Mastering The Marquess (Bound and Determined #1)(57)

Deep breath. Measured breath. She concentrated on her left hand, which still lay flat upon the bed. She pressed it into a fist, tight, oh so tight. And then relaxed. Tight. And relaxed.

Her whole body became that one hand as she pretended nothing else existed.

It worked—or at least it almost did. It was impossible to truly ignore what was happening to the rest of her, to pretend she didn’t know when one hand left her breast and moved lower, when his fingers stroked her legs and moved higher. His hand skimmed over her thigh and then reached between her legs and paused, the barest of tickles against her curls.

“I need to touch you, to be sure you’re ready. Do you understand?” Swanston’s voice was gruff.

She drew her hand tight again, and relaxed again. She could do this.

Her chin nodded, slightly.

His fingers parted her, delved between her folds. She bit down on her lip to keep from moving, from shifting to even the slightest degree. Both hands clenched and then released.

One long stroke across her full length. She was wet, almost dripping. Would that deter him?

Charles had liked it, but …

She had to put Charles from her mind, concentrate only on the here, the now.

If only she could respond, could give in to the feelings that shook her.

He stroked her again, his thighs lifting as he shifted them between hers. Her gown was up about her waist now. If the lights had been brighter he would have seen everything, known how much her body longed for this, for him.

He moved again, and she knew that he’d drawn up his nightshirt.

This was the moment.

She held both hands as tight as she could as she felt him position himself against her, felt the large head of his penis begin its push. He stopped then, his cock resting against her entrance. Even with her eyes still closed, she could feel the weight of his gaze, and of his question, upon her.

She nodded again—and he slid in with a single thrust.

Her eyes did open at that, wide.

He was big. Bigger than she’d remembered—not that she’d ever seen him, but … Heavens. He was beginning to move, long slow measured strokes—as teasing as his earlier touches had been, and yet—yet more. She could feel her body begin to tighten about him, feel her inner springs begin to coil.

She shut her eyes tight again and let her whole being concentrate on what was happening.

Small gasps left her as he thrust, and she did not even try to contain them—surely even a lady, a wife, was allowed some … She couldn’t finish the thought. Sensation was taking over, and it was all she could do to keep her hands by her sides and just allow herself to be taken.



Swanston felt her inner muscles bunch about him and wanted to scream his triumph. His lady wife was aroused—and she was pleased. Whatever she might want to feel, might think was appropriate, she could not resist this, resist him. He thrust deep, adding a slight twist to his hips, and felt that slight gasp that she could not help. He thrust again, reversing the twist, and felt it again.

He pulled back, resisted the urge to thrust again, torturing them both. And then he pushed home—hard, giving in to the inner demons that demanded release. Again and again he thrust, feeling her tighten and release about him. His whole world became centered on their joining, on the feeling of his cock sliding though her well-moistened flesh.

God, it felt good.

Again.

Again.

His mind filled with images, all the things he wanted, all his dark desires.

Out.

In.

Deeper.

Harder.

It was coming. He could feel it in the tightening of his balls, in the thickening of his cock, in the need to slam home, to brand her as his own—forever.

But he held it back, counted, said limericks, did everything to distract his mind, his body. He could not come until she had. He had promised that his lady wife’s pleasure would come first, and by all that was holy it would.

One hundred.

Ninety-nine.

Ninety-eight

Extra-deep with a twist.

Ninety-seven

Ninety-six.

He wasn’t going to make it. He wasn’t.

Ninety-five.

He heard her moan, saw her head move from side to side on the pillow, though somehow the rest of her was still.

Ninety-four.

“Ohhhhh,” Louisa moaned, her eyes opening and staring straight up at him.

He was not able to see her clearly in the dim light, but as he met her gaze and held it, he could see her struggle, her refusal to let go.

Eighty-two.

He would hold out if it killed him. And it just might.

Her breath was coming in gasps now, her lips parted and moist.

Her chocolate brown eyes seemed almost to melt in the dark, the pupils huge.

Sixty-seven.

He felt her clench, her whole body rising toward him, although she hardly moved at all.

Yes.

It was going to happen.

And then she rose again, her whole body tightening and squeezing, clenching—and her eyes looked through him, and it was in them that he saw it happen, saw her gasp at the pleasure, surrender to the mindless ecstasy. He’d never experienced anything like it—and he could hold back no longer.

With a roar that could shake roofs, he surrendered his control, and let himself go.



Ohhhh. This time she didn’t say it aloud—she was still shocked that she had ever screamed it—but in her mind the exclamation repeated again and again.