The Passion of Darius (Somerset Historicals 1)

He touched her forehead gently.

“What do you think about in that mind of yours, Marianne? So many thoughts you must have. When you look like you do right now…I wish I knew what you were thinking.”

“Right now I’m thinking I want to do something…for you, Darius.”

His nostrils flared and his eyes widened. “What do you want to do for me, Marianne?” he whispered with controlled breath.

She moved from the chaise and knelt on her knees before him. Lifting her face, she pierced him with her eyes and rubbed her lips together.

Darius opened his mouth in surprise, but no sound came forth. He was a tight as a bowstring and ready to snap, but choked out the command. “Tell me what you want to do. Say the words.”

She was relentlessly frank with him. “I want to suck your cock, Darius.”

A kind of whimper came out of him, and she liked the sound he made. She moved her fingers quickly, releasing the buttons that covered him. His cock sprang out proud and hot in her hands. Gripping at the base with one hand, she lowered her mouth. Her tongue licked at the tip. She could smell his musky male scent. He jerked sharply and then arched into her touch as she closed over the head and pushed him to the back of her throat.

Darius moaned and strained under her onslaught. His harsh breathing just about matched the pace of her sliding strokes. He gripped her head and pumped into her mouth. And she liked every bit of what he did. From the f

irst, Marianne had found pleasuring him with her mouth to be exciting—never unpleasant. He did the same for her, and she loved that, too. He gave her orgasms when he put his tongue to her. But Darius had never allowed her to finish him with her mouth. She wanted to know what it was like when he exploded in passion and her tongue was around him.

She could tell he was close and doubled her efforts of sucking as he slid in and out. She enfolded his bollocks in her free hand and squeezed the tightening sac. All in a rush it happened. She felt the burst under her hand and heard the gasping above her head. The warm gush filled her mouth, and she held it as he convulsed into her throat, feeling victorious, and strangely happy.

When she pulled back from him they shared another look. He stared at her mouth. She slowly swallowed the salty tang and smiled at him. His face broke in an expression of near pain, and he answered her in a rush of sentiment, spoken in Italian, the words harmonious and flowing, but nevertheless unknown to her.

Darius recovered quickly, restored his clothing, swept her up into his arms, and marched her all the way to their bedroom. Marianne’s clothes were stripped from her body the instant the bolt was thrown. He plucked out her hairpins, buried his hands in her hair, and was inside her before she could blink.

He became a ravening beast who took her wildly, looming over her, his driving hips splitting her thighs as wide as they could go. He suckled her hard, too, leaving fresh love bites on her back when he flipped her and took her from behind, plundering her deep and furious.

After that wild session, he settled down and slowed the pace. Languid and unhurried, he lapped at her cunny, tasting her, teasing her clit, making her climax again and again. He whispered more words to her in Italian. She still didn’t understand the meaning but found the sound of them to be very wonderful indeed.

“Your Italian words are beautiful, Darius. Why Italian?”

He looked surprised. “You do not know about my mother?”

She raised her eyes to his. “Your mother was Italian, then? I’ve wondered. You’ve a darker complexion than most Englishmen.” Touching his hair, she smoothed it back over his brow, appreciating what a handsome man he was. “Did she die when you were a boy?”

“She’s not dead. My mother lives, just not in England. Rome is where she resides, as she has done for many years. She named me. Darius is a Roman name.”

“I had no idea. Do you visit her?”

“Yes. I am a dutiful son.” Shifting against her, he settled her head firmly underneath his jaw, stroking over his favorite spot on her neck.

She caressed his chest as she lay against him. When he spoke, his voice was different. Marianne sensed sadness and regret in him. “My mother is a cold sort of woman. Sometime we will go to Rome, and you will meet her. It is no large matter though. I no longer seek her favor.” He turned his face so she couldn’t see his eyes. “My father met her on his tour of Europe and brought her here after they married. She was unhappy and resented me, I think, because with a child to raise, she could not leave him and return to her homeland. There were no more children between them, but she stayed until I left for school—probably to assuage her guilt. My father made certain I saw my mother for regular visits.”

Marianne’s heart ached for Darius. She pictured him as a lonely little boy seeking his mother’s love and finding the cold boundaries of duty instead. “She was not a proper mother to you.” Marianne frowned, thinking she would find it hard to be courteous to her mother-in-law upon such a time as she might meet her.

“She was proper, just not very demonstrative. I wanted her to love me, but I don’t believe she was able to show it outright. In her heart, she is too constrained.” He kissed her hair. “You are nothing like her, Marianne.”

“I do not want to be like her. I would show my children love because that is what a mother is supposed to do. Children are a precious gift, to be cherished and…protected.”

“Do you want to be a mother?”

“Of course I do, Darius.” But I don’t deserve to be one.

“Tell me. Tell me you will want my child, please. I need to hear that from you, Marianne.”

He sounded almost desperate. The overwhelming urge to soothe and reassure him was necessary. Something she had to do. “I want your child, Darius. I do, truly.” She kissed him on his chest, feeling him relax. It was a small kind of comfort.

“I am so glad. You will be a wonderful mother to our children.”