Chapter 61
Sixty-One
“I’d rather not kill him,” Marcus added. “Never a good look: offing one’s future father-in-law. Still, he can have the lot, the land, the ancestral pile, the drafts.” His voice softened, “He can have everything but you.”
“Oh.” Marguerite’s knees felt suddenly weak, she leaned her head against his chest.
“You know, you’re making it difficult to keep my distance.” His voice rumbled against her ear.
In response, she slid both arms around his waist.
“Devilishly difficult,” he added.
Marguerite could hear his heart pounding.
“Although, I will miss my studio. It’s drafty and the floors are uneven, but the southern exposure? The sunlight through all those windows? It’s an artist’s dream. You’d have loved it. And of course, we’ll have to find another place to live. My bachelor apartments in London will never do.”
“Are you proposing we live together?” She peered up at him cautiously.
“I’d propose marriage, if I wasn’t terrified it would send you dashing back off into the darkness.” He looked down at her, his tone losing all hint of lightness. “I finally found something more frightening than being trapped in the dark. Losing you.”
Marguerite slid her arms from around his neck. Felt his sharp intake of breath as she did so. But still, he made no move to touch her.
Retrieving the lantern she’d set down by their feet, she said, “Perhaps we should continue this…conversation…in the light?” She heard him exhale.
“With pleasure, but…” He nodded at her feet. “May I…”
“Touch me?”
“Yes.”
Marguerite smiled. “With pleasure.”
“Ah, mon coeur, that’s precisely what I have in mind.” In a movement of startling swiftness, Marcus swept her off her feet and into his arms. He carried her back to their makeshift campsite. Setting her down in the dancing circle of light, he reached for her.
She reached for him, too, offering up a silent prayer of thanks she hadn’t been able to dress herself properly.
And that neither had he. Marcus wasn’t wearing a cravat, or a waistcoat, and his shirt wasn’t fully buttoned.
She leaned in close, determined to press her lips against the rapidly beating pulse at the base of his neck.
But she never got the chance.
He pulled her in close, locking her body against his, his mouth capturing hers.
She kissed him back, drawing his tongue deeper into her mouth.
They stood like that for several long moments, their tongues tangling, exploring, tasting.
Then the overwhelming need for more became too intense.
Hands moving over one another’s bodies, they touched and stroked, seeking skin and sensation.
“You won’t run from me again, will you?” he whispered against her throat.
“I can’t. I tried.”
His rumbling laugh vibrated through her, his arms tightening around her, his hands tangling in her hair.
She’d never felt so desperate to feel. More. She pressed her hips against him, against the swell of his erection. She moved against him. With a growl, he swept a hand under her buttocks, lifting her off her feet, and laid her down.
Their hands fought feverishly against the imprisonment of their clothes, until at last, there was nothing between them but breath between kisses.
She was captivated by his flat belly, the play of muscles across his chest, and his arms as he leaned over her.
He kissed the lids of her eyes, her nose, her mouth.
He nipped her shoulder as he worked his way down.
Cupping her breasts in his hands, he murmured, “Have you any idea how beautiful you are?” he asked. “What you do to me?”
“To you?” she gasped in protest as he bent his head, taking a nipple in his mouth. He swirled his tongue over the tip. She arched against him, wrapped her thighs around his.
He lifted his head, stroked her hair back from her flushed forehead, and said, “I lied.”
Ice flooded her veins. “About what?”
“I fear I will never be able to keep my distance from you.”
“Oh.” The ice cracked, melted, was swept away by a roaring wave of heat.
He pressed his lips to her forehead, “I know you’ve said you will not marry me, but will you at least let me stay by your side?”
“By my side,” she said. Then, raising her hips against him, added huskily, “and inside.”
“I’m not just talking about lovemaking.” He adjusted his position; his cock was agonizingly close to where she wanted it to be. “I’m talking about love itself.”
“You’re not fighting fair.”
“I’m fighting to win.”
“I’m not ready to marry. To surrender my freedom to any man. Not even you. But yes, Marcus Aurelius ridiculous-string-of-names-I’ve-already-forgotten Tyndale. Stay by my side.” She wet her lips and dared, “Never leave me.”
“David George,” he murmured. “Definitely not part of the plan.” His mouth captured hers with a fierce promise that took her breath away.
When he pulled away, his severe lips curved in a sensuous smile.
“Now that we’ve established that we have all the time in the world…
” He ran a finger down her throat to her breasts, “I think I shall very much enjoy taking it.”
Marguerite moaned as his fingers led the way and his mouth followed.
Hot swirling sneak attacks and skirmishes on parts of her body she hadn’t even known were vulnerable: her ear lobes, the soft skin of her elbow, the curve of her foot, the inside of her knee.
It was too much, not enough; her defenses, if she’d had any left, were completely shattered.
He traced a finger down her belly to her navel. He placed a quick kiss there, swirled his tongue, glanced up at her, and then, with a determinedly wicked curve of his lips, began placing soft kisses down to her damp curls.
“I’ve seen your fantasies about me,” he said, in a voice like liquid sin.
He slid a finger up to the pulsing tip of her clitoris.
He circled it with a pressure that demonstrated he not only knew how to find the sensitive nub, but exactly what to do with it.
“I think I should very much like to show you mine about you…”
“Your art?” She meant it as a quip, but it came out as a whimper.
“Indeed,” he said, replacing his finger with his tongue. He moved slowly, sensuously. Tasting and exploring. His touch, now teasingly soft, now achingly firm.
The wonder of each new sensation made her want to weep with pleasure and scream with want. She tangled her fingers in his hair, gasping, “Marcus.” uttering incoherent sounds, and fractured sentences
He lifted his head, his breath hot against her thigh. “Should I stop?”
“I’ll put out every lantern in this quarry if you do.”
He stilled for a moment, then chuckled, the sound oscillating through her body with the promise of sensations to come. And he didn’t stop. Not until her body shuddered with the intensity of her orgasm, sparks of red exploding into fireworks behind her tightly closed eyes.
He cradled her against him, her head upon his shoulder.
She followed the line of his shoulder with her hand to his bicep, then down the slash of scar across his forearm, to his belly, and the hard length of his erection.
She held it, stroked it, felt the hot pulse of it—his own eager wetness.
Impossibly, it seemed, he grew even harder. “I want you inside me.”
“How fortunate.” His breath was hot against her ear. “There’s no place I’d rather be.”
She laughed, as he entered her, hot, hard, and urgent. And the cries of their lovemaking rose up into the darkness, echoing against the limestone walls of the abandoned quarry, and around the passionate tangle of their bodies.