Mastering The Marquess (Bound and Determined #1)(63)

Her maid, Marie, entered silently behind her and for a moment she wanted to throw something at her, to unleash all the feelings that had been building since the wedding—and, perhaps, even before. She’d pushed them down, pretended they were not there, but now they clamored to the brink, refused to be suppressed a moment longer.

She stood stiff and straight as the evening gown was slipped from her shoulders and carried to the wardrobe. Her plain white chemise clung to her body, revealing each curve. Curves that were not good enough for her husband.

Blast him.

She was good enough. She was more than good enough for that slimy toad and it was time he knew it.

“Bring me the pink silk shift,” she directed. It was the one she had purchased for her wedding night and then decided might be too much for her husband. But if he could handle Madame’s he could handle a wife dressed in deep rose silk. Or not handle her—she had no intention of letting him touch her again. From this moment on she pleased only herself.

“And brush out my hair. I am tired of these confining braids. You can put it in a plait, but only a single one down the back—and braid it loosely. No. Just leave it undone. I am tired of feeling as if all the hairs of my head are being pulled out. And bring that other flask of perfume, the one in the blue bottle. I’ve a mind to try something different tonight.”

The maid complied without comment, although no doubt wondering why on the one night the master was out the mistress would choose to dress for seduction.

When the task was accomplished Louisa sat at the dressing table and stared in the mirror.

Her eyes were large against the pale skin, her lips almost colorless, her hair full and wild about her face. She looked as if she’d seen a ghost—and perhaps she had: the ghost of the life she was not prepared to live again.

She was done playing games.

Or perhaps, she was simply starting a new game. But this time she was writing the rules.



Swanston stared at the woman’s naked ass.

It was a quite attractive ass—full, yet firm. The legs, as they stretched down from the table the woman was tied to, were long and shapely. And she was a true blonde: The curls that surrounded her rose-colored folds were pale as sunshine—and dripping with desire.

He couldn’t see her face—a sheet of her pale hair covered it, obscuring his view and hers of him. She was probably blindfolded as well. Identities were rarely exchanged on these first encounters.

And it was her first.

Ruby had looked surprised when he first entered the parlor, but with only the slightest look of disappointment, she’d led him here to this room.

“She’s new to the game, but very eager despite her nerves,” Ruby had explained. “She knows exactly what she wants, just not how to ask for it—not that we’ll allow her to ask for anything this night. I trust you will instruct her properly.”

“Of course,” he’d answered. “Did she have any special requests?”

“No, not beyond that she felt a great need for some firm punishment. Her eyes kept drifting to the crop, however. And I do believe I heard she’d had a not-so-discreet indiscretion with a groom. She is new, however, so do not push her too far. I believe she has great promise, but only if brought along slowly.”

“Aah.”

So here he was, staring at a most attractive ass—an ass that was his to do with as he wished—and all he found himself wishing was for it to be over.

Before his wedding he’d been quite sure that if presented with breast and ass a man was quite happy. It did not particularly matter whose or where. A f*ck was a f*ck.

So why was his cock still loose along his leg? It wasn’t exactly limp, but the response was not what he had expected.

And he didn’t care. Had not the slightest bit of concern.

Blast, this was not like him.

Walking to the heavy table lined with tools, he fingered a flogger and then picked up the crop Ruby had said the woman might favor. It was long and supple, felt natural within his hand.

Control.

It was about control, not desire.

He stood staring at the red paper on the wall, but could not have described the pattern.

He turned and walked to the girl, his heavy boots sounding his trail.

The muscles of the woman’s legs tightened and held still. Her cunny clenched.

Anticipation. Hers, not his.

He stood still, silent, waiting for it to build. Waiting to feel something.

Louisa had touched her fully clothed breast and his cock had jumped. Now he stood here, where he was most comfortable—and nothing.

Lifting the crop, he trailed it up the inside of the woman’s thighs, one side and then the other. She squirmed, but made no sound. Was she gagged or merely obedient?

He should find out; such things were important in these games.

That could wait.

He ran the crop up and down her legs again, and then through the damp curls, letting her feel its length, know its touch.

Her scent rose to him, deep and clean and musky.

The crop lifted and fell, with hardly more force than a butterfly landing, and yet she shivered and squirmed, impatient.

“You learn well, my little”—Ruby had said she’d dallied with a groom and let it be known—“filly.”

Yes, she liked that. A heavy shiver ran through her as her thigh muscles tightened.