Mastering The Marquess (Bound and Determined #1)(71)

Her head fell forward again as she gulped in air in great gasps.

His fingers still played between her legs, catching, rubbing, pressing. With each thrust of his hips he would add a little pinch to her sensitive nub.

In—and hold. Out—and wait.

Thrust again and again. Hold the pace.

God, it was good. So tight, so warm, the give of her flesh almost undoing him.

He needed—no, not yet. Not yet.

Her legs began to quiver against his, and he found himself supporting her weight along with his own.

And then he felt it begin: the spasm of flesh, the clenching of muscles.

“Now, yes, now.” It was not merely a statement, but a command and order.

Her head fell back again, her whole body arching, a cry forming on her lips.

He felt it happen, felt the moment, felt the joy take her, her whole body tightening about him, squeezing him, milking him—God, it was glorious.

And he gave in.

With a roar of her name, he plunged forward, his hips thrusting again and again with speed and force, burying himself deeper and deeper in her sweet flesh.

He heard his own name—Geoffrey—the first he’d ever heard it on her lips.

But all that mattered was feeling, feeling and rapture.

That moment.

This moment.

Blackness.

Light.

And pleasure, that ultimate pinnacle of surrender.





Chapter Twenty-one





Her every muscle was spent. Louisa was not sure she’d ever move again. It was hard to breathe with her face pressed deep into the pillows, but the effort of turning her head was beyond her. Everything felt beyond her. She wasn’t sure that she’d be able to breathe even if she did turn her face. Her lungs might decide to stop moving, along with the rest of her.

But it felt good. It felt so good. Louisa had never even imagined anything like the feeling of those strong hands squeezing her, caressing her, teasing her. And it had been a tease—one long tease—until the end, when …

She didn’t know the words to describe what she’d felt, what she’d gone through. She wasn’t even sure that the words existed.

Did it even matter if she never breathed again? It would not be a bad moment to die.

Only, only there was something niggling at her, some uncompleted thought that wanted to be born.

She felt Geoffrey settle beside her. His Christian name had never felt comfortable in her thoughts before, but now it did.

Geoffrey.

It would be foolish to pretend that nothing had changed.

A large hand settled on her shoulder, pulling her toward him, turning her head so that cool air bathed her face.

She stared over at his handsome face, sleep beginning to settle about the eyes. He was so familiar, and yet so different.

Was this really the man she had lain with these past nights? Tentatively, she reached out a hand and laid it upon his cheek, and his head turned to brush it with his lips.

It was all so familiar. She’d had the thought a moment ago, but this time it felt different. She meant more than that he was the man who had courted her, the man she had married. At this moment he was so much more than that.

It floated about her consciousness, hovering, not wanting to be discovered.

A butterfly unwilling to land, refusing to be netted.

She closed her eyes, wishing that she could grasp that final thread, but too tired to try.

When he pulled her closer, wrapped his arms about her, she purred with the pleasure of it, and then gave herself up to sleep.

Perhaps tomorrow she would understand.



Swanston stared up at the canopy as he heard the woman beside him slip into sleep, her breathing growing slow and heavy.

She was Grace, his Grace. Swanston didn’t know why he hadn’t realized it before. There could be no other explanation for how familiar to him she seemed—although even now, he was not completely sure.

Perhaps he simply wanted her to be Grace.

Grace had been a virgin, of that he was sure. And Louisa was a widow, a widow who’d been married to his friend.

It seemed a blasphemy to even consider the thing, but he’d imagined Grace’s husband was one who preferred men, or was old and impotent. What other explanation could there be?

But was she his Grace? Could she be a sister? Heaven forbid. A cousin? That would be better, although it did not seem likely.

It was so hard to separate all the images he had of her. Brookingston’s wife. Brookingston’s widow. Grace. Lady Brookingston. Lady Swanston. Louisa. Could they all be the same woman?

It seemed impossible, but it seemed even more impossible not. His mind spun with all the possibilities.

He pushed up onto his elbow and looked down at her, examining the fine features. It would be hard to mistake that hair—could two women have the same such wondrous locks and not be related?

But what about the rest of her?

The body was about right. It was hard to remember the exact details—a man did tend to change things in fantasy.

And the face? What could he remember about it? Surely, he could not have forgotten that mouth, that wondrous mouth, and the things it had done to him.

Blast. Was there a way to be sure?

He could hardly ask her. If she was not Grace it would bring only confusion—and perhaps anger.

And if she was? It seemed she had worked hard to keep her identity a secret, so how would she feel if it was revealed?