M Is for Marquess

by Grace Callaway

  “Get on the bench. Kneel on it and hold onto the back,” he said brusquely.

  With adorable awkwardness, she did as he asked.

  “Spread your knees farther apart.”

  She complied, a shiver passing over her elegant limbs.

  The sight of her posed with such decadence made his desire swell to new heights. His cock thrust fiercely upward against his abdomen, the head seeping with pre-spend. He ran a hand along the supple length of her spine, riveted by the erotic contrast between her milky paleness and his bronzed skin.

  Why couldn’t she see the damned difference between them, how wrong he was for her? How could she let him touch her with his filthy hands?

  This wasn’t some faerie tale. Sooner or later, she would realize that he wasn’t going to turn into some prince. The beast was here to stay.

  Get this over with.

  “Thrust your bottom out,” he said grimly. “Be quick about it.”

  She jutted her arse out, with no hesitation, and in spite of his self-disgust, his nostrils flared at the sight. Pale and trembling in the moonlight, the hills of her derriere beckoned like a field of untrodden snow. Unblemished, unclaimed—inviting him to leave his mark. Arousal pumped through him.

  He smacked her on her right cheek.

  She squealed in surprise. “What are you—”

  “No talking. Not unless you tell me no.” He spanked her other cheek. “Tell me to stop this depravity. Tell me to stop debasing you.”

  Her jaw clenched. She thrust her bottom out further, giving it a subtle wriggle.

  Christ. He couldn’t believe the spirit in her, the absolute gumption. His balls burgeoned in answer to her feminine defiance. Although he’d hardly used any force—he spanked to arouse not hurt—her bottom bore pretty pink marks. The visible evidence of his possession made him randier, harder than he had ever been in his life. Gritting his teeth, he administered another swat, cupping his hand, minimizing the impact but amplifying the lascivious slap of flesh meeting flesh.

  This time she sighed. Bloody sighed.

  Lusty and anguished, he did it again.

  What was it going to take for her realize what a bastard he was?

  ***

  Thea was bombarded with sensation. It was like being immersed in music, in a different world where reality was suspended and nothing but feeling existed. She was glad for the cloth covering her eyes; her senses were already overwhelmed, and seeing what was happening would be too much. Here in the darkness, it was easier to let herself go.

  To surrender to the wicked percussion of his dominance.

  Her hands curled around the cool, smooth back of the bench as Gabriel’s big hand smacked her bottom. The contact wasn’t painful—quite the opposite. Who knew that being spanked would feel so good? His touch made sparks leap from nerve to nerve. Wherever he made contact, tingling warmth and pleasure spread.

  “For God’s sake, Thea, tell me to stop.”

  The agitated arousal in his words made her want him even more.

  “Give me more, Gabriel,” she whispered.

  She heard him curse, and for an instant she feared he meant to stop altogether. Then he growled and branding kisses fell upon her shoulder blades, the undulating length of her spine. Strong hands cupped her bottom, kneading, soothing the stimulated flesh. Stars flashed across the dark field of the blindfold as he suddenly delved lower, into her swollen folds.

  “Christ, your pussy is drenched for me.” His words were guttural, disbelieving.

  That part of her grew wetter at its naughty name. She gripped the back of the bench, her senses dissolving in a delicious haze as he cupped her, palming her soaking cleft.

  “Devil and damn, you liked being spanked by me?”

  He was catching on.

  Shamelessly, she rubbed herself against his hand, sighing, “Oh, yes.”

  “You want my hand here, petting your pussy?”

  “Yes, yes,” she gasped.

  “And this?” he growled.

  His fingers plunged, filling her where she needed him. She moaned, her muscles clenching on the penetration, the fullness shooting fire along her nerves. Then he began to move in deep, masterful lunges that pushed the breath from her lungs.

  “Push back on me, princess,” he ordered. “Fuck yourself on my fingers.”

  His wicked words made her giddy with arousal. She obeyed, her need mounting as she rode his hand. His groans melded with the slick sounds of their connection, driving her on, making her wild in her pursuit of that vital finish. She’d never felt more alive, her lungs pumping, her skin burning with need. Suddenly, his touch skated over her hidden bud, and the race careened out of her control.

  “Your pearl, your cunny belongs to me,” he rasped. “Your pleasure is mine.”

  “Yes.”

  He circled her pearl in rhythm to his invading touch. “Then come for me now.”

  His forceful thrust propelled her over the edge. With a cry, she flew into the glittering horizon. He caught her, one hand muffling her moans as the other coaxed out spasm after soaring spasm.

  The blindfold lifted. Floating on a cloud, she gazed up blissfully into his smoldering eyes as he settled her on the bench. Standing before her, he untied his robe and unfastened the fall of his trousers. Her breath caught as he pulled out his manhood: it was ruddy and thick, prominent veins girdling the length. The upthrust shaft visibly pulsed and strained against the confines of his fist.

  “Touch me,” he commanded. “Put your hands on my cock.”

  She’d thought herself well-read, but tonight her vocabulary was increasing by leaps and bounds. Excitement stirred as she wrapped her fingers around him. It was like holding a lightning bolt: a hot, potent rod that she could barely contain between her palms.

  “I like touching you,” she breathed.

  Approval and dark wonder heated his eyes. “Then do it harder. Frig me like this.”

  His hand closed over hers, tightening her hold on him, urging a new, ferocious rhythm. He was a powerful instrument, and she was eager to learn how to play him properly. To give him the same pleasure that he’d given her. Under his tutorial, she pumped with both fists, lingering at the engorged crown when that seemed to enhance his delight. Moisture leaked from the slit in the tip, lubricating her touch, making him groan aloud.

  Suddenly, he pushed her hands away.

  “Your eyes, princess. Give me your eyes,” he said as his hand jerked over his cock.

  Her gaze flew up to his. The glittering possessiveness she saw there thrilled her to the core. The mask of the Angel was gone. Gabriel was baring himself, showing her his primal desires. Trusting that she was strong enough to be his match. The muscles of his jaw suddenly stood out, his teeth grinding as if against a shout.

  An instant later, something hot jetted against her skin. She gasped as he climaxed with savage magnificence. Spurt after spurt spewed from the broad head of his cock, heat lashing her breasts, his male scent absorbing into her skin. Shudders wracked his powerful frame as he watched himself mark her with his essence. When he was finished, her heart was pounding as if she’d run for miles.

  Wonderingly, she touched her fingertip to the glossy droplet that clung to her right nipple. The slick, circling contact hardened the bud, sent a fresh hum of awareness through her. Her pussy dampened in a rush.

  “Devil and damn,” he said reverently.

  Her gaze raised to his. His chest was surging unevenly, wonder easing the harsh lines of his face. Fastening his trousers, he removed a handkerchief from the pocket of his robe. With gentle care, he wiped himself from her skin, the smoky warmth of his eyes making her throat clench. No words were exchanged, and yet a new connection thrummed between them. He dressed her, then drew her into his arms.

  Against her hair, he murmured, “What the devil am I going to do with you?”

  “More of what you just did?” she said hopefully.

  His laugh was raw with emotion, his arms tightening around
her.

  “You’re mine now, Thea. Right or wrong,” he said fiercely, “I’m never letting you go.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The next morning, Gabriel met with the men to make arrangements for the ambush at Covent Garden in four days’ time. McLeod had secured a stall for them directly across from Fielding’s so that they would be able to monitor Pompeia’s meeting. They would catch her or the Spectre in the act and nab them.

  As Kent and McLeod mapped out the positions where their team would lie in wait, Gabriel couldn’t stop his mind from wandering back to the conservatory. To the midnight fantasy that, in the light of day, seemed too preposterously good to be real. Thea had accepted his past. His desires. Hell, she’d redefined eroticism for him, all that he’d known before decimated by the honesty and strength of her passion.

  He’d debauched her, and she’d loved it, he thought dazedly. Wanted more.

  Suddenly, he’d gone from being cursed to being the luckiest bastard in the world.

  Because of her. His wanton princess.

  “You approve the plan, my lord?”

  Hastily, Gabriel drew his gaze to Kent. “Beg pardon?”

  The investigator gave him an odd look, tapping the map on the table. “You were smiling as if this were a map to Shangri-La rather than Covent Garden. I assume you find no fault in our strategy?”

  “Er, no. No fault,” he muttered. “Carry on.”

  Heat crept up under his collar as the investigator scrutinized him for another moment before continuing on with the plans. If Kent caught wind of his thoughts, the man would more likely than not call him out. Then he would be put in the awkward position of dueling with his future brother-in-law.

  For as soon as the Spectre was dealt with, he would offer for Thea. After last night, his honor—and the rest of him—demanded that he claim her as his. She’d provoked the beast; once he’d tasted her sweetness, there was no going back. There was only one problem. In the heat of all the revelations and passion last night, he’d conveniently neglected one topic: love. Specifically, that he wanted no part of it.

  His neck heated as he thought of himself in the early days of being a newlywed, when he’d been struck by a mad craving for the emotion. For a closeness that he’d never known before. Embarrassment flooded him as he recalled his needful behavior. He hadn’t blamed Sylvia for finding him tedious. He’d chalked it up to a bridegroom’s temporary insanity.

  He’d regained control, killing the outward signs of the emotion—but it had been too late. The roots had dug deep inside him, leading to misery when Sylvia had no longer wanted him in her bed. Keeping him trapped in a hell of love’s making.

  Give emotion an inch, and it will take a mile. Octavian had never missed an opportunity to point that out. In life and in war, Trajan, sentiment only gets in the way.

  Jaw tautening, Gabriel told himself that he would learn from his mistakes. It was enough—more than he’d hoped for—that Thea could accept him sexually. Desire was real and honest between them. He would possess her, but he wouldn’t lose control over his emotions the way he once had. Disaster lay that way. As long as they didn’t muddle up the business with unwarranted sentiment, they would rub along just fine.

  Resolved, he returned his attention to planning with the other men. After another hour, when they were satisfied that all angles had been considered, they wrapped up for the day.

  “If you’re set on participating in the capture, you’d best spend the remainder of the time recuperating, my lord,” Kent advised. “You’re in no shape to be chasing down a murderer.”

  “I’ll be ready,” Gabriel said dismissively.

  A few scratches weren’t going to stop him from personally taking down the Spectre.

  After the investigators departed, Gabriel went to find his son. Before he and Thea had parted last night, she’d suggested that he speak to Freddy about what was going on—in general, if not the specifics. Initially, he’d balked at the idea of causing his son distress by talking of villains and murder. He didn’t want Freddy to be afraid, to risk triggering another spell.

  “There’s nothing like the lack of information to foster fear,” Thea had countered. “Freddy is a sensitive and intelligent boy. He was almost kidnapped, and you were nearly killed. If you don’t give him some reasonable explanation for all that has been happening, his imagination will surely run wild. A child’s imagination can be far worse than the truth.”

  To Gabriel, open communication was a foreign concept. His own parents had not been in the same room often enough to share conversations of any length (he didn’t count the occasional shouting matches he’d heard between them). As a spy, he’d learned to hold his cards close for obvious reasons. During his marriage, the times he’d tried to share his inner workings had only annoyed his wife and made him feel stupid and awkward.

  Intimacy was not his forte. To his mind, it was preferable to avoid conversations that involved emotions in general. Let us never speak of unpleasant things, Sylvia’s voice echoed.

  But what if Thea was right and silence only led to worsening fears? The idea of Freddy being afraid did not sit well with Gabriel. Moments later, he found himself entering his son’s room. Sunshine poured through the open curtains, and Freddy was reading in bed.

  “Good afternoon, Papa,” he said, politely setting aside his book.

  Captain Gulliver again, Gabriel saw with wry amusement. Leave it to Thea to give his son a book about small people who could topple a giant.

  He sat in the chair by the bed, searching for the best opening. “How are you feeling today?”

  “Much better. I haven’t had a headache or a spell,” Freddy said tremulously.

  “That is good news.”

  Silence stretched. Gabriel’s gaze roamed around the bright chamber, dust motes sparkling in the air when the sun caught them. He cleared his throat. “You are comfortable?”

  “Yes, sir. Very.”

  “Good.” Gabriel smoothed an invisible crease on his trousers, cursing his own ineptness. What if he said something wrong, caused the boy to have a fit? Get on with it, man. “Frederick, I’ve come to say a few words. About what has happened in the last fortnight—namely, your attempted kidnapping and my carriage accident.”

  Freddy’s eyes turned as big as dinner plates. “Yes, sir?”

  “It has come to my attention that the two events are not unrelated. I assure you, however, that there’s no need to worry. I have everything under control and—”

  “Are you going to die, Papa?”

  To Gabriel’s consternation, his son’s eyes filled with tears.

  “No, I’m not,” he said firmly. “What gave you that idea?”

  “I heard the maids gossiping. They said the fire was so big you almost didn’t escape. They said it wasn’t an accident, and someone is trying to kill you.” A rivulet trickled down Freddy’s freckled cheek, and the boy gave a sudden sob. “I—I don’t want you to die.”

  “You mustn’t get overwrought, Freddy. It isn’t good for you…”

  Appalled, Gabriel watched as Freddy began to cry in earnest. He fumbled in his jacket for a handkerchief. Held it out. But Freddy didn’t even notice, his thin shoulders shaking, tears dripping onto the coverlet. Gingerly, Gabriel sat on the bed and put a tentative hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  “It’s all right,” he said gruffly. “Nothing’s going to happen to me.”

  “B-but people die all the time. M-mama died. And if you d-die too, I’ll be left alone.”

  Sudden clarity struck Gabriel. This was the first time Freddy had brought up the subject of Sylvia’s death. Gabriel had feared that the topic would cause the boy more distress and worsen the seizures, so he’d never spoken about it. Since over four years had passed, he’d assumed Freddy had recovered from the loss, and no discussion was required. Clearly, he’d been wrong; he had to say something now.

  “I don’t know why your mama had to die,” he said haltingly, “but I can promise you that
I will do everything in my power to keep both you and me safe. I am a man of my word, Freddy. I would not lie to you. Do you believe me?”

  His chest constricted at the trust he saw in his son’s tear-stained eyes.

  “Y-yes, Papa,” Freddy said, sniffling.

  “There’s a good lad.” Carefully, Gabriel blotted away the tears with his handkerchief. “In several days, I will be going with Mr. Kent and the others to track down the villain. We hope to capture him and end this for good.”

  “Will that be safe?” Freddy’s bottom lip wobbled. “I w-wish I could help you. I w-wish I was normal and not sickly. I’m sorry to b-be a burden—”

  “Hush.”

  Awkwardly, Gabriel tucked the boy’s tousled head against his shoulder. As his son’s small form shuddered with sobs, he felt an odd tightness in his throat. He remembered what Thea had said to him days ago. He’s afraid of disappointing you… he wants your approval more than anything.

  At the time, he’d snapped at her for daring to interfere. Now he wondered how he could have been so blind. Years he’d spent safeguarding Freddy’s physical wellbeing, worrying about the boy’s fits. He’d never suspected that his son might be hurting in other ways.

  When the crying subsided, Gabriel gently but firmly took his son by the shoulders. “You are not a burden, Frederick. You are my son and heir.”

  “I still wish I could help.” Freddy let out a quivering breath. “Be useful for once.”

  Gabriel thought quickly. “But you will be useful. You have a part to play as well.”

  “What can I do?” Freddy said doubtfully.

  “Your role is an important one. While the others and I are out capturing the villain, you will be the man of the house. You’re to protect Miss Kent and the duchess in my absence,” Gabriel said in solemn tones. “Would you be willing to do that for me, son?”

  Freddy’s lashes lifted. “I’m to protect the ladies? Me?”

  Him—along with the coterie of guards posted outside the Strathaven residence. But Freddy didn’t have to know that.

  “Now Miss Kent, being a female, will likely be worried.” Selfishly, Gabriel found that he liked the idea of Thea fretting over him. “So you’ll have to be brave and put on a good face. You’ll have to set the example. It’s not an easy assignment. Do you think you’re up to taking it on?”