To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(97)

For the ways she’d been violated, she’d not truly been touched, not in the questing way Marcus unfurled the now mythical secrets of her body, and not in the heat building like a slow conflagration within. Like unwrapping a carefully wrapped gift, Marcus drew her stockings down and laid them on the floor beside him. With the night air cool on her flushed skin, Marcus massaged the muscles of her calf until her eyes slid closed of their own volition at the luxuriousness of that tender touch.

She shot them open once more as he continued to move those questing kisses along the lower portion of her leg. His breath tickled and caressed her skin, and sent shivers of anticipation racing at the point of contact. Eleanor bit the inside of her lip and turned herself over to sensation. “Wh-who would have i-imagined that a l-leg could elicit s-such a response?” she gasped.

A golden curl tumbled over his brow and he paused in his ministrations to favor her with a half-grin that sent her heart skittering.

“W-well, I-I suppose it is not my leg eliciting the response, but rather your l-lips.” Heat rushed to her cheeks. Stop rambling, Eleanor Elaine. Stop rambling. Then, “I-I suspect the ladies you usually take to your bed d-don’t ramble in this manner.” Which only conjured unwanted, insidious images of Marcus with another woman; beautiful and eager in the ways he’d hope, taking him in her arms. And Eleanor hated all those faceless, nameless creatures who’d earned him the reputation as rogue.

The floorboards shifted as Marcus stood. Eleanor lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling overhead, not taking her gaze from the pale blue plaster as Marcus came down beside her. They lay with their shoulders touching, staring up at that same blue paint.

“I love you.” The deep rumble of his gentle baritone went through her. The bed dipped, as he levered himself onto his side. He stroked a hand over her cheek and she leaned into that soft caress. “I’ve only ever loved you,” he continued with an earnestness that sent another round of butterflies dancing in her belly. He brought his lips to hers and she turned her mouth up to receive his kiss, when he froze. Their breaths danced and melded.

She looked questioningly at him.

“I will never hurt you, Eleanor. If you want me to stop, whenever that moment may be, you need just say the word. That control belongs to you and I would never violate that gift.” He touched his nose to hers. “Do you understand what I am saying?”

Love suffused her heart, lifting the organ that had always belonged to him. He would not consummate the marriage unless she ordained that act. Rather, he would wait until she was ready to trust herself to him with this sacred gift. “Oh, Marcus,” she whispered and kissed him.

His body jerked and then he met her mouth in a tender exploration. As he slid his tongue inside, there was no pain or ugliness, but all the glorious desire she’d always known with him. Heat pooled in her belly and spread lower, and an incessant ache built between her legs.

He drew back and she silently cried out at the loss of him but he only moved his mouth, tormenting and tantalizing so that her breath came hard and fast. He worked a path of teasing kisses from her neck, lower, and ever lower to the neckline of her gown. Unhesitant, he placed his lips there and worshiped the skin so the fire grew within, spreading like a fast-building conflagration.

Eyes closed, Eleanor turned herself over to feeling. She breathed in the heady masculine scent that clung to his skin, fixed on his broad, powerful hands as he guided her upright, and then mourned the loss of his questing mouth.

“I want to feel the satiny softness of your skin, to worship you as you should be worshiped,” he said, his whisper a promise.

Tension flickered to life, as he unfastened the pearl row of buttons that ran the back length of her gown. But he placed his hands upon her shoulders and caressed her neck with his lips and desire tamped out all fleeting doubt and fear. Shoving the sleeves of her pink dress down, he slid it past her hips, and Eleanor kicked it aside, exposed, as she’d never been, naked to his gaze.

He studied her through hooded lids and she shifted under the scrutiny. The veiled expression gave no indication of his thoughts and then he spoke in tortured tones. “You are so beautiful, Eleanor. I have longed to know you in this way, in every way, since the moment I saw you smiling on the sidewalk.”

Marcus drew her into his arms and she melted into the hard wall of his chest. Her nipples pebbled against the front of his lawn shirt; the over-sensitized flesh stirred that burning ache between her legs. He cupped her breast in his large, naked hand and she drew in a shuddery breath.

Even in their youth, she’d never known the joy of his hand on her naked person. There was something wicked and wonderful and endlessly beautiful in the intimacy of his touch.

Marcus stilled and peered questioningly at her. He made to withdraw, but Eleanor placed her hand over his and held him close. Their chests moved fast to a matched harmonious beat. Then he leaned down and brushed a faint kiss over the erect nipple and Eleanor drew in a shuddery breath through her teeth.

“M-Marcus…” And lest he do something maddening and foolish like stop, she wound her fingers in the luxuriant, unfashionably long, golden tresses and held him in place, wanting him to continue, needing him to go on forever. And then God help her, he did. He drew the sensitive, swollen tip into his mouth and sucked. Desire mobbed her senses. She undulated against him, desperate to appease the agonizing ache between her thighs. And because Marcus had always known everything there was to know about her, he palmed the soft thatch of curls shielding her womanhood. A long, whimpering moan slipped from her lips, endless, as he delved a finger gently inside, teasing, and caressing so that her whole body was attuned to nothing more than the incessant ache that only Marcus could satisfy. “Marcus, I want…”