Ask for It (Georgian 1)

Gasping and only partially sated, he released her breast and rested his head upon it, wondering if he would ever have enough of her.

Her fingers drifted into his hair. “Marcus . . .”

He rose above her, his arms on either side of her shoulders, and Elizabeth stared up at her husband, attempting to gauge his odd mood. His handsome face was so austere, his eyes searching hers. And she quivered, almost afraid. He looked angry, with his narrowed emerald gaze and harshly drawn mouth. Then he pulled away, the warmth of his body leaving hers, and she was bereft. How could he be equally absorbed and distant?

Marcus stood above his wife, taking in the sight of her sprawled and flushed pink, her thighs spread wantonly, revealing all that he coveted. His erection, covered in her cream, grew cold, but didn’t diminish. He watched, arrested, as his seed dribbled from between her legs. His hand reached forward, collected it on his fingertips, and spread it around the lips of her cunt, massaging the clitoris that peeped from its hood.

Mine, mine, mine . . . all mine . . .

Half mad with relief and pleasure and desire, he spread his semen around her sex, watching her arch and writhe, listening to her beg and plead with a detachment that was not detached at all.

Every inch of satin skin belonged to him, every raven hair on her head, every breath she took. For the rest of their lives he could touch her like this, own her like this.

All mine . . .

The thought made him hard as stone, swollen and heavy as if he hadn’t just spent himself in her. He stepped forward again, took his cock in hand, and massaged her with the tip. “Take me inside you.”

Half expecting her reticence, he groaned when she lifted her hips immediately, engulfing the sensitive head of his cock in liquid, burning heat. He arched his hips and filled her, falling onto his outstretched arms as he sank into the heart of her. It was heaven, the blazing clasp of her cunt around his cooled shaft. If only he could remain like this forever. But he couldn’t. Despite how right it felt, it was all wrong.

Gripping her shoulders to pin her in place, Marcus pressed his face against the side of her neck and began to fuck her, his strokes fierce with his hunger, skin slapping against skin. Wrapping her legs around his hips, she rose to meet his every thrust, returning his ardor, holding nothing in reserve, shamelessly crying out on every downward plunge. He battered her with his lust, and she took it, accepted it as she’d promised she would.

“Yes,” she cried, her nails in his back. “Marcus . . . Yes!”

It was like drowning, being sucked into a whirlpool, and he grit his teeth and fought against it. Yanking out of her encircling arms, he stood, feet flat on the rugged floor. One hand gripping the bed post, he withdrew from her body until only the tip remained encased, every nerve ending in his body screaming its protest.

Elizabeth burned. Everything burned—her skin, her sex, the roots of her hair. Frustrated tears wept from her eyes. “Don’t deny me!”

“I should,” he bit out. “For years I was denied.”

Rising to brace on her elbows, she stared at the place where they joined, where she ached. She had no power in this, none. And she would acknowledge that if she must. “You feel so good,” she choked out. “I will do anything—”

“Anything?” He rewarded her with a scant inch.

“Yes. For God’s sake, Marcus.”

He thrust deep and withdrew. Swiveled his hips and plunged. A shallow dip and then gone. Teasing her. And she watched the erotic display, the rippling of his abdomen as he fucked with such skill, the tensing of his thighs as he used his thick, beautiful cock to drive her mad.

She wanted to scream. Her skin was damp with sweat, her limbs trembling, her sex weeping. “What do you want from me?”

Continuing to vary the pace and depth of his fucking, his eyes never left her face. “Everything.”

“You have it! I have nothing left.”

He took her then, like a ravening beast, gripping the bedpost with white-knuckled force for leverage, the thrusts powerful enough to move her up the bed. He followed, pumping hard and deep with little care for her comfort.

Unable and unwilling to deny him, Elizabeth gave herself up to the turbulence of her husband’s passion, her orgasm breaking with a cry of relief.

Marcus held himself above her, watching her abandon, absorbing her trembling, feeling her body tighten exquisitely around him even as he continued to take her.

He could not remember any time when he had been more caught up in the sexual act. His entire body was covered in a slick sheen of sweat, his hips working tirelessly to prolong her pleasure and hurtle himself toward his own. He growled with the sheer animal enjoyment of making love to his wife, a fiercely passionate woman who goaded his desire and then met it with her own.

Feeling, emotion, need—they both worked together to take him to a level of sensation he had never experienced before. His heart aching, he gasped her name as he poured himself into her, wishing desperately for it to be enough, but knowing it would never be. The bottomless well of his need was terrifying. Even now, spewing into her, clutching her desperately, gritting his teeth until his jaw ached, he still wanted more.

Would always want more, even when there was no more to be had.

He rolled from her as if she burned him. His chest heaving, he stared at the canopy, waiting for his eyes to focus, waiting for the room to cease its spinning. The moment it did, he left his wife’s bed.

Her scent on his skin, her soft protest behind him, Marcus belted his robe and left her room.

He didn’t look back.

Chapter 17

Elizabeth woke to a bright ray of sunshine that snuck between the tiny gap in the curtains and slanted across her face. Stretching, she became aware of the soreness between her legs, a pressing reminder of her husband’s rough lovemaking and even rougher departure.

She slid out of bed slowly and stood for a moment contemplating what she now knew to be true. Marcus had married her for his vengeance and he’d gotten it from her tenfold, because some time between the horrendous evening in the Chesterfield garden and yesterday, she’d grown to care for him. A foolish, painful error.

Resigned to the fate she’d walked into with eyes wide open, she called for Meg and the footmen to bring up hot water for her bath, determined to scrub her husband’s scent from her skin.

She’d cried the first and last time over Marcus Ashford. Why she’d thought their marriage would be a deeper union was something she couldn’t recollect in the bright light of day. She imagined it was the sex. Too many orgasms had rattled her brain. In all fairness, his boredom had been obvious for weeks. Marcus had made no effort to hide it. Still, he’d been solicitous and courteous up until the night previous, and she had no expectation that he would change now that he’d exacted his revenge. She would afford him the same courtesy in return. So her second marriage would be much like her first, distant personages sharing a name and roof. It was not unusual.

Despite these mental reassurances, she felt ill and weepy, and her chest ached badly. The thought of facing Marcus nauseated her. When she finished with her toilette, she looked in the mirror, further distraught to see the faint shadows under her eyes that betrayed her lack of sleep and hours spent crying. It was best she leave the house for a while. This was not home yet, it was very much Marcus’s bastion, and the memories she’d made in her history with the house were not pleasant. She took a deep breath and headed down to the foyer.

Passing through the hall, she looked at the clock and saw it was still early morning. Because of the hour, she was surprised to find Marcus’s family at breakfast. She felt dwarfed as her tall brothers-in-law rose at her entry. They were a pleasant lot, the Ashfords, but at the moment she wished only to be alone to lick her wounds.

“Good morning, Elizabeth,” greeted the lovely Dowager Countess of Westfield.

“Good morning,” she returned with the best smile she could manage.

Elaine Ashford was a be

autiful and gracious woman with golden hair the color of fresh butter and eyes of emerald green that became translucent when she smiled. “You are up early this morning.”

Paul grinned. “Is Marcus still abed?” When Elizabeth nodded, he tossed his head back and laughed aloud. “He’s upstairs sleeping off his wedding night, and you are down here dressed flawlessly and ready to go out, unless I miss my guess.”

Elizabeth blushed and smoothed her skirts.

Smiling affectionately, Paul said, “Now we see how our beautiful new sister has led our bachelor brother to the altar. Twice.”

Robert choked on his eggs.

“Paul,” Elaine admonished, her eyes lit with reluctant amusement. “You are embarrassing Elizabeth.”

Shaking her head, Elizabeth was unable to hide her smile. Due to her injury, and the need to hide the knowledge of it, she’d had precious little time to become reacquainted with Marcus’s family. But she knew from her earlier association that they were a light-hearted, mirthful group with a wicked sense of humor, due considerably to Paul’s penchant for good-natured teasing. That he chose to tease her so informally made her feel accepted into their tight circle, and relieved some of the tension that made her shoulders ache.

Although physically of the same height and breadth of shoulder as Marcus, Paul had black hair and warm, chocolate brown eyes. Three years younger than Marcus and equally handsome, Paul could take Society, and its eager debutantes, by storm if he wished, which he didn’t. Instead, he preferred to remain in Westfield. Elizabeth had yet to discern why he chose to isolate himself in the country, but it was a mystery she intended to unravel at some point.

Robert, the youngest, was nearly the spitting image of Marcus with the same rich sable hair and emerald green eyes, which were charmingly enhanced by spectacles. He was an extremely quiet and studious fellow, physically just as tall as his brothers, but much leaner and less muscular due to his bookish nature. Robert was interested in all things scientific and mechanical. He could wax poetic about any number of dull and boring topics, but all of the Ashfords indulged him when he took his nose out of his books and deigned to speak with them. At the present moment, that nose was buried in the newspaper.

Paul stood. “If you will excuse me, ladies. I have an appointment with the tailor this morn. Since I rarely come to Town, I must exploit the opportunity to keep abreast of the latest fashions.” He glanced at Robert, still engrossed in the paper. “Robert. Come along. You require new clothes more than I.”

Robert glanced up, eyes blinking. “For what purpose would I dress in the latest fashions?”