The Marquess Tames His Bride

‘Meet my needs?’ She gripped her napkin between the fingers of her right hand as though she was hanging on to it, and her temper, for all she was worth.

‘Yes,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘But you have no need to be ashamed of them,’ he continued provocatively, as he made his way round the table.

‘Ashamed? I am not ashamed! Because—’

‘Tut-tut,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘You are blushing so deep a shade of crimson that there is no point trying to deny it. So don’t. Instead take comfort from the fact that I have been just as impatient for that waiter to take his leave as you have been,’ he said, leaning down to take the hand that wasn’t employed in strangling her napkin.

Her eyes narrowed. And then, as he brought her hand to the front of his breeches and pressed it very firmly against his hot, hard length, they flew wide.

‘Yes,’ he said mildly. ‘You have the same effect upon me as I do upon you.’

‘I do not… That is, I am…’

‘If I were to lift your skirts now and run my hand up your thigh,’ he growled provocatively, ‘I would find you swollen and wet.’ He noted with satisfaction the way her eyes darkened. Her breath hitched.

Yes, this was the way to play it. Keep their interactions firmly rooted in the carnal. Never let her suspect that his feelings were anything other than lustful. Never permit the more tender feelings that he seemed to be developing for her to take hold, come to that. That was how he would survive when she discovered his true motives for bringing her on this trip. By not allowing himself to feel, to hope, for anything more than what he’d get from a torrid affaire.

He guided her hand up the length of him and down again. Taught her how he would like her to stroke him.

She swallowed. Kept her eyes fixed firmly on his face, though she must have been able to feel him growing under the ministrations of her hot little hand.

‘That’s it,’ he growled, letting go of her hand. ‘Keep on doing that.’

But she didn’t, of course. The moment he told her to keep stroking him, she stopped, even though she hadn’t whipped her hand away the moment he’d let it go.

‘You are…you are…’

‘Beastly?’ He bent over her and fixed his mouth to the point where her neck joined her shoulder, a spot where she was particularly sensitive. And growled. She shuddered, as he’d known she would, and let her head loll to one side to give him better access.

‘Shall I ravish you across the table? Sweep all the dishes to the floor, and push up your skirts, and take you, fast and hard?’

She whimpered. Reached up and grabbed hold of his shoulders.

‘N-no,’ she panted, kneading at his shoulders and writhing in her seat.

‘No? The idea excites you, but you would deny us the pleasure of doing exactly as we please?’

‘No, it… I mean, yes.’ Her face flamed. She bit down on her lower lip. Her eyes filled up. ‘I can’t deny it. What you said…it did make me…’ She glanced at the table with a sort of sick fascination. ‘But we can’t—’

‘We can do whatever we like. Nothing is wrong between a man and a woman, if it gives them both pleasure.’

‘But it wouldn’t, that’s just the problem.’

‘Don’t claim you are too shy, my little hypocrite.’

‘I’m not a hypocrite! It’s just that…and I won’t claim it’s because I’m too shy, either, when you know perfectly well that you make me too…that is, I forget about everything I ought to hold dear when you start to…work on me!’

A dark, twisted sort of satisfaction flared as she confessed he could rob her of her every principle, just by working on her. That she resented him for it he knew all too well. But to hear her confess how very helpless he could render her made him feel, for the first time in relation to her, as though he was starting to gain the upper hand.

‘I know it ought to be that, but to my shame, it isn’t. It’s…’ She gave a little sob that sounded, somehow, resentful. ‘It’s my corsets.’

‘Your corsets?’ He straightened up a little, to inspect the rather rigid outline of the front of her gown.