Forever a Lord

by Delilah Marvelle

  She hesitated. “And what if I want to touch you?”

  “I’m not one to hand over that kind of control. Not during sex. Now put your hands behind your back.”

  She quietly set them behind her back, holding his gaze. “I’m only doing this because you want me to.”

  He loved the way she submitted to him so graciously and yet she still remained her own. “I know.” He leaned toward her, pressing her naked softness against his hard chest, and wrapped his linen belt around her wrists, knotting it tight to ensure she couldn’t free herself.

  He leaned back against the pillows.

  Leaving her nightdress bundled around her waist, he possessively cupped her bare, full breast, dragging that hard nipple against his open palm. He raveled a part of the linen that still clung to her body around his other hand, fisted a thick handful of the cool linen, then ripped it down and away from the rest of her body. It spilled off the bed and onto the floor.

  She stiffened but otherwise didn’t move, even when his hand left her breast and circled under her arm toward her back. Her chest rose and fell as if she were having trouble breathing.

  Which he sure as hell knew he was.

  He gripped her waist, digging the tips of his fingers into her warmth. “Put me inside you.”

  She hesitated, her cheeks blazing, and tugged at the belt behind her back. “I…I can’t.”

  “I’ll position it to make it easier. Lift yourself up a bit.”

  Lowering her gaze, she lifted herself just enough to expose his thick shaft from beneath the nightdress it was buried under.

  He held the tip of his cock toward her opening and rasped, “Now go down on it.”

  Though she hesitated, she slowly slid herself down onto it.

  A low hiss escaped him as her tight wetness surrounded his rigid length. Pleasure pooled through his entire body, tightening his core as he grabbed her waist and guided her up and down against his cock. The friction brought a shiver of heart-pounding awareness of the climax ahead.

  She closed her eyes and tipped her head slightly back, exposing the entire length of her neck to him and pushing out her swaying breasts, as her arms remained tied behind her back.

  He’d never seen anything so erotic. His fingers trailed up and slid down the length of her smooth, endless, glorious skin. He gripped her waist again and bucked into her, unable to remain calm or gentle.

  She fell toward him but he caught her and pushed her back up. Her panicked gaze captured his from above. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” she whispered.

  God, but she was stealing away pieces of his heart. A heart he didn’t know he had to give. Here she was bound because he willed it and she was asking him if he was hurt. “No. You didn’t hurt me.” Tightening his jaw, he pushed up and up into her wetness, unable to believe she was actually letting him do this to her.

  The shyness he had earlier seen in her hazel eyes flourished into a womanly pride as she moved against him. It fired his soul to know that he was the only one to have done this to her. “Kiss me. With your tongue.”

  She edged down onto him in between the rolling of her hips and pressed her mouth against his, slowly tonguing him.

  He closed his eyes and groaned. Gently, playfully, he forced his tongue against hers, tracing every stroke.

  As he thrust against her again and again, he forced his finger between them and slid toward her small nub. With each hard thrust, he rubbed his finger between her wet folds to ensure she felt everything.

  She moaned against his mouth, her thighs quivering in response, and tongued him harder, her body digging into his in an effort to balance herself against her tied arms.

  He could feel that delicious yearning building within her as her hips rolled faster against his own with an urgency that made him want to bite.

  Her mouth broke away from his as she quaked. She cried out, stiffening, and then moaned.

  Knowing she was climaxing, he rode up into her faster.

  Feeling his world was about to explode from the rippling effects of the ultimate pleasure he couldn’t wait to touch, he quickly lifted her in an effort to pull out.

  To his astonishment, she ground down onto him hard. Her passage gripped his cock so firmly and fully, he gasped out in spiraling ecstasy and spurted his seed into her. Once it erupted, he no longer gave a damn but gave in to it. He viciously dug deeper into that passage, trying to stretch the walls of her womb with his length. The feel of that tightness tossed him into a delirious state that shattered the last of his rational mind. “Jesus Christ.”

  He fell back against the pillows in disbelief. Keeping himself still inside her, he reached up, cupping her throat, and drew her face down to his. Pressing his forehead to hers, he rasped in a scolding tone, “If we keep at this, a babe is inevitable.” Setting her against his chest, he reached around and untied her hands. He massaged those soft wrists, trying to melt away whatever discomfort the belt had caused her skin.

  She quickly wrapped her arms around him and nestled against him. “I wonder what it would be like to hold a child of my own,” she murmured. “Do you ever wonder what it would be like? To have your own child?”

  It was as if she wanted a babe. He tried not to think about what a babe would do to this. Whatever this was. “Children make me nervous.”

  She peered up at him. “How so?”

  He was quiet for a moment. “They’re too vulnerable.”

  She smiled. “I think you would make for a very good father. Strong, yet yielding. You have a depth of compassion within you that reveals itself at the right time every time. ’Tis what I admire about you most. Your compassion.”

  No woman had ever told him that or noticed that.

  She tightened her hold on him.

  It was the first time he ever felt like he was truly being held. Not for the purpose of seduction but for the purpose of companionship. Real companionship.

  It was so bizarre. All of this. Not only the way she held him, but even the fact that they had been discussing children. It was a part of him he had never allowed himself to submit to. Not given what happened to him as a child. “Imogene,” he whispered.

  “Hmm?”

  “What are we doing? What is this?”

  The room grew quiet and all he could hear was her breath and his.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered back. “But I feel like I belong to you. I feel like I belong in your arms.”

  God. He smoothed her hair, knowing she was giving him the same answer he was giving himself. “We really need to talk.”

  “About what?”

  “About us. I can’t have you thinking…”

  She slid a finger down his chest and whispered, “I take it you don’t want us to be involved like this?”

  Why did it stab him hearing her say it? “I’m not…I’m not ready for something like this.” He closed his eyes. “I’m not ready to submit myself completely.”

  Her finger continued to trace his chest. “Maybe all you need is time. I have that to give. Tell me the moment anything changes and I will be here waiting.”

  The blind faith in her voice made him tighten his hold on her. It was like she was hoping he would give in to more. A part of him wanted to kneel to that, but he honestly didn’t know if he’d be kneeling in honor or if it would be an obligation or…more. He couldn’t dig into what he was really feeling. Or rather, wanting to let himself feel. “If anything ever changes,” he murmured, “you will know.”

  She nodded against him.

  He let out a breath, knowing he also had to talk to her about their day at Jackson’s. “I don’t mind having you at the training sessions, Imogene,” he confessed, “but I can’t have you at the fights. I kept missing shots and taking hits I normally don’t take because I kept seeing you. I hated the way you kept covering your face, because I knew I was making you do it. And I can’t have that. If we mean to win the championship, we have to focus on what will and won’t work. And having you at the fights, and me wo
rrying about you, whilst you worry about me, won’t work. Do you understand?”

  She said nothing.

  “I will do everything to win. I won’t let you down.”

  She half nodded, her hand tracing up his neck and into his hair. “If I promise not to attend your fights, you must promise to take fewer hits during those fights.”

  “I will do my best.”

  “Nathaniel?”

  “Yes? What?”

  “I stopped taking my medication today.”

  Why did he feel like she was telling him because she wanted him to be proud? He pressed her harder against himself. “I’m glad to hear it. Hopefully your fainting spells will cease.”

  “Yes. Hopefully.” She paused again. “Nathaniel?”

  “Yes?”

  “Tomorrow night, after training, and your bath and supper, will you take me up on the roof of our town house and dance with me? Like you said in the Devil’s Dare you would? Because I would like that.”

  How had she remembered the things he’d said? Even the things he didn’t want her to remember? “Is that what you want?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then the rooftop it is.”

  She nestled into him again but said nothing more.

  Though he wanted to believe that there would be far more nights like this, he wasn’t the sort of man who had grown up believing in anything but punches. Strangely, though, he was learning to believe in one other thing. Her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  It was a tremendous task—a most daring attempt—and superlative science, and that ALONE produced the victory to Power.

  —P. Egan, Boxiana (1823)

  The following evening—11:15 p.m.

  The rooftop of 18 Berkeley Square

  AS IMOGENE DREAMILY stared up at Nathaniel—his shadowed face mere inches above hers—and they silently rocked from side to side, not really dancing as much as swaying beneath the star-ridden sky, a strange flutter of anticipation took hold of her. One she had never felt in all her life.

  The soap-scented heat rising from his hard, muscled body, and the way the breeze scattered his still-damp hair, awoke a burning and a yearning within her. The sort of yearning she dared not question but only submit to.

  Wordlessly, his large hand left hers. That firm arm encircled her corseted waist and dragged her closer against him. The force of his smoldering gaze held her in place as steadily as did his arm.

  The way he looked at her, as if he truly believed her to be beautiful, made her revel in being a woman.

  The breeze shifted strands of her hair from her chignon across her cheek. He lifted his other hand and brushed it aside. His eyes held hers as his fingers slid down the side of her neck.

  Her heart pounded relentlessly, knowing this was what loving a man felt like. Being blissfully happy by simply looking at him. “You took fewer hits today from Jackson,” she whispered. “He barely touched you.”

  His warm fingers moved to trace her chin. “I tried,” he said softly.

  She smiled.

  A muscle quivered in his tight jaw. Slowly, he leaned down, his eyes half-closed as they focused on her lips.

  She tilted her lips upward, waiting.

  The night sky above them seemed to sway.

  His mouth feathered hers, seemingly hot against her lips. His wet tongue slowly slid its way around the contours of her mouth, tracing her lower lip and then her upper lip in measured detail.

  She swayed against him, eyes closed, enjoying the feel of that tongue as it playfully traced its way down to her chin.

  He edged them toward the brick chimney and gently set her against its rough surface. He released her, settling himself beside her against the chimney. “What were you like as a girl?”

  Her eyes fluttered open as she leaned heavily against the chimney he had brought her to. She glanced toward him, noting the way he had set his dark head against the rough brick and stared up at the sky.

  It was like he was trying to connect to her soul by gazing at those stars.

  “Odd,” she replied. “I always separated all my food on my plate, to keep everything from touching. The moment anything touched, I wouldn’t eat it. It agitated more than the chef, I assure you. I always kept my books in alphabetical order and despised having any of the pages bent or creased. I kept all of my dolls organized by hair color and always played alone. So in answer to your question, I was a very odd child. I’m still odd, I find.”

  He smirked and leaned toward her. “At least you don’t have a fetish of wanting to tie women up.”

  Feeling her cheeks burn at the thought of how he needed to tie her every time he wanted her, she asked, “Do all men do that?”

  He leaned back against the chimney and stared up again at the night sky. “No.”

  “Why do you do it?”

  “I enjoy it.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “I enjoy being in control.”

  She hesitated. “Do I not give you enough control?”

  A gruff laugh escaped him. “More than you should.”

  “Then why do you still feel the need to bind me?”

  His amusement faded and he eyed her. “You don’t enjoy it, do you?”

  She shrugged. “It isn’t that. I would like to be able to touch you, is all.”

  He shifted against the chimney. “I’ve never engaged a woman without binding her hands. I’ve been doing it ever since I was sixteen.”

  She stared. “You have? And is that…normal?”

  “No,” he muttered. “I just feel more comfortable when I know I’m in control. That way, I know nothing can go wrong.”

  “And what do you expect to go wrong?”

  He shrugged. “I can’t readily explain it. It’s more of a feeling. Not that anything will, but that it could. The assurance of bindings allows me to not think about anything. It allows me to let go.”

  She chewed her lower lip for a moment and eventually confided, “I don’t mind knowing it pleases you. I would let you do anything to me knowing it pleases you.”

  Another gruff laugh escaped him. “Now, now, we really need to teach you to be a little less submissive or we’ll be moving into whips and chains and God knows what else.”

  She elbowed him. “I have a little more self-respect for myself than that. I only submit to you because I want to. And only sexually.”

  He clicked his tongue. “That isn’t completely true. You submit even when you don’t want to. I’ve seen it. You let me take complete control. Complete.”

  “That isn’t true.”

  “It is. If I wanted to strip you naked here on the roof, I know you would let me.”

  She stared. “I would not.”

  He pushed away from the chimney and, turning toward her, set both hands against the side of her head. “No?” Leaning in close, he held her gaze, reached down with his other hand and dragged up her gown to her knee. Still holding her gaze, he slid his hand up her thigh.

  She couldn’t breathe, her chest was so tight.

  Still holding her gaze, his fingers trailed to the inside of her thighs and without warning his finger slipped deep inside of her. “You see. You would. You allow yourself to become too overwhelmed. You hand over control to me every time.”

  She choked, her hands pressing against the scraping brick. Her entire body pulsed right down to her scraped palms and her limbs quaked in an effort to stay upright. “You aren’t being fair.”

  A breath escaped him. “Life isn’t always fair.” Removing his finger and hand, he slid away from her skirts, letting them drop.

  To her astonishment, he turned her around and, taking her hands from her sides, propped them both high against the brick she now faced. “Keep them there. And don’t move.”

  His hands skimmed and drifted toward her back as he commenced unhooking her gown from shoulder to waist.

  Between disbelieving, hazy breaths, she glanced back at him. “What are you doing?”

  “Undressing you.
Isn’t that obvious?” He finished unhooking her gown and, removing her hands from the brick wall, pushed the sleeves down her arms, exposing her corset and chemise beneath. With a quick tug, he yanked down her skirts from around her hips, causing them to pool around her slippered feet.

  She gasped, glancing across the shadowed rooftops and countless candlelit windows below and within sight. She tried to scramble to gather her gown back up. “This is not a way to go about proving your point!”

  His booted foot held down the bundled mass of her gown against the ground, keeping her from being able to pull it back on. “The real world doesn’t grant favors, Imogene.”

  Damn him for making her realize just how little control she had. “You’ve made your point. Can I have my dress back?”

  He leaned toward her. “Show me you don’t like what I’m doing. Don’t tell me you don’t like it. Fight to get your dress back. Come on. Hit me. Do whatever you need to do to get it back.”

  She pulled in her chin, her heart pounding. “I’m not about to hit you. Even if I do want my dress back.”

  “Is that so? And what if I do this?” His boot swiveled against her gown, grinding into it.

  She snapped a finger toward it in disbelief. “You’re ruining the silk! That is my favorite gown.”

  “You think I care?” He held her gaze but didn’t remove his boot. “What are you going to do about it?” He set his other boot on it.

  The entire world was probably watching all of this. Whilst she stood in her chemise. Shoving at him hard with exasperation so he would let go of her gown, she muscled her entire body into making him move.

  Only he didn’t.

  Which only riled her more. Of all the— Gritting her teeth, she reared back an elbow and connected to his stomach. A bit harder than she had intended to. She froze.

  He edged back and softly clapped. “Bravo. You delivered your first hit. How did that feel?”

  “Wrong.” She bustled back toward her heap of a gown, oddly pleased with herself for having won it back. Jumping into it, she yanked it up and into place. “So I’m a little submissive. What of it?”