Mastering The Marquess (Bound and Determined #1)(70)

The thought was so exciting he almost had to withdraw his hands to keep from marking her prematurely. Instead, he flexed his fingers, letting her feel the firm squeeze on each cheek, the slight separation of flesh from flesh.

He squeezed tight, but not too tight. Hard, but not too hard.

And again.

With each movement he separated the cheeks more, letting himself see the hint of hidden secrets, soft, moist, womanly flesh.

He could smell her arousal now. His lady wife liked this very much.

“Lift your hips.” For the first time, he did not ask; instead, he commanded.

A moment passed. She did not move.

Another moment.

Slowly, very slowly, her knees inched forward on the bed. Her hips rose.

A wave of pleasure swept him. It was such a simple thing, her obedience, but it meant all.

Leaning forward so that the length of his body covered her completely, he reached for a couple of pillows. The sound of her breath was muffled in the covers, but there was no mistaking its unevenness and speed.

He pulled back with care, letting her feel the brush of his weight in its entirety. When he was once again on his knees he slid the pillows under her hips, raising them farther, positioning them just how he liked.

Again, he placed a splayed hand on each buttock, spreading them wide, but this time his thumbs rubbed at her outer lips, teasing the swollen fresh. She was almost ready, her need apparent—and so was his own. Each second seemed an hour as he held himself back.

His thumbs slipped deeper, moving closer to her womanly core, working the moisture until it covered her, slicked her. Then he moved one thumb lower, sliding it along until it found that hard nub of hidden flesh. He heard her gulp. Her head thrashed once, but then held still, face buried in the thick mattresses.

“You may move,” he said, aware of how the position limited her.

She shuddered and then turned her head as far as she could, her eyes seeking him through the wild mane of hair. She caught his gaze and held it, and then unhurriedly brought her arms back so that they supported her body and gave her leverage. Her elbows did not straighten much, but each inch gave her freedom, raised her head from its nest of pillows.

He sat back on his heels and admired her. What a picture she made: arched spine, achingly delicious behind covered by his hands, hanging breasts with heavy tips.

For a moment familiarity overcame him. He had been here before, seen this before.

He brushed it off. This was not a moment for memory.

He circled her clit again with his thumb, watching for every nuance of her reaction.

The new position gave her more freedom, but it also meant she needed to support more of her own weight. Her arms shook each time he teased and played.

He wanted to bury his face between her legs, to taste the dripping honey, but still he restrained himself.

Lifting his thighs from his calves, he moved closer behind her, letting her feel his weight. He thrust his hips forward, letting her feel the tip of his cock against her entrance.

When he pulled back, she moved as if to follow. His fingers tightened about her flesh, holding her still.

And still his thumb moved in its magic pattern, bringing her closer and closer, her flesh weeping with want.

Steadily he moved his other thumb upward until it brushed across that other, more puckered, entrance, brushing it with moisture. He did not press or probe, but merely brushed—a butterfly’s wing.

He felt the sudden intake of air into her lungs, felt her hesitation.

He brushed again, waited for her mind to process the sensation, waited to see if rejection would follow.

Her hips shifted back, moving against his legs. She did not reject, but clearly had other priorities.

That was fine. His only purpose was to breed familiarity to his touch.

He was thinking too much—and not enough. Keeping his mind occupied, even if it was with fantasies of the future, kept him from the edge, gave him control, but enough was enough.

Her hips shifted, seeking even greater contact. He moved his upper hand away, using it to grab himself, to coat himself in her slickness. Moving forward, he positioned himself, letting his other hand slip about her hips to the front, before again finding those hidden nerves.

She tried to move again, to press again, but he held her still. “Do not move. This is for me.”

Instantly she quieted, although he could feel her strain with the effort.

She was his, his to command.

Holding her tight, he thrust forward, thrust home, sinking his entire length into her.

Her head arched back, her dark hair cascading onto the pale skin of her back.

He waited. There was no other movement.

He looked down at their joining: the press of dark curls slick with moisture, the hungry flesh longing to be one. Dark and light. Soft and hard. If it was possible, he felt himself grow even thicker, felt her swell to accommodate him.

It was an effort to hold himself still. He wanted to give in to the cries of his body—and his demons.

He held back, waited—and then began to move with great purpose.

In and out. Each movement designed to push them both further, but not far enough.

His thighs strained with the effort of holding back. He caught his lower lip between his teeth—and bit, the pain bringing him just enough sanity to continue.

She would come to the breaking point first. He was determined.

He would push and push until there was no option but surrender.