Mastering The Marquess (Bound and Determined #1)(55)

His cock. She could hear Charles saying the word, whispering that it was a far better word than “penis.”

Charles—she should not think of him now. It was disloyal.

But how could she not? He had been her one lover, her only lover.

Was it not natural that she thought of him?

He would not have minded her movement, her passion.

And yet she could hear him ordering her to stillness, forbidding her to move. Her thighs clenched tight at the thought, that small bud between them prickling with desire.

That had been a game: a show of dominance, of control. This was different; Swanston’s wants were different—and yet she could not help but combine the two men, imagine one was the other, imagine that orders had been given, that her pleasure depended on pleasing him.

It seemed wrong somehow—and yet, the thought of Charles’s laying her back on the bed, of his beginning to tease her while forbidding her any response, was almost more than she could bear.

Closing her eyes tight, she let herself pretend, pretend that all movement was forbidden, except that which was requested.

Measuring each breath, she concentrated on the feeling of Swanston’s hands upon her breast. She wanted more, wanted him to move his fingers upward to her nipples, wanted him to squeeze, to press, to play—to lick and lave and even bite.

God, she wanted. It was hard not to squirm and wiggle as the need grew between her legs.

God, was this ever going to progress?



Her breathing had slowed. What did that mean? Was he rushing her? God forbid, because if he went any slower he’d explode—and he meant that literally. The feeling of her warm thigh through the fine linen was more than a man could bear. He wanted to rear above her, to flatten her into the bed and push up the skirts of her gown, to bury himself within her so deep that their worlds would collide.

He wanted …

No, he would not think of what he wanted, only what she wanted, what she needed. It was not really so different from his usual games. If he thought about her, then he could ignore himself, find pleasure in pleasure—and in the end his own desires would be met, more than met.

She’d liked when he circled her breast softly, ever so softly. He would do so again.

Her skin was warm and smooth beneath his touch, the curve of where breast met ribs ever tantalizing. A man could get lost in the delicacy of that spot, in the subtle difference of the skin, in the slight dampness and saltiness. He had not tasted her, yet he knew her flavor. He trailed his fingers along the underside of her breast, feeling her slight gasp. She did like that.

He stroked again.

She gasped again.

He wished he could press his lips against the nape of her neck, allow himself access to another of those precious female spots. He thought of turning her, of spooning himself against her backside, pressing his cock into the cleft of her buttocks as his lips nipped and sucked at the tender flesh just before her hairline. His hands would have free access to her breasts then; he could pinch and play as much as he liked.

Surely that would not be so shocking?

Or would it be? If only he had more idea what her experience was … but there were some questions that could not be asked, could never be asked.

Holding his own wants in check—again—he lifted himself up on one elbow so that he was angled over her.

Her eyes were shut, her lips closed. That much he could see in the dim starlight.

Should he kiss her? A soft peck, or something more, something deeper?

What was she expecting?

If only she would give him some clue, but instead she held herself still, so still—and waited, waited for him to proceed.

He allowed his hand to move up the curve of her breast, to outline the nipple—and then crest its peak.

Her lips parted at that, a long slow breath and then a deep inhale.

Her lashes fluttered, dark against her pale cheeks.

If only he could see her, could know her.

Would she shy away if he pushed her gown down, allowed himself to stare at that tight pebble, to taste it? Were her nipples soft pink, or rose, or some deeper shade? How would they change if he worried at them, pinched them, nipped them, made the blood flow to them until they swelled firmer than ripe berries, ready for a man’s lips and teeth.

He shifted his hips upon the bed, his arousal almost unbearable. In any other circumstance he’d bring himself relief, or bury himself deep between those full lips. He’d f*ck her sweet mouth until sanity returned and …

No. He could not think that way. He needed to think of Louisa, to think of her pleasure, her desire … her climax.

And then he set himself that goal.

He would make her come for him, make her cry his name.

He would work through her womanly reserve and win. And he would do it all while treating her like a lady. It would be one of his greatest challenges—and he did love a challenge.





Chapter Seventeen





Something had changed. Louisa wasn’t quite sure what, but as Swanston lifted himself beside her she could feel it. His fingers still caressed her breasts as softly as a kitten’s whisker. Even when he’d progressed to playing with the tips, he had done so gently—so softly that it was the most incredible tease. She wanted more, needed more, but the rules she had set herself prevented her from moving, from in any way indicating what she wanted.