Ask for It (Georgian 1)

Even as he thought it, Elizabeth’s steady steps faltered. She glanced around the church like a frightened doe. He stepped forward. She would not run. Not again. His heart raced with something akin to panic. Then she met his gaze, lifted her chin, and continued to approach him.

The ceremony began. And it was long. Too bloody long.

Eager to hasten the process, he repeated his vows with strength and conviction, his deep voice carrying across the packed pews. Elizabeth repeated her vows slowly and with great care, as if she were afraid to stumble over the words. He could see her trembling, felt how cold her hand was in his, and knew she was terrified. He squeezed her hand gently, reassuringly, but with unmistakable claim.

And then the deed was finally done.

Pulling her close, he kissed her, and was surprised at the ardor with which she kissed him back. Her taste flooded his mouth, intoxicated his senses, made him mad with desire. His forced abstinence weighed heavily between his legs, demanding the rights that were now his alone.

It was horribly scandalous.

He didn’t care.

Marcus felt an anxious, unrestrained emotion well up inside of him as he stared at his wife. It was almost too much.

So he crushed it and looked away.

Elizabeth tried not to think too much while she prepared for her wedding night. Taking her time with her toilette, she glanced around the room, content to be surrounded by her own things even in a strange place. The chamber was beautiful and expansive, the walls lined with soft pink damask. Only two doors separated her from the room where she’d first made love to Marcus. The remembrance made her skin hot and her stomach clench. It had been so long since he’d taken her, just thought of the night to come made her shiver in anticipation.

Despite the endless desire she’d become accustomed to, it was still terrifying to have married a man whose will was greater than her own. A man so determined to achieve the realization of his goals that nothing was allowed to stand in his way. Could she influence such a man? Convince him to change his ways? Perhaps change was not even possible and she was foolish to hope.

When she finished bathing, she instructed Meg to leave her hair down, then she excused her abigail for the night. Elizabeth walked to her bed where her night rail and robe awaited her. Both garments had been especially ordered for her trousseau. Admiring them, she brushed her fingertips over the gossamer-thin fabric and costly lace.

She paused as her wedding ring caught the candlelight. It was so different from the much simpler set chosen by Hawthorne. Marcus had given her a massive diamond ring, the large center stone surrounded by a multitude of rubies. It was impossible to ignore, a blatant claim to her, and if that was not enough, the Westfield crest was etched upon the band.

There was a quick rap at her bedroom door and Elizabeth moved to pick up the night rail, then thought better of it. Her husband was a man of voracious sexual appetite and his interest lately had been less than warm. If she hoped to keep him engaged, she would have to be more daring. She didn’t have the experience his many lovers had, but she had enthusiasm. One could only hope that would be enough.

Disregarding the garments, she called for him to enter. She took a fortifying breath and turned around. Marcus opened the door and then came to a halt just inside. Dressed in a thick black satin robe, his body visibly tensed at the sight of her. Frozen on the threshold, his emerald eyes smoldered and a tingling awareness flared over her skin. Elizabeth fought back the urge to cover herself with her hands, lifting her chin in a display of courage she didn’t feel.

His low and husky voice brought goose bumps to her skin. “Wearing no more than my ring, you are beyond beautiful.”

He stepped inside and closed the door, his movements deceptively casual. But she was not deceived. She sensed the fine, taut alertness about him. She watched in fascination as the front of his robe twitched and then rose with his erection. Her mouth watered, her nails digging into her palms as she waited for the halves of the robe to part and reveal that part of him she coveted.

“You’re staring, love.”

His robe swirled gently around his legs as he crossed the room to her, his body drawing close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him. His scent of sandalwood and citrus surrounded her, and her nipples peaked tight and hard, spreading sharp tendrils of desire from her breasts to her sex. She bit back a moan. Her desire for him increased by the day, aggravated by the forced celibacy of the last month.

When had she become such a wanton?

“I—I’ve missed you,” she exhaled, waiting desperately for his touch.

“Have you?” He stared down at her with a rapt expression and she returned the scrutiny, noting the rigidness of his jaw that belied the heat of his gaze. He’d grown so distant, a charming stranger. Then his hand was between her legs, his long middle finger slipping through the lips of her sex to glide through her cream. “Yes, I see you have.”

She whimpered when he pulled away and Marcus soothed her with a soft murmur.

His hands moved without haste to the belt of his robe. He tugged the trailing ends free and parted the edges, revealing the rippling power of his abdomen and the hard, pulsing length of his cock. Framed by the ebony lining of his robe, his lean body was stunning.

Elizabeth tore her gaze upward and met his. She said what she needed him to know, needed him to understand. “You belong to me.”

Wanting to break through the sudden chill in his features, she lifted her hand, her fingertips drifting along the side of his throat and farther down his chest. He sucked in a breath, his skin heating under her touch.

Her mouth curved as she relished the power she held over him. She’d never known it could be like this, had never really wanted it to be like this, but he was hers now. That fact altered everything.

Marcus lifted her by the waist and took the one step to the bed. “Lady Westfield,” he growled, setting her down on the very lip and surging forward, his cock piercing deep into her with a single heavy thrust.

Elizabeth cried out, writhing away from the unexpected and painful intrusion, but he held her fast. He forced himself over her, pressing her into the bed, his robe a silken cage around their joined bodies. His mouth captured hers in a devastating kiss, his tongue thrusting in a blatant rhythm that robbed her of her senses.

This was no careful, coaxing seduction, as their previous encounters had been. This was a claiming of the basest kind, one that left her momentarily stunned and confused. She knew his touch, her senses recognized his scent and the feel of his body, but the man himself was a stranger to her. So intent and brutally possessive, throbbing hot and hard inside her.

One large hand found her breast and squeezed roughly, breaking her temporary paralysis. His thighs tightened against hers as he slid a fraction deeper. She struggled beneath him, turning her head to gasp for air. His lips moved on, trailing down her cheek, his teeth nipping sharply at her earlobe.

“You belong to me,” he said gruffly.

A threat. She stilled as realization hit.

He wanted her submission. The ring, his name, her desire . . . it was not enough to soothe him.

“Why take what I would give freely?” she whispered, wondering if perhaps it was the only way he could have her, the only way she’d ever given herself. She thought back, trying to remember a time when she’d tendered herself without duress.

He groaned and buried his face in her neck. “You’ve

given me nothing freely. I’ve paid with blood for all that I have of you.”

Elizabeth’s hands slipped beneath his robe and caressed the rippling cords of his back. He arched into her touch, sweating in his need, grinding his hips desperately against hers until she soothed him with her voice. “Let me give you what you want.”

Marcus clasped Elizabeth to his chest with a crushing grip, biting the top of her shoulder as her cunt rippled along his cock in a teasing caress. “Witch,” he whispered, laving the indentions left by his teeth.

He’d come to her room with a singular purpose, to slake their mutual need and consummate the marriage so long in coming. It was meant to be a dance, one of which he knew all the steps, a carefully planned encounter without the unwanted abandoned intimacy. But she’d met him naked, gilded by firelight, hair tumbled about her shoulders and chin lifted with a Jezebel’s pride. She’d stood there and said he belonged to her. All these years she’d cared nothing for him, and now, now, after all he’d suffered, she claimed the victory.

And she had won. He was ensnared, gripped tight by her lithe thighs and creamy depths, her fingers kneading and drifting across his back.

Lost in her embrace, he arched his spine upward and kissed a fiery trail down her throat to her breasts. He licked and savored the pale skin, stroking the sides with his hands, cupping their weight as they become heavy and taut. Her nipples peaked tight, an irresistible lure, and he bit one crest, worrying it with his teeth before laving the hardened flesh with leisurely laps of his tongue. Marking her. As he would mark her everywhere.

Only when she begged did his mouth open and engulf her completely. He suckled her with slow, deep, rhythmic pulls of his tongue and lips, shuddering as the sensation traveled through her body to milk his cock. He could come like this, just from the measured clench and release of her silky tissues. Enflamed by the thought, he hollowed his cheeks, increasing the suction. His eyes drifted closed, his body shuddered as his sac drew up. He swiveled his hips, rubbing her clitoris, and then groaned with her orgasm, releasing his need in burning hot streams of semen.