Mastering The Marquess (Bound and Determined #1)(79)

Louisa was so lost in her thoughts that she almost bowled into a rather large gentleman dressed as Henry the Eighth. At least she assumed that was the costume. Who else wore hose and a large ginger beard—although the beard appeared real, so who knew?

The gentleman held out an arm to steady them both. His eyes seemed riveted to her chest. Refusing to look down to see if her nipples were poking at the fabric, Louisa gave him a soft smile—not that it mattered. He was not aware that anything existed above her neck.

The temptation grew to stick out her tongue. “Pardon me,” she said hurriedly, and worked her way from him into the crowd.

Two monks. One knight in shining armor. One Roman dressed in a purple toga—he looked over her costume and was clearly all too ready to explain why they belonged together. A harlequin, who was far too busy looking over an Indian maid to even notice Louisa. An exotic woman wrapped in veils with only her wide, blue eyes visible. A man of the desert cloaked all in white. A corsair and his wench.

Where was her husband?

She needed to ask him about the Countess.

Only how could she? She hadn’t even told Geoffrey that she knew he was Charles—how could she ask if he had slept with Lady Ormande? And she certainly couldn’t ask him about whips and wax.

Whips and wax.

Her thighs clenched. She didn’t even know what they were for, and yet her body reacted. Well, she knew what a whip was for, but surely … No, she wouldn’t let herself think that. She knew Geoffrey, and could not believe that he liked causing pain—or could she? It was not as outrageous an idea as she had once thought.

But wax? What did one do with wax?

Was there a way to ask without letting him know where she had heard of it? Probably not.

“Are you looking for me, my lady?” The deep voice caressed her from behind.

How could she ever not have recognized him, mistaken that voice? Louisa turned; Geoffrey stood before her attired all in black. Tight leather breeches clung to firm calves above his shiny black boots. A black shirt and full black cape attired his upper body. His face and hair were bare except for a slim black mask of fabric covering his eyes.

She took a step back. He wore no other costume, although he held a staff with two prongs rising from the top. Wasn’t that an attribute of Hades? Had he known what her costume was?

Before she could think of words of reply, he reached out and caught hold of her wrist.

“Come,” he said. It was a command that brooked no question.

“But …”

“Come. Now.”

She followed as he led her through the crowd until they reached the doors leading out to the terrace. A small paved path led about the side of the house, curving away from the lighted window. He pulled her with him, her thin sandals almost sliding along the stones. The way grew dark and shadowy, but he did not stop until they’d rounded the second corner and were far from the crowd. The scent of roses grew heavy about them as they walked under a long arbor heavy with blooms.

“I need to ask—”

“Shh,” was his only response.

“But,” she tried again.

“Not now. Words can come later.”

Well, that was direct. She wanted to insist they speak as he pulled her toward him. It was important to find out if he knew that she was Grace, important to know how long he’d known. But then her breasts were pressed tight against his chest, her belly cupping the growing hardness below. She shifted her hips against him, pressing tighter as the ache grew between her thighs. She needed him. Needed him now.

“God, I need you.” His growl echoed her thoughts. “I’ve needed you all day.”

And then his lips were upon hers, his tongue plundering without foreplay.

He was the conqueror and she was his to take.

There was no softness in him, no mercy. She did not know what demons were riding him, but he needed and she provided. She let her whole frame go soft against him, loosened the muscles of her cheeks to allow pillage.

Deep in, then out. Deeper. Deeper yet.

There was no mistaking his intent—or the meaning of his ravishment, of what was to come.

His breath was heavy, his chest heaving against hers as his mouth continued its assault. Willingly she surrendered, her tongue rising to meet his and then falling back as he filled her completely.

It was hard to breathe, but it did not matter. Her whole being was centered in the hot thrust of his tongue against her own, in his taste, his heat, his need.

She had never felt want such as radiated from him now.

His hands slipped about her, cupping her behind, separating the cheeks in a hard squeeze, pressing her ever more tightly against the hard arousal that pressed through layers of fabric, seeking entrance. She squirmed, her inner muscles clenching with her own desire. She ached and wanted, rubbed herself against him, wishing that nothing separated them, that they were already one.

He pulled back slightly. Her swollen lips yearned for more, felt empty without him.

“I can smell your want,” he whispered against her mouth. “Are you wet for me, dripping for me, eager for all that is to come?”

“Yes.” There was no other answer.

He lifted her, pulling her tighter, his fingers pressing into the folds of fabric, into her folds, seeking the damp heat hidden there. “Good. You know I will not be gentle.”

“Yes.”