned on it, had always preferred to see—to see everything, unless he was playing games involving darkness and mystery, exploring the extremes of the other senses. “Would you like me to? Is it what you are used to?” He could only hope he did not sound too gruff.

“I am pleased with whatever you desire.” She turned her face to him, slowly raising her lashes.

The words were perfect, the gesture perfect. If only he could trust that she really meant all of it.

Would she have mentioned the candle if it was not what she wanted? He was used to anticipating his partners’ desires, catching the smallest of clues indicating what they really wanted, but now he did not know.

It was better to be safe. Turning, he pulled the heavy silver stick near and blew.

Darkness surrounded them, a blanket of quiet and solitude.

“Oh.” It was more of a puff than a sound. She inched nearer to him on the bed, but did not quite bring herself into contact with him. Then he heard and felt her settle, lying back on the high pile of pillows.

For a man of such experience, this was surprisingly difficult. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see the starlight seeping between the curtains, allowing a hazy type of vision. It was far from true dark.

He shifted onto one hip, settling himself against her thigh, letting his full length rest against her.

Another “Oh.”

Reaching out, he touched one finger to her lips, dark against her pale skin even in the shadowy room. Her flesh was so soft, so welcoming. Why had he not kissed her before? Let her feel his need before?

Her breath was moist against his finger, and her lips trembled—with fear or something else?

Carefully, he trailed his finger over the swell of her lower lip, the indent below, the curve of her chin, down the velvet skin of her neck to the little hollow at the base of her throat. He played there for a moment, letting her grow accustomed to his touch. He stroked from side to side, up and down, and then in small swirls. Her breath grew shallow and he could feel the quickening of her pulse beneath his touch.

Wetting his lips, he let his fingers trace down her chest until they stopped by the lace border of her gown. He paused there, waiting until her breathing settled before slipping beneath the band.

This was not so different from his play of the past—letting his lover grow used to him, to his desires—but the end point would not be the same. He needed to remember that.

Caressing the upper swells of her breasts, he relished their size, their softness. He wanted to relight the candle—hell, he wanted to light a dozen candles—to push back her gown, to rip it off and enjoy the pleasure of her beauty. But he knew he must not.

His wife was a lady and had to be treated as such. He would remember that if it killed him—and he was beginning to think it just might.

With great care, he circled her right breast, never approaching the sensitive peak. The rise and fall of her chest grew even faster, and he could feel the soft moisture of her breath upon his cheek. But she gave no other sign of pleasure, no other indication of what she wanted.

Her hands still lay at her sides, palms flat upon the crisp linen sheets.



It was impossible not to move—and yet she managed. She would be proper if it killed her. Her hands longed to run through Swanston’s hair, to caress his shoulders, to feel the heat rising on his flesh. Her lips wished to settle above his heart, to feel its beat, to taste the salt of his skin.

She wanted to press her face into his chest, rub her cheeks back and forth over the mat of hair, to revel in him, to experience him.

She didn’t even know if he had hair on his chest. That nightshirt hid everything.

Well, not quite everything. His cock lay stiff against her thigh. She could feel it jerk and move as he touched her.

If everything Charles had told her was true, then Swanston was clearly finding pleasure—in her stillness, in her lack of response. She dug her fingers into the bedding as she fought to maintain her passivity.

His cock told her everything she needed to know.