After the Kiss (31 page)

Eliza resisted the urge to jerk herself upright and cover herself with her hands. Instead, she remained bent over, completely exposed, but lifted her head and stared directly at his face, into his eyes. Slowly, steadily, she rolled down her left stocking and then the right. Not until she had finished and was naked to the knee did she stand upright again.

His right hand clutched a fistful of satin. His breathing was labored, the muscles of his thighs taut.

“Shall I continue?” she asked in the same silky, insinuating voice he had used on her.

“By all means,” the Beast said, his voice curt and harsh with what she was learning to recognize as leashed desire.

Before she removed any more clothes, Eliza reached up to pull the pins from the knot that had held her hair in place at her crown. It fell heavily down her back. She pulled it forward over her shoulders. It would not hide her nakedness completely, but it satisfied her need for some modesty.

“Go on,” he said in a guttural voice. “Finish it.”

When Eliza reached for the tie on her chemise, her courage nearly failed her. But the Beast had already seen everything, had he not? And though she played the whore for him, she was his wife.

She released the ribbon and let the chemise fall open all the way to her waist. She shrugged and the
thin straps fell off her shoulders. A tug, and the chemise slid completely down her arms. She held it by her fingertips for a moment, then let it drop to the floor.

Her mouth was dry, with no spit to swallow. She untied her pantalets and let them slide down over her hips to the floor, then stood where she was, her feet tangled in the cloth. Waiting.

Marcus’s mouth had gone dry. She was exquisite, her breasts high and firm, the rosy nipples budded. Her waist was narrow, her hips wide enough for easy child-bearing. He could imagine her incredibly long, slender legs wrapped around his waist as he plunged into her.

“Get into bed,” he said. “I will extinguish the candles.”

For an instant, her eyes revealed stark terror. Then she was gone, scrambling under the covers he had asked Griggs to turn down, yanking the sheet all the way up to her neck like a terrified virgin. Which, of course, she was.

He stared at the torn dress still clutched in his fist. He had not meant to ruin her gown, and he would find a way to mend it, but that was the least of his problems.

She had begun this, Marcus thought angrily. Calling herself
whore
. As though he had not broken every vow he had ever made to himself to make her his wife. He had been ready to treat her as tenderly as any maiden on her wedding night, to soothe her fears as best he could. Knowing how she would be repulsed by his gloved hand. Knowing that she would fear the
horribly scarred face she could not see. Knowing he would have to hurt her, because she was untried.

She had denied her right to his kindness. Denied her right to his courtesy and respect. Denied her right to be treated as the inexperienced virgin she was, by calling herself whore.

Yet a part of him urged understanding, urged compassion, urged tendernesss. That small voice could barely be heard beneath the heavy beat of his pulse, the steady throb of his arousal.

Marcus rose and circled the room blowing out candles, until only one was left. His hand was cupped around it, his head bent to snuff the flame, when she made a sound from the bed.

“Did you say something?”

He saw the struggle on her face before she said, “Please. Do not extinguish all the light.”

“I must,” he said sadly, blowing out the last flame.

He undressed himself quickly, knowing that the longer she lay alone in bed, the more difficult it would be to broach her. He debated whether to remove the leather glove, but left it on. It was smoother than the ravaged skin beneath it.

Eliza was panting, like a cornered fox, when he slid under the covers to join her.

“Don’t touch me!” she cried.

He heard the panic in her voice. “Eliza,” he said, quietly, “You are my wife—”

“Your whore!” she spat.

“I have tired of this game,” he said curtly. Marcus levered himself on top of her, the weight of his body enough to prevent her escape. The shock of her flesh mated to his, her breasts rising against his chest, their
bodies fitted exactly at waist and belly, left him feeling dizzy and breathless.

“Get off, you oaf!” she ranted, shoving against his shoulders. “You are too heavy!”

He knew she was afraid, but her vituperative words stung. He gritted his teeth against a vitriolic response, took most of his weight on his elbows, and used his knees to force her legs apart and make room for his hips between her thighs. “There is no way to do what must be done without some pain. If you resist me, it will only make it worse.”

She bit back a sob, but her body writhed beneath him, resisting him, inflaming him.

He would rather have loved her before he put himself inside her. But it had been too long since he had bedded a woman. He was afraid if he waited he would spill himself on the sheets, and she would remain unbroached. He could not bear that ignominy on top of everything else. He was determined to make her his wife tonight. There was no turning back.

He threaded his hands into her hair to keep her from escaping and began pushing himself inside her.

“Stop!” she cried, bucking to free herself. “It hurts!”

He had never before lain with a virgin. There was no way he knew to prevent the pain this first time. He bit his lip and thrust hard, breaking through the thin membrane and burying himself to the hilt inside her.

She quivered beneath him.

“The worst is over,” he grated through clenched teeth. He withdrew as slowly as he could bear, trying not to injure her further, and realized with a start that the passage was not difficult, as he had expected it to be. She was not dry inside; she was slick and wet.

Ready for him. Excited by him. Wanting him.

He slid back inside her and heard her groan. Her hands clutched at his shoulders. Her nails dug crescents in his skin.

“Put your legs around me, Eliza,” he whispered in her ear. “Hold tight to me.”

Her legs cinched tightly around his buttocks, and she thrust her hips upward, causing an exquisite friction as he thrust down into her.

He wanted to go slow. He wanted to wait. But he did not pump into her more than once or twice before he spilled his seed. He withdrew, knowing he had left her unsatisfied. Knowing how frustrated she must feel, but unwilling to admit his own fault in the matter. That he had wanted her too badly. That he had been like a green boy with his first woman, unable to control his excitement enough to ensure her pleasure before he took his own.

Marcus levered himself off his wife and shifted to his side of the bed, lying on his back staring up into the dark, his right hand behind his head, the left beside him.

He could tell from the muffled sounds from the other side of the bed that she was crying. He felt the covers pull away and realized she was leaving the bed.

“Where are you going?”

“To my own bed.”

“This is your bed,” he said curtly, terrified that she would refuse to return and make him use force to keep her there.

“I have a room of my own on the other side of the Abbey,” she said wearily. “I would like to go there.”

“In the morning,” he said brusquely. “Your nights are mine. That was the bargain.”

He heard her swallow.

“I cannot bear …”

“Get into bed, Eliza. There will be no pain the next time, I promise you.”

Eliza was half-asleep when she felt something move on her shoulder. She brushed at it with her hand to get it off, but it persisted.

“Eliza. Wake up.”

Her eyes opened wide, and she found herself staring into pitch blackness.

She remembered everything. How terrified she had been, alone in the dark for those few, timeless moments before he had joined her in bed. And even then, how her imagination had created a beast where none existed. He had hurt her, it was true, but she had been warned of that pain. She had only wanted to stop him because, despite everything, she could feel herself succumbing to desire. It was fear of losing her soul that had made her fight the beast—instead of loving the man.

Eliza could only be grateful she had not been able to see into his eyes—and find love missing. Grateful that he had not been able to see into hers—and find love there.

She did not understand her feelings, nor could she explain them. How could she love the Beast? How could she want him? He was willing to make a whore of her.

No, Eliza. Not him. You are the one who started the game. He is the one who ended it
.

She quivered as she felt the Beast’s hand trace her ribs back and forth until he reached her belly. His fingertips seemed so smooth, not at all callused like—Eliza suddenly knew why his touch felt so strangely erotic.

“That is your gloved hand!” she gasped.

“It is,” he admitted. “A hand. In a glove.”

“I would much rather feel flesh against my flesh,” she said. “When I think of your hand in that glove, I cannot help imagining a black spider crawling on my belly.”

“A spider.”

She shivered. “A huge, long-legged spider.”

“I wear the glove to conceal—”

“Neither of us can see anything!” she interrupted. “It is as dark as the bottom of a well.” She found his gloved hand in the dark—resting on her belly—and began tugging at the fingers of the glove.

He tried drawing his hand away, but she caught his thumb and held on. “If am to be yours for a lifetime, then you are also mine. It is only a crippled hand, Your Grace. Let me remove the glove.”

“Marcus.”

“What?”

“My name is Marcus. Say it, please.”

“Will you let me take off the glove?” She had the feeling he was smiling. She reached toward his face to confirm or deny it. Some instinct made him reach up at the last instant to snag her wrist and draw it away.

“Marcus,” he repeated.

“The glove?” she demanded.

He made a disgusted sound in his throat. “Very well. Remove it.”

“Thank you, Marcus.”

She was certain he did not breathe the entire time she was tugging off the glove. When at last she had it off, she heard him exhale gustily.

“There,” she said, stuffing the glove under her pillow. “That was not so bad, was it?”
And good luck finding your glove when you want it again
.

He tried to withdraw his hand, apparently no longer interested in touching her without the glove.

“No, Marcus. I believe you were touching me … here … when you left off.” His hand trembled as she laid the curled fingers against her belly. She kept her hand atop his, moving it around her body where she thought it might feel good.

She could distinguish the criss-crosses on his palm where the flesh had been sewn, the indentations where flesh had been torn away entirely. But mostly, it felt like a man’s hand, with wiry hair across the knuckles, five gnarled, inflexible fingers, and fingertips that, while not as callused as his other hand, still had a texture rougher than her own.

She heard Marcus gasp when her pebbled nipple grazed the center of his palm. And bit back a gasp of her own, when he circled his palm against the sensitive crest.

“Your hand seems to have a great deal of feeling in it,” she said. “I thought because you held it so stiffly—”

“I feel everything,” he interrupted, his voice roughened by passion. “I feel the pleasure. And the pain.”

“What pain?”

“Sometimes my hand aches. No, that is not a
strong enough word. Sometimes the muscles tighten excruciatingly. My whole body rebels against the torture.”

“How do you stand it?”

“You may have heard that I indulge on occasion in an excess of brandy,” he said sardonically.

“Rumor says you have been disguised on more than one occasion since your brother died.” She paused and added. “I thought it was grief that made you get foxed.”

“I suppose it was partly that, too,” he conceded. “And other things.”

She wondered what “other things” might include. Ruining her reputation? Abandoning her? Coming home alive, when Julian lay dead on the battlefield?

Eliza laid his hand palm up in hers and began to massage his fingers. To her surprise, when she manipulated them, she was able to move them slightly. “Have you ever tried to make your fingers work again?”

“No.”

“Why not?” she asked.

“Why bother?”

“Because you might regain the use of your hand. Because—”

He snatched his hand away. “I don’t indulge in false hopes, Eliza. Hoping something will happen doesn’t make it so.”

“I was not hoping you would move your fingers,” she responded tartly. “I intended to move them myself!”

Eliza made a quick decision. From now on, whether he liked or not, whenever they were in bed together—and from what he had said, that meant almost
every night—Eliza intended to work on those fingers. She was no doctor, but Marcus had nerves to feel sensation and muscles that could clench hard enough to cause him excruciating pain. What more did he need for a working hand?

“Eliza,” he murmured.

She felt the tension emanating from him. She knew what he wanted. “Yes, Marcus?”

“I want to put myself inside you.”

“Again?”

Laughter rumbled in his chest. “Yes, again.”

“I am yours, to do with as you wish.” She knew from the protest he made in his throat, that he had wanted a different answer from her. She had not been able to give it to him. She could not surrender herself entirely to him. He could make her body sing for him—it was already humming loudly—but she had to protect the part of her that needed more than physical pleasure from him.

He did not immediately cover her body with his. This time he touched her everywhere with his hands. And to her surprise, with his mouth.

“Do people do this?” she asked.

He laughed. “I am doing it to you.”

“Is it … proper?” she insisted.

“My dear Eliza, you surprise me. When did you ever care what was proper?”

He had a point, Eliza conceded.

When his lips closed around her breast, and he began to suckle, she grabbed fistfuls of his hair to keep him there. Her insides began squeezing and un-squeezing with incredible pleasure. “Marcus, what are you doing?”