To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(98)

Except, she didn’t know what she wanted. For years, she’d believed lovemaking an act of shame and pain, and yet there was only beauty and wonder in Marcus’ touch. In the way he drew her erect nipple between his teeth and tortured that bud, all the while he slid another finger inside. Eleanor’s hips shot off the bed and she cried out.

“That is it, love,” desire hoarsened his voice and there was something heady in rousing that hunger in him.

Emboldened, she began working his shirt up his body.

He groaned and stayed her movements. “Eleanor, what are you doing?”

“It is only fair that I see your body and know you, too,” she whispered, her body flush with desire and her own boldness.

He dropped his neck back and his lips moved silently as though in prayer. In one fluid movement he pulled the garment over his head and threw it to the floor. He shucked off his boots with an ease any valet would have been hard-pressed not to admire. Then his hands went to his breeches and he froze.

Her mouth went dry, as she battled an inner war where desire warred with the logic of a remembered horror. If she gave this moment over to Atbrooke, she would lose. She would lose something that was beautiful and joyous and something she only should have ever known in Marcus’ arms. Eleanor gave a slight nod.

Unhurriedly, Marcus loosened the fastenings on his breeches, his movements exaggerated and deliberate, and his meaning clear. He was allowing her to stop him. But she did not want him to stop. She wanted to know all of him.

Eleanor gasped as he shoved his breeches down, revealing the thick shaft jutting out tall and bold from a sprig of golden curls. She closed her eyes and flopped back on the bed, staring at that pale blue ceiling once more. She could not do this. No wonder there was pain. It was a physical impossibility. The sheer size of him and the shape of her…Eleanor shook her head. No. No. No. It could never work. She stiffened as Marcus lay on his side. He draped an arm over her middle and held her close. Eleanor pressed her eyes shut and absorbed his warmth and strength. “It won’t work, you know,” she said, opening her eyes. “You are too big and I am…” She waved her hand. “Different than you.”

The ghost of a smile hovered on his lips and he grazed his lips across her temple.

“W-well, of course we have to be different in that way for it to work.” Nervousness made the words tumble out, rolling together. “But it is still not pleasant…and…”

He kissed her and the fear receded. “It will be pleasant,” he breathed against her lips.

“D-do you promise?”

Marcus raised her breast with the reverence of a commoner carrying the king’s crown and drew the nipple into his mouth. He laved and worshiped that bud until desire settled heavy between her legs. Eleanor lifted her hips desperate for more, but seeking, searching, and then Marcus provided.

He delved his finger into her wet warmth, working the slick folds until all conscious thought receded. She pressed herself against his hand. Her rapid breathing matched the franticness of her undulating body, and yet there was no shame in her body’s honest response to his touch. Marcus increased his strokes, moving his fingers in and out on a maddening glide that robbed her of breath. With a panting moan, she wrapped her arms around him and clung tight. It was as though he was lifting her up, higher and higher, and she wanted to continue that climb until she reached the pinnacle of whatever magic he now wove.

He positioned himself over her body, lying between her legs, and she froze as the remembered terror of another—

“Look at me,” Marcus urged with a gentle insistence that carried her gaze to his. “It is me,” he whispered, stroking her cheek. “It is me and you, as it was always meant to be and as it has always truly been.” He dropped a kiss upon her lips and she savored the sweet warmth, meeting his tongue in that gentle union that blotted out all fear.

Eleanor splayed her legs, taking him between her thighs and he positioned himself at the juncture of her womanhood. She braced for his swift entry, but he reached between them and again found her slick center with his searching fingers. A moan stuck in her throat as he continued his earlier torture until she was shoving against his hand, pleading for more.

He drew back his torturous fingers and slipped inside her and Eleanor’s head fell back at the beauty and perfectness of him filling her.

She reached up and caressed his tautly drawn cheeks. Perspiration beaded his brow and dampened his hair. She brushed the too-long tendrils behind his ear. Their gazes held. “I love you,” she whispered.

“And I love you,” he said, his words roughened by desire, then with an agonized groan, Marcus slid deep as though their bodies had been destined for unity and then he began to move. He rocked his hips slowly and she lifted her hips tentatively matching his rhythm.

And with each thrust, he drew her higher and higher up that great climb, to the edge of a precipice and then she stiffened as her body hurtled over the edge and she cried out, exploding into a prism of white light and ecstasy. She dimly registered Marcus’ echoing shout, as with his thrust he touched her very core, and then poured his seed deep inside. He touched her in a way that there was no pain or remembrance of the past, there was just them, as it was always meant to be.

Marcus collapsed above her, capturing his weight on his elbows. He rolled to the side and drew her close. The movement sent rose petals fluttering and dancing about them. Eleanor curled against him, wrapping herself in his warmth. A shy smile turned her lips up. “You kept your promise, Marcus Gray.” He’d shown her with his every touch, his body’s every movement, that lovemaking was a thing of wonder and beauty. He’d awakened her to the truth that nothing had been stolen from her. She was still worthy and capable of desire and feeling.