Chapter Six #2
“Shh.” He pressed a finger to her lips. “No more talking. Not yet. I want to look at you.”
He stepped back, his gaze travelling over her with an intensity that made her skin heat. She stood there in the firelight, exposed and vulnerable, fighting the urge to cover herself or flee.
“Magnificent,” he murmured. “And still too covered. Remove the chemise.”
Her hands shook as she reached for the hem. “I don’t—”
“You do. You will.” His voice was implacable but not unkind. “Trust me, Marianne. Remove it.”
She pulled the chemise over her head, letting it fall to join her dress. She stood before him in only her stockings and the locket he’d given her, the gold warm against her bare skin.
“You wore it,” he said, surprise colouring his voice.
“I’ve worn it every day since you sent it.”
Something shifted in his expression, a vulnerability quickly masked. He moved toward her, his still-clothed body a contrast to her nakedness.
“Do you know what you do to me?” he asked, his hands skimming her sides, barely touching. “How many nights I’ve lain awake imagining this?”
“Tell me.”
“Every night since the opera. Sometimes I’d convince myself I’d imagined the connection, the pull between us. Then I’d see you again, and it would hit me like a physical blow.” His hands settled on her waist, pulling her against him. “You’ve haunted me, Marianne.”
“You’ve haunted me, too.”
“Good.” He kissed her then, deep and possessive, his hands roaming her back, her sides, carefully avoiding the places she most wanted him to touch. When she tried to press closer, seeking more contact, he held her in place.
“Patience,” he murmured against her lips.
“I’m not patient.”
“You’ll learn.” He scooped her up suddenly, carrying her to the massive bed. “Another thing you’ll learn—in this bed, I decide the pace. Fast or slow, gentle or rough, all at my discretion.”
He laid her down on the dark sheets, standing back to look at her. “Stay exactly as you are.”
She watched as he removed his cravat, his waistcoat, his shirt, revealing a chest marked with scars that had nothing to do with the carriage accident. These were deliberate, violent—knife wounds, what looked like a bullet scar near his shoulder.
“India?” she asked softly.
“India.” He didn’t elaborate, continuing to undress with methodical precision.
When he was as bare as she, he stood at the foot of the bed, letting her look her fill. He was beautiful in his damage, all lean muscle and controlled power. The evidence of his desire was unmistakable, making her breath catch.
“Scared?” he asked.
“No.”
“You should be.” He climbed onto the bed, prowling toward her on hands and knees like the beast society named him. “I’m going to take you apart, Marianne. Piece by piece, until you don’t know where you end and I begin. Until the only word you remember is my name.”
“Bold claims.”
“Promise.” He stretched out beside her, not touching yet, just looking. “But first, we need to establish some rules.”
“More rules?”
“Essential ones.” His finger traced patterns on her stomach, making her muscles clench. “First, you don’t touch me unless I give permission.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Your hands stay where I put them unless I say otherwise.”
“That’s not fair—”
“Fair has nothing to do with it. This is about trust, control, surrender.” His finger circled her navel. “Can you do that?”
She wanted to protest, to argue, but the heat in his eyes stopped her. “I can try.”
“Good. Second rule—you don’t hide your responses. If something feels good, I want to hear it. If something doesn’t, you tell me immediately.”
“And the third?”
“The third is the most important.” He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. “You don’t unravel until I give you permission.”
Heat flooded through her. “I don’t— I can’t—”
“You can. You will.” He pulled back to look at her. “Those are the rules. Break them, and there are consequences.”
“What kind of consequences?”
His smile was wicked. “The kind that will make you break them again just to see what happens.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I’m your husband.” He traced his finger lower, along the curve of her hip. “And right now, I’m going to show you exactly what that means.”
He started slowly, mapping her body with his hands and mouth, learning every sensitive spot, every place that made her gasp or arch. He was methodical, thorough, driving her to the edge of madness with touches that never quite satisfied.
“Adrian,” she gasped as his mouth traced the delicate underside of her breast. “Please—”
“Please what?” He looked up at her, his eyes dark with satisfaction. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want—I need—”
“Yes?” His tongue circled, teasing, always just shy of where she was most sensitive. “Be specific, duchess.”
“I need more.”
“More what? This?” He blew cool air across her heated skin, making her shiver. “Or this?” His hand skimmed down her stomach, stopping just short of where she ached for him.
“You’re torturing me.”
“I’m teaching you.” He moved back up to kiss her, deep and consuming. “Teaching you that your pleasure belongs to me now. That I decide when and how and how much.”
Finally, his hand moved lower, and she nearly came off the bed at the contact.
“So responsive,” he murmured against her mouth. “So perfect. But remember the rule—not until I say.”
What followed was the sweetest torture she’d ever experienced.
He played her body like an instrument, bringing her to the edge over and over, only to pull back at the last moment.
She was sobbing with need, her hands fisted in the sheets to keep from touching him, when he finally positioned himself above her.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
She opened eyes she hadn’t realised she’d closed, meeting his intense gaze.
“This will hurt,” he said softly, his control finally showing cracks. “But only for a moment.”
She swallowed hard. “All right,” she whispered. “Go on.”
“Do you trust me?”
The question hung between them, weighted with more than just this moment.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I trust you.”
He kissed her as he joined with her, swallowing her gasp of pain. He held himself still, his arms trembling with the effort, while she adjusted to the shock of him.
“Breathe,” he murmured against her lips. “Just breathe.”
The pain faded, replaced by a fullness, a connection she hadn’t expected. When she experimentally moved her hips, he groaned.
“Marianne—”
“Move,” she gasped, forgetting propriety, forgetting everything but him. “Please, Adrian.”
He did, setting a rhythm that had her arching beneath him, her hands coming up to grasp his shoulders before she remembered the rule.
“I didn’t give you leave to touch,” he growled, but he caught her hands, interlacing their fingers and pressing them into the mattress above her head. “Keep them there.”
The command, the helplessness of the position, should have frightened her. Instead, it set her alight.
“That’s it,” he murmured, watching her with molten eyes. “So beautiful like this. So perfect. My perfect duchess.”
The endearment, the raw tenderness of it, undid her.
“Adrian, I can’t— I need—”
“Not yet.” His voice was strained, his control fracturing. “Hold on just— wait for me—”
It was impossible. The pleasure was too intense, too overwhelming. She was going to disappoint him, break his rule on their very first night—
“Now,” he commanded, his hand sliding between them to touch her where they joined. “Come for me now, Marianne.”
She shattered, her vision going white as pleasure crashed over her in waves. She heard herself crying his name, felt him follow her over the edge with a groan that sounded pulled from his very soul.
They lay tangled together afterwards, both breathing hard, sweat cooling on their skin. Adrian recovered first, rolling to the side but pulling her with him, her back to his chest, his arm possessive around her waist.
“Are you well?” he asked, his voice low against her shoulder.
“I’m ruined,” she murmured, half dazed.
A low laugh vibrated through him. “Good ruined or bad ruined?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
He kissed her temple. “Fair answer.”
Silence settled again, companionable and strange.
“Adrian?”
“Mm?”
“Is it always like that? So... intense?”
“No,” he said, his arm tightening around her. “It’s never been like that.”
“But you’ve—”
“I’ve had women, yes. But not a wife. Not you.” He pressed a kiss to her shoulder. “You surrendered beautifully.”
“I broke your rule. About touching.”
“You tried to break it. There’s a difference.” His hand traced lazy patterns on her stomach. “And you stopped when reminded. That’s what matters.”
“Will there be consequences anyway?”
“Would you like there to be?”
She hesitated, then smiled faintly. “Perhaps.”
“My bloodthirsty duchess,” he murmured, nipping her shoulder. “We’ll explore that. Among other things.”
“Other things?”
“So many other things. We have a lifetime, remember?”
A lifetime. The reality of it settled over her like a weight. She was married to this man, bound to him irrevocably. They’d known each other so briefly, been married less than a day, and now she lay naked in his arms, her body still humming from the pleasure he’d given and controlled.
“You’re thinking too loudly,” he teased softly.
“I’m trying to make sense of it all.”
“There’s little sense to be made,” he said. “You’re my wife. I’m your husband. And we’ve just consummated our marriage quite thoroughly.”
She turned in his arms to face him. “Is it always going to be like this? You commanding, me obeying?”
“In bed, yes—if you’ll allow it. Outside of bed...” He traced her cheek with his knuckle. “Outside of bed, you are my equal in all things. My duchess. I have no wish to rule your days, only your nights.”
She smiled faintly. “And if I decide to redecorate the entire house in pink?”
“Then I shall suffer heroically.” He traced her jaw.
“If I want to invite my friends to tea?”
“Then we’ll serve tea.”
“If I want to learn estate management?”
He studied her. “Do you?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps. I ran my father’s books sometimes. I am good with numbers.”
“Then my steward will teach you whatever you wish to learn.” He kissed her softly. “I told you, Marianne. I don’t want to cage you. I want to free you.”
“By controlling me?”
“By giving you a space where you don’t have to be in control. Where you can let go of that constant vigilance, that need to prove yourself.” His thumb brushed her lower lip. “Did you not feel it tonight? That freedom in surrender?”
She had felt it. That was what terrified her.
“It’s a lot to accept.”
“We have time.” He pulled her closer. “Sleep now. Tomorrow will bring its own battle.”
“What kind of battle?”
“The domestic sort,” he said with a sigh. “Meeting the staff. Surveying the house. And bracing for the arrival of my aunt, who will no doubt descend in a storm of outrage once she learns I’ve married without her blessing.”
“You didn’t tell your family?”
“What family?” His tone was wry, but she heard the loneliness beneath. “My parents are gone, my sister’s in Rome, and my aunt considers me beyond redemption.”
“I’m your family now,” she said softly.
Something flickered in his expression—an unguarded tenderness that disappeared almost as quickly as it came.
“Yes,” he said, voice rough. “You are.”
He kissed her again, slow and possessive, and she felt him harden against her thigh.
“Again?” she asked, startled and laughing a little.
“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he murmured, rolling her beneath him. “Once isn’t nearly enough.”
This time was different—slower, unhurried, a study rather than a conquest. He guided her hands, showed her where he liked to be touched, drew from her sighs she hadn’t known she could make. It was less about mastery, more about discovery.
By the time dawn lightened the sky, Marianne understood with aching clarity what she had gotten herself into.
She’d married a man who would demand everything from her—her trust, her surrender, her very self. And, impossibly, she wanted to give it all to him.
The question was whether either of them would survive it.