Mastering the Marquess (Bound and Determined)

by Lavinia Kent

  There was no way he was letting her go now; the taste for power and control filled him. This was his moment. “Why leave? Do you so object to being flat on your back in my bed? Isn’t that what you were complaining about? And I have to confess, I like you this way. I’ve always preferred being on top, but perhaps we can experiment or …” He eased up on the pressure and, grabbing her hips, rolled her to the side until she was belly-down. He lowered himself atop her again, settling himself in the cleft of her buttocks. “… perhaps you’d be more comfortable on your stomach? I am sure I can still get the job done.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Louisa was speechless—and a little frightened. This was not what she’d expected when she’d entered Swanston’s chamber, although perhaps she should have thought it through. She’d somehow imagined that the night would end with him on his knees apologizing.

  She couldn’t even begin to understand why she’d considered that a possibility.

  Swanston ground himself against her behind, sending shivers of desire through her. An ache grew between her legs. She had to remember that he’d come from Madame’s. She was certainly not going to bed him when he’d just been with another.

  He thrust again, pushing her legs apart, pressing his sex against her most sensitive spots. Even her breasts were afire as they rubbed against the mattress, causing the thin silk of her gown to chafe in a most delicious manner.

  It should not have felt so good. Her anger should have been enough to shield her, but instead it fanned the flames hotter. There was something about lying beneath him, feeling his weight above her, his commanding presence, his domination.

  She fought against the feeling, fought against him. She pressed down on the bed, trying to buck him off, trying to show that she would have her way. Pushing with one hand and then the other, she began to sway, fighting for her freedom—only to have him grab her arms and pull her hands behind her.

  She was his captive.

  His weight pressed her down; only her head and her legs below the knee could move. She struggled harder, kicking up with her feet, swinging her head. It was useless. He rode her as ably as a jockey on an old swaybacked mare.

  This could not happen.

  She fought on, releasing a stream of the worst swearwords that she knew, which unfortunately mostly consisted of “bloody” combined with something else. Bloody rodent. Bloody weasel. Bloody ass.

  He stayed put with ease. And was that laughter she heard?

  She would not let him win.

  If only it didn’t feel so good having him rub against her. Even their position, which should have infuriated her, was doing something to her. It was maddening. It was aggravating. But it was also very, very arousing.

  She didn’t want to feel this way.

  With sudden inspiration, she let her whole body relax, melting into the bed. Above her she felt his hold loosen, just in the slightest, as he assessed the situation.

  She waited, hardly breathing.

  He was still and quiet above her.

  One more moment.

  This was it.

  With a sudden lurch, her body rose from the bed, twisting hard to the left.

  Freedom.

  His hands had loosened on her wrists, and she pulled out as his body fell from her.

  Her feet hit the floor, her legs ready to surge.

  But then he had her again, his strong fingers digging into her wrist, twisting it.

  Pain radiated up her arm and she gasped, crying in pain, not pleasure.

  And for the first time she felt true fear. Not of the situation, but of him.

  He would not let her go. She was his for the taking. He would win. She was his.

  And then, he heard her cry.

  For a moment, a second, a minute, he had forgotten—forgotten who he was with: his wife.

  This was no game, not even a rough one.

  He froze, unsure of what action to take.

  The look of panic that marked her face was genuine, and offered no hint of amusement.

  Part of his role had always been to understand his partner, to push and push, but never break. A small amount of fear could be good, heighten the senses, but what he saw on Louisa’s face went beyond that.

  Her eyes were huge and dark, stormy. Beneath, her lips were drawn, her cheeks pale.

  “Do you want me to release you?” he asked, his voice hardly above a whisper.

  Her chin bobbed up and down.

  “Will you promise not to run?” He could not lose her now. He felt his own fear.

  Another nod.

  He opened his fingers slowly, dropped his arms to his sides. “I did not mean to scare you, to hurt you.”

  Her lips quivered, but answered, “I believe you.”

  “That is good.”

  Silence held for a moment.

  Her gaze dropped to her feet, her bare toes curling, and he could feel nerves and embarrassment begin to grow within her.

  This was a moment that could change everything. “Do you want to stop?”

  Candlelight glinted on her hair, a multitude of shades shimmering, as she lifted her head. “I do not understand.”

  Sucking air into his lungs, he fought for the right words, wishing his head were clearer—and that all his blood was not still gathered somewhere lower. “I would like you to climb back into the bed. Even more than that, I’d like to place you there myself. And Louisa: I was not with another woman tonight. You do not have to believe me, but it is the truth.”

  Small white teeth bit down on her lower lip. Her eyes dropped from his again. A slender hand clenched tight and then released. She did not speak, but slowly turned and shimmied up onto the bed, and then crawled to the far edge, her bare toes sneaking beneath the edge of the coverlet.

  Moving very slowly, he sat on the edge of the bed. “I am going to take off my boots now. I was just about to when you first entered.”

  Using the toe of one boot, he positioned the bootjack on the floor and slid his heel into position. He would have liked to ask her for help. There was something about a woman with her legs spread about his, pulling on his boot, that had always gotten to him. But this was not the time—definitely not the time.

  He slid the one tall boot from his calf and then shifted to remove the other. When the boots stood side by side, he turned to her again. “I am going to take off my breeches now.”

  No response, but she did not withdraw farther away.

  He slipped the black breeches down his legs and then, folding them in half, stood and moved to place them over the back of a chair, his shirttails sliding about his thighs.

  He returned to the bed, sat, debated his next action.

  It would be very easy to blow out the candles and return to life before this night.

  Well, perhaps not easy. He felt the stiff determination emanating from his wife. The subject of Ruby’s would have to be dealt with in more detail, but not tonight.

  Combing fingers through his hair, he waited for inspiration.

  It did not come.

  It was his move to make, whether Louisa knew they’d begun the game or not.

  Even if Ruby’s were removed from the table, he needed a wife who did more than lie abed, staring at the ceiling. Unless, of course, that was what he commanded her to do.

  Turning his head, he gazed at her small huddled figure, almost buried by the pillows she lay against, that magnificent hair spread about her.

  She should have looked pathetic, but she did not. His wife was brave and strong. It had taken him far too long to realize it.

  And as he watched her, other thoughts began to waver about the edges of his consciousness. This was all too familiar: the huddling, hiding woman and the smell of roses and cinnamon.

  He knew why it was familiar, but was not yet ready to think too much on it.

  “May I rub your back?” he asked. Few women refused that.

  “Rub my back?”

  “Yes, nothing but rubbing your back.”


  “I will allow that.” She did not sound as sure as he would have liked.

  He waited, but she did not move.

  “It is best if you lie down on your belly,” he said after a while.

  “In the same position I was in before?” She spoke with hesitation.

  “Yes.” He had not thought about that, but it was not the time to reconsider.

  She inched across the bed before slowly moving into a prone position. Her body remained stiff, her head turned from him.

  He reached over and laid one hand upon her upper back, waiting until her breathing slowed to position the other.

  He did not speak or move, just sat there with his hands upon the pink silk.

  Her muscles relaxed—not completely, but enough.

  Easing his hands up and down, from her neck to the small of her back, he let her grow accustomed to his touch. The friction of the silk warmed her beneath his touch, but still he continued with long, slow strokes.

  “That feels nice.” They were the first words she had spoken without prompting.

  He did not answer, but continued his strokes, pressing more firmly.

  He took a moment to shift his weight and kneel beside her. Her body tensed again, but then relaxed as he returned to his long, slow touch.

  Her breathing grew even, and he knew that she was relaxed even to the edge of sleep. That was not his goal, although he would not fight it if it happened.

  “I am going to straddle you. It makes it possible for me to put more of my weight into the rub while still retaining control—and yes, it will be the same position as before, but I trust you will feel the difference.”

  She remained still. Her breathing halted as he shifted his body, settling into the softness of her buttocks while holding much of his weight with his thighs.

  Up and down. Up and down his hands moved. His fingers did not stray; no wandering to the sides to feel the curve of breast, no slipping lower to caress her ass.

  “I’d like to move the straps of your gown aside. It makes it easier to ease the tightness in your neck.” That was not strictly true, but bare skin against bare skin was almost always preferable.

  He waited. She said nothing and he eased the straps aside, pushing them farther down her arms than was strictly necessary.

  This time her muscles did not even tense at his movement. His confidence grew. This he knew how to do.

  His fingers roamed up her neck, massaging the area at the base of her skull where her tension often lay. Then they ran down the length of her neck, the length of her spine, pulling her gown lower with each motion.

  When he slipped the straps all the way down her arms, pulling her gown to her waist, the silk sliding beneath her, she did not demur, although he sensed she was now far from sleep.

  Bending, he placed a single soft kiss at the nape of her neck, his tongue longing to dart out and taste the secret spot.

  With the greatest care he let his fingers encircle her neck; he applied not the slightest pressure, but let her feel his power, his strength, his control.

  He felt her swallow, once and again.

  His hands stayed still. He neither released her nor took the gesture further.

  She remained perfectly still—and yet, how different this was from every other night they’d been together.

  He shifted his hips, aware of his own discomfort, his own desire. He flexed his thighs forward, pressing his cock tight against her, feeling the quiver of her buttocks as he settled near home.

  He flexed his fingers once, not even enough pressure to be called a squeeze, and then let them relax and trail down her back.

  Louisa’s face turned to the side, and he could see her bite down upon her lower lip again, her teeth finding the red indent that already marked her.

  Another kiss upon her neck. And then slightly lower. He marked each shoulder blade with his lips.

  And then, moving up slightly, he closed his mouth about the curve between neck and shoulder, letting her feel his teeth. He did not bite, but let her experience the barest moment of anxiety before turning the gesture into a long, lingering kiss.

  A shudder ran through her, her buttocks clenching about him.

  It took effort to suppress his own reaction.

  He sat back and ran his fingers all the way down the indent of her spine, pausing at her waist where her gown was clumped.

  “Can I take this off? I’d like to move my rub lower, to massage your—your behind.” Was that the proper word to use with a lady, a wife?

  Her head turned back into the pillow as if hiding from him, her uncertainty almost palpable.

  “I think I would like that, like it if you rubbed my … my … my ass.” She almost squeaked the last word.

  He could not believe she’d said that—although he liked it very much, both her exploring her boundaries, pushing herself further, and the word itself being uttered in those soft, ladylike tones.

  “I’ll need you to lift your hips.”

  “Then I’ll need you to lift yourself from me.”

  He complied, amused at the matter-of-factness of the exchange.

  Amusement was good: It helped hold back his demons of desire, demons that faced a long wait before they could again roam free.

  Slipping her garment down the length of her legs, he paused as he reached her ankles, liking the restraint the tangled fabric exerted there.

  He settled himself again upon her ass, this time his heavy length slipping over bare skin. He allowed himself a couple of slow pelvic thrusts, picturing himself pulling those cheeks apart and watching as he plunged into her.

  It felt so good—and could feel even better.

  But not yet. He gritted his teeth and shifted his weight lower, resettling so that he was seated upon her thighs. Again, he caught much of his weight with his own legs. It would not do to crush her.

  He placed one large palm upon each cheek and then held them quiet, waiting while she adjusted to the new angle, to the feeling of cool air upon her ass, and to the knowledge of all her position offered to him—the knowledge of what he could do, of what he must be thinking.

  And he enjoyed—enjoyed the appearance of his own sun-darkened hands upon her pale, innocent flesh, enjoyed the knowledge of how that skin could redden and swell with a single firm swat of his hand, of how her body would clench and sigh beneath him. She was so pretty, so firm and pink and—God, he wanted to bite her, to devour her like the sweetest of fruits, to mark her as his and only his.

  The thought was so exciting he almost had to withdraw his hands to keep from marking her prematurely. Instead, he flexed his fingers, letting her feel the firm squeeze on each cheek, the slight separation of flesh from flesh.

  He squeezed tight, but not too tight. Hard, but not too hard.

  And again.

  With each movement he separated the cheeks more, letting himself see the hint of hidden secrets, soft, moist, womanly flesh.

  He could smell her arousal now. His lady wife liked this very much.

  “Lift your hips.” For the first time, he did not ask; instead, he commanded.

  A moment passed. She did not move.

  Another moment.

  Slowly, very slowly, her knees inched forward on the bed. Her hips rose.

  A wave of pleasure swept him. It was such a simple thing, her obedience, but it meant all.

  Leaning forward so that the length of his body covered her completely, he reached for a couple of pillows. The sound of her breath was muffled in the covers, but there was no mistaking its unevenness and speed.

  He pulled back with care, letting her feel the brush of his weight in its entirety. When he was once again on his knees he slid the pillows under her hips, raising them farther, positioning them just how he liked.

  Again, he placed a splayed hand on each buttock, spreading them wide, but this time his thumbs rubbed at her outer lips, teasing the swollen fresh. She was almost ready, her need apparent—and so was his own. Each second seemed an hour as he held
himself back.

  His thumbs slipped deeper, moving closer to her womanly core, working the moisture until it covered her, slicked her. Then he moved one thumb lower, sliding it along until it found that hard nub of hidden flesh. He heard her gulp. Her head thrashed once, but then held still, face buried in the thick mattresses.

  “You may move,” he said, aware of how the position limited her.

  She shuddered and then turned her head as far as she could, her eyes seeking him through the wild mane of hair. She caught his gaze and held it, and then unhurriedly brought her arms back so that they supported her body and gave her leverage. Her elbows did not straighten much, but each inch gave her freedom, raised her head from its nest of pillows.

  He sat back on his heels and admired her. What a picture she made: arched spine, achingly delicious behind covered by his hands, hanging breasts with heavy tips.

  For a moment familiarity overcame him. He had been here before, seen this before.

  He brushed it off. This was not a moment for memory.

  He circled her clit again with his thumb, watching for every nuance of her reaction.

  The new position gave her more freedom, but it also meant she needed to support more of her own weight. Her arms shook each time he teased and played.

  He wanted to bury his face between her legs, to taste the dripping honey, but still he restrained himself.

  Lifting his thighs from his calves, he moved closer behind her, letting her feel his weight. He thrust his hips forward, letting her feel the tip of his cock against her entrance.

  When he pulled back, she moved as if to follow. His fingers tightened about her flesh, holding her still.

  And still his thumb moved in its magic pattern, bringing her closer and closer, her flesh weeping with want.

  Steadily he moved his other thumb upward until it brushed across that other, more puckered, entrance, brushing it with moisture. He did not press or probe, but merely brushed—a butterfly’s wing.

  He felt the sudden intake of air into her lungs, felt her hesitation.

  He brushed again, waited for her mind to process the sensation, waited to see if rejection would follow.

  Her hips shifted back, moving against his legs. She did not reject, but clearly had other priorities.