Chapter 27 #3
“I shall tie a handkerchief over your mouth if you ask me to stop even once more.” He peered up at her, his dark hair rumpled very rakishly. “You can say anything else, though.”
“Tristan,” she gasped, and then she could hardly speak at all, as he probed with his tongue, first gently, then more firmly, licking and stroking until she was almost sobbing.
She twisted and arched, pulling so hard at her bonds that the headboard creaked, but he held her hips firmly in place and wedged his shoulders under her thighs and relentlessly teased her with his tongue and lips.
He was right—it took longer—but sweet blessed heavens, it led to the same tension, the same restless ache, the same feeling of the earth dropping out from under her as her body finally couldn’t take it anymore and gave in to the long, hard pull of his mouth.
She was still gasping and trembling with the aftershocks when he hauled himself up and sheathed himself inside her with one swift stroke. Joan cried out at the intrusion, and he paused.
“Are you hurt?”
She could only shake her head. She felt utterly raw and defenseless, her arms bound and her legs spread as he pressed ever deeper into her.
“Good.” He inhaled, his breath rough and ragged. “I’m so hard with wanting you, I might explode if you told me to stop.”
“Don’t stop,” she managed to choke out before he surged forward again.
“Don’t worry.” He braced his hands beside her shoulders.
His dark hair fell over his brow, not quite hiding the harsh set of his features as he rode her with driving thrusts that made her writhe, first from the assault on her still-throbbing flesh, then in more harmony as his passion stoked her own, raising that razor-sharp tension within her until she could hardly breathe.
It didn’t seem possible to experience such ecstasy so soon again, but her body appeared ready and eager, leaping to ever-higher pitches of arousal until she felt it beating through her muscles, and she arched her back with a low keening cry of release.
Tristan growled, and she curled her legs around his hips to hold him inside her as the waves of climax rolled on and on.
He said a very bad word under his breath and held himself deep within her, his hips jerking in short, sharp thrusts until he, too, shook and shouted with release.
Joan forced her eyes open and looked up at her husband. His face was drawn into a fierce expression, but it gradually softened until his eyes opened. He gave her a lazy, heavy-lidded grin.
“I trust you believe it’s possible now.” He eased away from her and flopped heavily onto his back. With one hand he groped above him, and a moment later pulled loose the knot that had held her hand bound.
She lay where she was. Not only was it too much effort to move, she had no real desire to. She couldn’t even think of a smart reply to his comment. But slowly her brain began to work again. Absently she reached up and freed her other hand.
This seemed like a propitious moment. He was lying next to her, no doubt feeling the same bubbling contentment that hummed through her own veins.
If he were to ask her right now, she would throw her arms around him and declare herself hopelessly, helplessly lost in love.
That would be ideal. She even found that she was holding her breath in anticipation of that glorious moment.
But as the silence stretched on, she had to breathe again, and acknowledge that he was lying very still beside her—almost as if he were asleep. In fact, when she stole a peek at him, his eyes were closed and he looked very peaceful. Blissfully happy, but in a sleeping sort of way.
She couldn’t wait any longer. She had waited patiently, hoping he would confess any sort of feeling, but finally she just wanted to know. “Tristan,” she began. “I want to ask you something.”
“The answer is yes,” he mumbled. “Whatever you want, darling.”
“No, not like that. A serious question.”
He didn’t say anything for a very long minute. “Must we be serious? It seems silly to begin now . . .”
“Will you give me an honest answer?” She didn’t laugh, refusing to let him wiggle away so easily. “That’s all I want, whatever the answer is.”
“I won’t lie to you,” he said slowly.
Joan stole a glance at him and saw he was awake now, his eyes open but staring fixedly at the ceiling.
There was a tense set to his jaw that made her think he was girding himself to deliver bad news.
Her heart seemed to shrink. Oh, help. He knew what she was going to ask, and he dreaded it.
For a wild second a stupid, inconsequential question hovered on her tongue, but she took a deep breath and screwed up her courage.
“I only want to know what you feel right now. Of course one’s thoughts and feelings can change with time, and as we are married and will be for years and years to come, naturally I expect there will be some change in how you feel—”
“What is your question?” he interrupted.
She hoped she wasn’t ruining her marriage before it was even one day old. “I wondered if you think it possible that you might someday come to truly care for me.”
He said nothing. From the corner of her eye, she saw his face knit in a frown, and then he lurched over, propping himself up on one elbow so quickly she flinched. “What?”
Joan bit her lip at the incredulity in his tone, and shrugged even as she avoided meeting his gaze. “Well, I know my father made you marry me—”
“He did not,” growled her husband.
“But we have had some—some pleasant times together, even before that,” she went on, blushing furiously.
“Pleasant!” He looked at her as if he couldn’t believe his ears.
“I just wanted to know if you might ever want me for more than making love!” she exclaimed.
Tristan gazed at her as if she’d grown another head, and Joan’s nerve broke.
She scrambled out of bed. “Oh, never mind! I was foolish to ask—I might have known you wouldn’t listen rationally and give a dignified answer—”
“You want me to give a dignified answer when you ask if I like anything about you besides planting my cock inside you?”
“There’s no need to be crude!” Joan grabbed her nightgown and began trying to put it on, but the whole thing had been twisted and pulled into a knot; the sleeves seemed to have tied themselves together. She rammed her arms into the garment, determined to rip right through the fabric if she had to.
“No. Right. I apologize.” He scrubbed one hand over his face. “Come here.”
“No, thank you. I’ll just send Polly for some tea, and find a good book to read.”
“Don’t ring that bell,” he warned as she reached for the rope. “Not until I give you my answer.”
Her fingers hovered over the bell. “Well, what is it?” she said, refusing to look at him.
The ropes creaked as he got out of bed. “The answer is no, I do not think I might someday come to care for you.” He repeated her emphasis on certain words.
“I am quite certain how I feel about you, and how I expect to continue feeling about you for the next fifty years. My question is, why do you want to know? And what on earth gave you the idea your father compelled me to marry you?”
“He did! My mother told me he would—she was half afraid he would end up challenging you to a duel, if you refused!”
All expression fell away from his face. “She still despises me that much?”
Her lips parted as she realized how awful her words must have sounded. “No! That is, I don’t think she’s terribly fond of you yet, but she was so worried about Papa—he used to be quite as reckless and devil-may-care as you are, and she worried he would lose his temper if you didn’t agree.”
Her husband sighed. His shoulders slumped a little, and he turned away from her, pulling on his own dressing gown. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked a little beaten. “Did you think I would refuse, after I made love to you at the Brentwood ball?”
“Well . . .” He gave her a sideways look, not his usual cocky look but a wary one. She cleared her throat. “No. I didn’t. I told Mother she was being silly.”
He gave a nod.
“I also told her I was as much to blame for any scandal as you were,” Joan added quietly. “You never took advantage of me—at least, not when I didn’t want you to do so. I didn’t want her to think any worse of you than she thought of me, because the fault was equal.”
“Oh?” He tilted his head back. “Even that first time I kissed you, at the Malcolm ball?”
“I hardly invited that,” she said carefully. “But, once you began, I didn’t make much of an effort to fight you off . . .”
“Did you want to?”
She hesitated. “No.”
His face eased a fraction. “I didn’t think so. I don’t kiss unwilling women, you know.”
“So,” Joan said when he didn’t say more, “is this all because I was willing?”
He considered it a moment. “Partly.” Joan’s eyes popped wide open in shock.
“I never would have made love to you at the Brentwoods’ ball if you hadn’t been willing,” he added in the same offhand manner.
“But you were willing, and I took that to mean you . . . felt something for me—at least enough to risk your mother’s anger.
Whatever else you may think of me, I hope you don’t view me as an immoral cad with no sense of a woman’s reputation and dignity. ”
“Not at all,” she protested.
He nodded. “Good. Because, to answer your question, I knew that night—before I lured you away to ruination and debauchery, mind—that I wanted to marry you. The next day I went to my solicitor and told him to begin preparing a marriage contract. I even meant to do the thing right and call on your father properly in Bath, but he anticipated me by returning to London. So you—and your mother—may rest assured, he was never in any danger when he came to see me about your hand in marriage.”
Joan gaped at him. “Then he didn’t have to argue with you about it?”