Mastering The Marquess (Bound and Determined #1)(56)

All she could do was lie back and feel—and that was killing her.

How could too little be too much?

Every time he touched her it drove her out of her mind.

She was close to shaking with the effort not to move, to hold herself still beneath his touch. These slight, tantalizing touches should have been easy to withstand, but with each little stroke the sensations grew, and with them her desire to know where the next brush would fall.

He shifted more, pulling his arousal away from her thigh. She bit her lip in an effort not to cry out. She had held strong this long; she could continue.

Do not move. Not an inch. The voice was not real, but she let it run through her mind.

She was his to do with as he wished, even if it was this, these small touches designed to drive away the last of her sanity.

Swanston transferred his weight farther away and then, in a move that was both sudden and careful, shifted over her, his legs coming to straddle hers.

Drawing in a sudden breath, she reveled in the feeling of weight settling about her thighs, of his cock pressing tight against her. There were two layers of fabric between them, but still she could feel him, hard and heavy and just where he needed to be. Against her will her legs began to slip open, but his thighs held them tight, preventing her from granting him further access.

“Shhh, just relax and be easy,” he said. They were the first words that had been spoken since the candle had been extinguished. At least the first words not strictly in her mind.

“I will,” she replied, her voice that breathy whisper she always seemed to adopt around him.

“You can tell me if you don’t like anything. I will not be angered. I do not wish to distress you in anyway.”

Then bloody well get on with it, she wanted to scream, but did not. And as his hands, both his hands this time, settled upon her breasts it became almost impossible to say anything. His hands ran over her in one long caress, swirling, circling, working magic, then they glided up her breasts and he pinched the tight nipples—not hard, but again, that was almost worse. And almost better. It was all the ultimate tease.

She felt his hands glide up again until he reached the neckline of her gown, and then he was untying the knot, sliding the gown down until she was bare before him. Thank heavens the lights were out. She was not sure that she could have remained still if she’d been able to see fire in his eyes. And what if she’d seen something else, seen that she displeased him, or that he found her own obvious arousal unsettling?

It was enough to cool her blood. Almost.

She forced breath after breath into her chest, feeling her breasts press into his hands, as she fought to settle herself, to reveal nothing that might displease Swanston, displease her husband.

And then he lowered his mouth to take her, to suckle her, to … and it was all too much, first the faint gentle caresses and now the sudden intense sensation as his teeth scraped over her. Her head thrashed, turning from side to side, her eyes still tightly shut as she fought the waves of delight that flowed through her.



God, she was beautiful. He couldn’t see well in the dim light, but her curves, designed for a man to touch—and to taste—were vision enough. He couldn’t wait a moment longer. Swanston stared at the dusky peaks for the barest of moments and then lowered his mouth, unable to resist further.

Her taste was everything he had desired, everything he had dreamed—and she almost bucked him from the bed as her whole body suddenly arched up to him.

In another woman he might have taken the movement for desire, but here, with Louisa, that did not seem likely.

Had he disgusted her?

He’d heard talk from other men that wives did not like such things, that breasts belonged only in hands—and even there, as little as possible. He’d never thought it true.

He’d certainly seen enough ladies at Ruby’s to know that husbands and wives did not always agree on what should happen in the bedchamber; seen enough to know that women could want far more than their husbands would ever have dreamed.

But Louisa was such the perfect lady, so quiet and refined. Perhaps Brookingston had never placed his mouth upon her except in the most decorous of kisses. And Swanston had not even tried that.

Blast. He should have kissed her, should have measured her response to that.

His chest heaved as he sought control. With the greatest of care he placed his hands back upon her breasts and began to caress them again.

She had liked that.

He was sure of it.



She had displeased him. Louisa could sense his withdrawal, even as his hands began to tease her again, to move in those endless circles that never led anywhere, that never took her where she needed to go.

He’d felt her passion and he’d pushed it away, made it very clear where he wished her to go, how he wished her to act.

She commanded herself to think of something else, to try to cool down. To try to be what he wanted, to act how he wanted.

If only she had more experience, more understanding of men. Charles had shown all that could be on that one magic night. But Charles was not ordinary, not regular, and clearly she needed to change her expectations. If only it were John with her—John she could have asked. Only, of course, that wasn’t true. She’d never been able to talk with him about these things. That was what had led her to Madame Rouge.

His caresses felt so good. She wanted to purr. It might all be teasing, but it was the most pleasant of teasing.