Mastering The Marquess (Bound and Determined #1)(93)

And then her gaze fell lower: over his chest, still attired in tightly buttoned shirt, past his waist, down to the tented fabric of his trousers. She stopped there, again worrying at that swollen lower lip that had started this all.

She slid her legs apart, not far, but enough that his eyes were drawn to the slick moisture that spread across her thighs. His sex grew fuller—if that were possible.

Keeping her eyes fixed upon his cock, she slipped back upon the desk a few inches, her feet lifting again from the floor. She ran a hand across one of those inviting breasts, stopping to pinch at the turgid peak in much the same manner as he had.

He wet his lips, his mouth suddenly dry.

When she raised her feet to the desk, bending her knees to settle them beside her hips, he moaned. Her invitation was so clear, so welcome.

He stepped toward her. “You are too sore. It will hurt, will burn.”

“I know.” The smile stayed upon her lips.

“But …” He took another step in her direction.

“What did you teach me about resistance and being slow?”

He might be stubborn, but he was not a fool.

Swanston took the last step toward her, his hands dropping to his buttons.



Was she a fool? Louisa sank deep into her second bath of the day, her mind jumbled with questions.

What had happened this morning, and how had she let it happen?

Each moment had made perfect sense at the time. Each reaction had been true—in that moment.

But now, now as she sat in her lily-scented tub, her every muscle stiff and strained, she had to wonder.

Had all of that been normal? Acceptable? Had any of it?

Her mind still resisted, but even aching as it did, her body cried yes a thousand times.

If only she were not so ignorant … not that she thought the majority of women were better educated on the subject—at least not the majority of wives. She’d heard plenty over cups of tea, but she’d never heard anything about—about—blast, she didn’t even know a word for it.

Geoffrey had spanked her—and not lightly.

It had not truly hurt—not past the moment of occurrence—but surely a woman should not like such a thing. It did not matter that her insides still vibrated at the mere memory of all that had happened, that she had never felt such pleasure as she had in those moments afterward, that he was right that her skin had been so sensitive, so welcoming. Even later, when her sore behind had thumped upon the desk, each spike of discomfort had only added to the experience.

It was wrong.

Or was it?

He had not injured her. She’d worn shoes and hairstyles that caused far greater and more lasting pain.

And from their conversations she’d even begun to understand him, to understand it—his need for control and domination.

But …

The thought trailed off in her mind, because no matter how many times she examined it she had no answer, no knowledge on which to base her conclusions.

She lay back in the tub, the damp tendrils of her hair sinking into the sweet-smelling water. The scent was new, purchased by Marie—Louisa’s attempt to find something that suited the woman she was becoming. White lilies. Freshness and summer.

Was it right?

Was she right?

Everywhere she looked there were only more questions.

And there was no one she could turn to, no one she could ask.

For a moment she considered speaking to her husband, speaking to Geoffrey. He would answer her honestly. She knew that. If she asked him about what had happened he would explain, tell her the truth.

But would it be his truth or the world’s truth?

So much of what he felt was tied to his family, to his mother’s death. Could he see the situation separately from that? And did it even matter?

He knew what he needed. And she was prepared to meet his every need.

Or was she?

Whips. Hot wax.

After today, the Countess’s words felt far more real.

Could she really do that, even for Geoffrey?

A spanking was one thing. It had not been brutal. Her governess had done far worse with a hairbrush.

But, a whip?

Even as she newly understood the relationship between pain and pleasure, that was going too far.

Closing her eyes, she sank beneath the water, her hair waving about her. What could she do?

She sat up with a start.

Madame Rouge. She could talk to Madame.

Surely she, of all the women in the world, would know the answers.



He had hit his wife. That was putting it in a most extreme manner, but still it was the truth.

He stared about the library and considered.

It was far, far from the first time he’d played in such a manner, but it was the first time he had ever thought about it.

Swanston placed his whiskey back on the table, unsipped.

He had struck his wife and enjoyed it. He had not meant to spank her. It had not been preplanned. But God, he had needed it. The emotional vulnerability he’d felt had driven his need, his want, his demons. He might not have planned it, but he could not have resisted it.

Would he feel better if it had been planned? If it had all been under his careful control?

At least then he would have known he would never truly hurt her, injure her. Part of the game was always knowing that fine line. This had been different. It had been a thing of the moment, a desire to restore his world to its proper order.