When a Marquess Loves a Woman (12 page)

But his ministrations weren't the hurried, frustrated fumblings of her own fingers. He knew exactly where and how to touch her, intermixing small decadent circles with sinuous caresses, and—
oh
—the sinfully slow slide into the undiscovered swollen tissue.

He lifted his head, seeking her mouth with urgent, demanding kisses. His hand was still between them, where the fall of his trousers touched her inner thighs, his knuckles brushing against her most sensitive flesh.

Seeking more, she spread her legs wider, tilting her hips toward him, a mewl of unabashed desire rising in her throat. What she wouldn't give just to tell him
“Yes . . . there . . . ”
with confidence born of experience, and knowing the answer. But this was all new to her.

Even so, he answered her plea immediately, coming closer, stroking her slippery folds again, nudging that intimate opening. Instantly, she knew this was not his finger. This flesh was hotter, larger . . .
much larger
, already stretching her. A fleeting moment of panic struck her, making her wonder if she should say something about—

Max drove into her, impaling her, his hardness unforgiving.

A soundless gasp stalled in her throat. Clutching his shoulders, Juliet instinctively tried to lift away from the shocking invasion. Away from the stinging burn. How was she to know that it would feel like this? That he would fill her completely, forcing her to stretch around him? None of Marguerite's stories had prepared her.

Max released a low, gravelly curse, his face buried in her neck, his arms cinched around her, his body stiff and wedged deeply. Other than his heavy breathing, he went still but remained fully seated inside her.

She panicked, not knowing what to do next. Thus far, everything had been rather instinctual, with Max touching her in ways that made her respond. But now, he wasn't doing anything. Surely this was not the desired end result. There had to be more.

“Is this terrible for you?” she asked, feeling tears prick her eyes. How could she face him after such a failure? Perhaps she never should have crossed that battle line after all.

“You are perfect,” he rasped. “Even more than I imagined.”

Perfect? She'd heard the word before, countless times, referring to her outward appearance. But never for this. And
this
was quite something else entirely. With a small smile tugging at her lips, she pressed them to his shoulder, where the open neck of his shirtsleeves had shifted to one side, baring the tight cording of his muscles. Relaxing ever so slightly, her body gripped his as it pulsed, cinching around him.

Beneath her hands, she felt him tremble, revealing his restraint. He began to move in slow upward thrusts. He murmured against her neck, her ear, her temple—indistinct words that formed an intimately erotic lexicon.

She'd read about the particulars of the act, had seen lurid etchings and romantic paintings, but nothing had prepared her for the overwhelming intimacy. How there was a difference in his eyes now—a tender but untamed intensity that darkened his pupils. The way his arms held her with utter possession, made her want to offer more of herself. His scent filled her lungs, every breath hot and tantalizingly musky in the combined essence of their joined bodies. Those intimate whispers of how it felt to be inside her were like another caress, stroking her mind, permeating every thought.

This was far more than mere sexual congress. It was a life-altering, wholly necessary, completion of her being. In this moment, she felt as if she was born solely for him. This was the reason she had lips—so that Max could kiss them. She had breasts for him to taste, to tease, and to suck. And Max had arms so that he could hold her. Firm buttocks so that he could thrust, again and again. And her flesh was soft and yielding, solely for Max's hardness to plunge inside, filling her.

“Let go, Juliet,” Max growled, a hoarse plea more than a command, the friction faster with each upward thrust.

“I am,” she said, holding on tighter. Didn't he know that she'd let go of everything the instant he kissed her? She'd abandoned every part of her being, every minute of her past, as well as her future, solely for this present moment.

But the more she clung to him, and the more he thrust into her, the more she felt as if she were losing control. Something inside of her was building, coiling, tensing. That scream of frustration she always sensed inside her threatened to escape.

Unable to release it, she held fast to him, sinking her teeth into the crest of his shoulder.

He cursed again, a loud echo reverberating as he wrenched free of her body, and a torrent of hot fluid sluiced against her thigh. His breathing was hard, like a bellows, rasping out of his lungs.

And she couldn't help but smile. She loved the sound of Max coming undone.

“I
did try, you know,” Juliet said after a moment and with a kiss against his shoulder where her teeth had left an impression. An eager, buoyant thrill still throbbed where they had just been joined, and she closed her eyes to savor it.

Max brushed the hair from her face as he kissed the corner of her mouth. “No. You fought it the whole way. I could feel how close you were, and it drove me mad.”

Only now did she realize that he was referring to
le petit mort
, what the French referred to as
the small death
, pleasure beyond one's control. Marguerite had explained that men who considered themselves good lovers paid careful attention to a woman's pleasure.

“Oh.” She looked away, suddenly feeling shy. If she would have known how to
let go
, she would have. For him. Yet she wondered if she was so used to keeping herself in control that she would never be able to experience more.

He turned her face back to his and pressed his lips to hers in something far too tender to be called a kiss. “I was a brute with you. Can you forgive me?”

“Do not apologize for treating me like a woman made of flesh and blood.” She swallowed down the sudden swell of emotion, her voice growing quiet. “You are the only one who has ever done so . . . as you likely know very well by now.”

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

T
he only one? Surely not, but yet . . . that would explain so much.

A pleased puff of air left Max's lips as he shook his head. He was doing his best not to grin from ear to ear, but it was difficult to hide the bewildered elation zipping through him. Therefore, to conceal it, he simply gathered her in his arms and carried her to the washbasin in the corner of the room. And what he enjoyed most of all was the way her head naturally fell into the nook of his shoulder.

Setting her on her feet, he let her dress fall to the floor. He took special care to cleanse her, not only her thigh and her sex but her breasts as well. He noted that with each brush of the cloth, her flesh responded, the dusky rose of her nipples drawing taut, each of her breaths becoming shallow, her flesh turning pink.

“Were you married to Lord Granworth in name only?” He had to ask.

“In the end, I suppose that is correct,” Juliet answered, watching his ministrations with obvious fascination. “I was more of an
objet d'art
than a wife—his
Flawless Representation of Woman
. And there were times when I'd wished he'd found a flaw.”

“He never touched you, desired you?” Max could not imagine that. Even now, he was making quick work of her stays and chemise, planning to make amends immediately for not having seen to her pleasure first.

“As you know, some men are driven by power, some by greed, jealousy, passion, or . . . ” She lifted her shoulders in a delicate shrug, seemingly unaffected by her enthralling nudity. “Lord Granworth was obsessed with inciting envy in other men. He'd made it clear, nearly every day, that when I failed to do that, he would abandon me.”

Max had spent years hating Granworth but apparently not enough. He almost wished the old blackguard were alive, simply so that he could throttle him within an inch of his life. “And none of those other men ever attempted to claim you?”

As he asked the question, he pulled her back into his arms, nibbling the silken flesh of her neck as he removed the pins from her hair and left them to fall heedlessly to the floor.

Her hands skimmed over his back, her body pressed intimately against him where his flesh was already thick and eager. “I wanted to take a lover, just to spite him. But there was always something missing, a void that I couldn't force myself to fill.”

“I find that hard to believe. That night in the library you were so full of passion.” Even now she touched and caressed constantly, brushing her fingers over his skin, gripping the muscles of his arms and chest. In turn, she seemed to thoroughly enjoy being petted, kissed, and fondled. And if he didn't get her to bed soon, he would take her standing up again.

So he took her hands, and even in this ordinary act of intimacy, he relished the sensation of her fingers twining with his. He always knew it would be like this with her. Only she shared this connection—this level of unspoken communication—with him. No other woman had ever affected him like this.

“I locked it away, I suppose, though not intentionally. I was the
hollow goddess
. I'd come to accept it,” she said, returning to his embrace and slipping her slender arms around his neck. As she continued, she pressed her lips to his jaw in slow, tantalizing kisses until she reached his earlobe and tugged on it with her teeth. “Honestly, I don't know what came over me that night. I've blamed you for years, comparing your kiss to others, only to be left without having been stirred in the slightest. That night was the first time I'd ever felt anything that powerful, so potent that I was only aware of us and that kiss. It frightened me to know that there was a stranger living beneath my skin.”

“You ran because I saw more in you? That I wanted you?” Max felt irritated, angered, and yet also elated. It was a puzzling mixture of emotions. “And then you tried to take a lover, but I ruined that for you as well.”

He drew in a satisfied breath, feeling his chest expand as he lowered her to the bed and moved over her. He loved seeing her like this, so open and free with him, her golden hair fanned out on the pillow, her eyes heavy-lidded and drowsy from passion, and her lips swollen from his kisses. Not to mention the one he was going to give her right this instant.

She licked her lips when he finished and then grinned. “I wouldn't smile too smugly. I despised you for that, you know. That kiss of yours was a cataclysmic event in my life.”

He'd felt that way too. In fact, he still did. Suddenly, it became all too clear that those years apart had only delayed the inevitable. When she returned to London, Max had sworn to himself that he would never fall in love with Juliet again. Never be vulnerable.

But damn, it looked as if the bells were tolling
never
right now.

Even though his scarred heart warned him to hold back, to proceed with caution, it was too late. He never stood a chance.

“And I'm certain part of me felt the daggers you were throwing all the way from Somerset. In fact, the cloud of hatred you hurled at me might have been the reason I never married. Perhaps
I
should start despising you.”

She laughed, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. “Oh yes, as soon as you've finished despising me for one thing, you must hoist the banner of a new cause.”

He kissed his way down her body, caressing her, stroking her, paying close attention to those moments when she would hold her breath and her hands would still. Then he would linger, edging out her response, waiting for the shuddered exhale that told him all he needed to know. “Your skin is incredibly hot and turning a becoming shade of pink.”

“This flush is also your fault—a recent affliction that I first thought was the result of too much sun at the Minchons' garden party. Then I thought it was because you incited my temper.”

“And then?” He nipped at the velvet underside of her breast, where her flesh was even hotter.

“Let's just say that I can never look at cake without feeling a little flushed. Alas, there seems to be no cure, other than sinking into an ice-water bath.”

“Is that right?” He grinned, taking pride in causing such a reaction in her, but suddenly wondering if there was another cure she had not considered. He moved lower, intent on discovering the answer. “And in all these years, you've never felt carnal desire, not even with yourself?”

When the last word left his lips, he skimmed his fingertips between her thighs, her downy curls as soft as kitten fur.

A shuddered breath escaped her. “I am a woman of seven and twenty. Of course I have explored my more intimate places.”

He groaned, his mouth pressed to her hip. Fully, achingly aroused once more, he was eager to take her. It didn't escape his notice that she hadn't once stopped him from touching her or shied away. In fact, she was practically purring. “I don't believe you. I think a demonstration is in order.”

“Absolutely not,” she said with a scandalized laugh. “And I don't want you to imagine it either. So remove that look from your face.”

“It's too late. I have already imagined it several times—you in the bath, you in the morning with the bedclothes rumpled, you in the carriage . . . ”

She gasped. “
The carriage?
I would never.”

“You could take a relaxing tour through the park, shades up, enjoying the scenery, and all the while your busy little fingers take a tour of their own. No one would ever know.” And as he spoke, he began a tour of
his
own, nibbling his way down the curve of her hip.

“Max!” While her intention may have been to sound outraged, the bright excitement in her eyes and her throaty laugh banished it. “And what do you think you're doing?”

He continued on his course, sampling and examining every inch of her. “Your declaration of being an
objet d'art
has sent me on the task of unearthing a secret flaw to disprove you.”

“I hope you are successful,” she said, her head tilting, her fingers twirling locks of his hair.

“I think I shall be, for here is a very suspicious mark.” He nudged her thighs wider and rubbed the tip of his finger over a spot. “It appears to be a freckle.”

He did not mention, however, that it was the most flawless freckle in existence, perfectly round, and the dark, lustrous brown of a coffee ground.

She lifted up on her elbows, a beatific smile on her lips. “Truly?”

“Let me press my lips against it to be sure it is not a mark that will rub off.” And as he did that, nestled near her sex, her lids lowered drowsily, and she let out a breath. He inspected the mark once more, quite intently, breathing in her sweet musk. “It is still there, proving you are a woman of flesh and blood.”

“And not a flawless,
hollow goddess
.”

“No. Instead you are
my goddess
,” he said in earnest, brushing his lips against the curls that guarded her sex. “And now you must allow me to pay homage.”

Juliet's gasp filled the room as he closed his mouth over her. Boldly, she kept her gaze on him, watching him with an avid carnal interest, her skin glowing pink now. Sliding his tongue over the swollen folds, he laved her tenderly, telling her in low murmurs how decadent she tasted and how much he wanted to stay right here, worshiping her for hours.

She whispered her agreement on several shuddered breaths. Yet when he delved deeper into the slick, molten center of her, it did not take long. He tried to draw out her pleasure, take her to the precipice and back with slow, purposeful strokes against and around the tight bud of hidden flesh. But as the first tremors began, there was no turning back. He drew her into his mouth, flicking his tongue until he felt her convulse. Feeling her body quake, he held her hips steady and continued until, at last, her scream pierced the air.

It was the most cathartic orgasm of his life, and it wasn't even his own.

When he settled over her and moved inside her, he witnessed the pure wonder on her face. And he knew she was his now. In fact, from what she'd confessed, she always had been.

But he knew her well. When it came to romantic overtures, she became skittish and uncertain. He feared that her marriage had only intensified this inclination. Therefore, in that moment, he decided to take things slow.

No sudden movements. He just needed to bide his time.

A
t last, Juliet knew how to release that scream that had been trapped inside her. Though it was less scream and more keening moan. And Max had made certain that she never stopped.

He kept her in that bed all morning, tangled in each other, until they were both too weak to do anything other than doze off for a few minutes.

When she awoke, she went about making her wrinkled clothes as presentable as possible and dressed in quick order. With Max there to fasten her buttons, it took far longer than it should have because he kept trying to remove her dress all over again.

She was thankful that he never once mentioned marriage. That would have put an awkward end to their lovemaking. But then it occurred to her that he might have thought there was another reason for her to have been so accepting—nay,
willing
—to share his bed.

As he set her cloak around her shoulders, she turned, concerned. “I want you to know that this did not happen because I expect you to give me the house or that I planned to use sexual congress as a means of bartering.”

He gave her a crooked smile that began as something adoring but then turned into something altogether naughty. “It never occurred to me, but now that you give me the idea . . . ”

She laughed when he reached for her, no doubt ready to pull her back to bed. And she was tempted but also quite sore. “It's important—now more than ever—that we continue our wager. I do not want you to have any doubt.”

That new smile returned, and he inclined his head in agreement. Taking a step toward her, he kissed the corner of her mouth. “I will summon a carriage and drive you home.”

“No, you will not. Can you imagine the scandal? I will walk as if I have just returned from the park.”

“You will not walk.” Those three vertical lines between his brows returned but were accompanied by a rather arrogant smirk. “I am pleased to say that you are far too exhausted.”

Exasperated but somehow still grinning, she laid her hand over his heart. “Are you going to argue with me, even now?”

This time, he pressed a kiss to the center of her mouth and lingered. “With you, always.”