Mastering The Marquess (Bound and Determined #1)(80)

He released her and stepped back then, letting his gaze run over her in the near dark—and yet she knew he saw all, saw the lips that pouted for his return, the flesh longing for his touch.

His gaze dropped and focused on the breasts so many other men had stared at this night, examined the nipples pebbled hard against the thin fabric. “You let other men see you like this?”

“I wore it for you.”

“But you let other men see you—see your breasts aching to be touched, see the cleft of your ass wanting to be split.”

“I …” She could feel the press of his gaze, the firmness of his stare. “Yes.”

His lips tightened, but he did not speak. Reaching out with one hand, he pinched a swollen nipple, twisting slightly beneath the thin fabric.

She bit down on her lips, holding back the small cry that rose. It did not hurt—not exactly. There was pain, but also pleasure; it was a sharp welling of sensation. A single tear slid down her cheek.

His eyes focused upon the damp trail. He pinched tighter. “You will not do so again.”

If this was his response, she very well might. There was something powerful in seeing Geoffrey driven to this by her actions. “No,” she answered.

His fingers loosened, but slipped higher, sliding along the bare skin above the bodice. His other hand joined the first, rising up, along her clavicles and up farther until his large hands circled her neck, fingers touching behind, thumbs in front.

He held there, not pressing, but she could feel his power, knew that it was only his restraint that held her safe.

Their eyes met and she laid her soul bare before him, let him see all the secrets she kept hidden there.

His hold loosened and slid down, his fingers hooking in the delicate fabric and then, with a single yank, dragging it down over the turgid peaks, baring her to his hungry gaze.

“So pretty, so very pretty,” he growled.

She waited for him to touch her, her breasts swelling with want. His eyes moved over her, taking in the pale glow of skin, the puckered tips, heavy and tight. His lips parted and she watched him breathe, watched the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he examined her, examined the heated flesh awaiting his touch.

Only he did not move forward. He merely stood and watched.

A quiet shiver took her. She dropped her gaze, suddenly nervous.

“Turn around.” Again he used a tone of command.

“What?”

“Do it.”

The shiver grew, but she complied, turning to face the wall.

“Place your hands on the stone. High above your head.”

She should have resisted. She should have hated it, but instead she felt the heat pooling between her legs, felt the ache that only he could relieve. Her head fell forward, the stone cool beneath her burning forehead. With feigned reluctance, she slowly raised her arms, setting them above her on the rough stone.

He moved close behind her, the heat of his body warming her, his breath teasing the hairs at the nape of her neck.

What did he want? What was he going to do? The not knowing was torture. Her whole body tensed in anticipation, waiting for his move.

His hands settled upon her hips, the thumbs sweeping low to massage the upper curves of her buttocks, before slipping lower to squeeze and fondle the globes. And then with slow, steady moves he gathered her skirts, raising them high.

She felt the fabric glide along her calves, and then her thighs. What if somebody came by? It was too late to worry. She might have worried when her breasts were bared to the night, but now it was too late, now this could not be stopped. She did not want it to be stopped, could not have borne it if he stepped away.

The warm breeze of the night caressed her, sliding over those places yet untouched. She squirmed as air moved between her legs, as her hidden secrets were bared. She wanted to turn, to press herself against him, to have the hairs of his chest press against her breast, to feel his fullness pressed against her belly. The stone gritted against her palms as she pushed hard against the wall, refusing to give in to her desires.

“Open your legs. Yes, just like that. You glisten in even this dim light. Do you know what it does to me to see your desire? To see how much you love doing what I say? My cock weeps for you.” His thumbs slid down the cleft of her ass, until they trailed in her moisture.

A low moan escaped her lips. Now, her mind cried. Now. She held back the word, biting hard on her lip, pressing her face more tightly against the cool stone.

One of his hands slipped fully between her legs, delving between the folds, teasing, caressing, searching.

“You like that. Don’t you, my lovely?” His lips pressed against her ear, the words hardly more than a sigh.

“Yes.” It seemed to be the only word he wanted to hear—and the only word she wanted to say.

And then his fingers were in her, plunging deep, driving her farther against the wall, and she could not restrain the moan, her hips driving back against him. More. She wanted more.

He pushed higher, digging deep against the soft flesh, not gentle or playful, but demanding.

“Ohhh. Please,” she moaned.

“Please what?” He pressed higher, fuller, his fingers stretching within her, spreading.

It was not comfortable—it hurt—but still she wanted and wanted, her need growing, the ache expanding to fill her.

“You. I want you. I need you now.” The words could not be contained any longer.