Page 17 of Madcap with a Marquess
He thrust into her again, and a moan echoed through the chamber. His? Hers? He didn’t know. He didn’t bloody care. Pleasure curled its fingers deep inside him. He dragged his nose down her neck, inhaling deep. Earthy. Floral. Uniquely Franny.Fucking delicious.He wanted to consume her.
Rupert bit down where the column of her neck met her shoulder, and she cried out. A shiver stole down his spine. God, he loved her scream. He drove into her, sharp and incessant. She arched up into him, her hands tightening on him, and he laved the spot he had bitten with his tongue. His eyes rolled back.Oh, her taste.Salt and skin and utterly succulent. He couldn’t hold himself back, he couldn’t stop. Pleasure’s cruel clutches had him her prisoner. And he was her devoted captive.
He gripped Franny’s hip, lifting her into him as he took her, plundered her, ripped her of everything she willingly had to give.
And robbed her of what she didn’t.
The chamber was a cacophony of slapping skins, harsh breaths, rough grunts, small cries. It was primal, animalistic, raw. And it fueled him to drive harder, take more. Years of denial barreled through him. Of longing for this woman. Longing that had built to untenable heights.
Every snap of his hips sent her inching up the mattress and sent bliss coiling in the head of his cock. His blood burned fire through his veins, the want, the need, threatening to cause his heart to beat right out of his chest. He couldn’t possibly survive this. This rush. And then the tension spiraling inside him shattered. With a hoarse roar muffled in her neck, he collapsed against her, his body bucking and shaking against her.
He drew in ragged breaths, chest heaving. He lifted slightly, tried to blink away the dizziness and lust fogging his brain. That had been incredible, albeit a bit short—
Rupert shot off her, pushing back until he sat on his heels. Dear God, what had he just let himself do? His gaze fell to her face:
Mouth parted. In shock.
Eyes wide. With horror.
His heart bottomed. He’d lost control. And Franny had paid the price.
Immoral, sinful, vulgar.
He hastily tucked himself away and frantically buttoned up his breeches before rolling off the bed. That was no way for a husband to bed his wife.
“My sincerest apologies, Lady Francine,” he managed gruffly, grabbing his waistcoat and shrugging into it. “Ah, Lady Rutledge, I mean. I—That… Again, I cannot—” He paused and inhaled deeply through his nose, patting his leg. It was astonishing how his blood could go from fever hot to ice cold in a matter of seconds.
He turned back to Franny, who was sitting upright now, covers clutched to her breasts, eyes still owl-wide. He speared a hand through his hair. “I cannot adequately express my regret for my deplorable behavior.” He gathered his boots and stockings.
Immoral, sinful, vulgar.
Her sharp cry played over in his head. And how he’d reveled in the sound. His chest constricted, his lungs caving in on themselves. He couldn’t breathe. He needed air. He picked up his coat and piled it on top of his other items.
“I will leave you, as to not distress you with my presence any further,” he said hoarsely. “I will see you in the morning.”
He glanced back at her as he opened the door. She shook her head, mouth open, no words forming. He had struck her mute.
I am a barbarian.
He practically threw himself out the door, closing it behind him and promptly slid to the ground in a heap. He dropped his head into his coat, cutting off his source of air. Suffocating him as effectively as his shame.
He drew in a breath, but it wasn’t enough—his body choking him of oxygen. He sat back and began pulling on his stockings. And that was when he noticed the blood. Blood on his hands—he glanced down—blood on the placket of his breeches where he’d tucked himself away.
He squeezed his eyes shut tight. What was wrong with him? An animalistic sound pulled from him, part groan, part despairing cry. Bloody hell, he hadbittenher. And,fuck, he’d forgotten his waistcoat in their chambers. He couldn’t go back in there. Face her. Force her to face him. He would go without.
He was no better than an animal. It was apt that he would be sleeping with them in the stables tonight.
9
Franny
Frannyblinkeddumblyatthe door. Her brain was moving much too slowly to fully comprehend everything that had just happened. She shivered, and a sore twinge flared between her thighs. Well, one thing was clear. She’d been bedded. She glanced down at her lap, a small streak of blood on her thigh. No longer a virgin.
And Rupert Winthrop? There was nothing proper about the way he bedded a woman. Her stomach swooped at the same time her heart rate picked up. Oh heavens, that had been…so pleasantly unexpected. With how hard he’d resisted, how perfectly put together he always was…she had assumed a boring joining where he did the necessary rocking—silent, of course—and then perhaps after he’d offer a droll “that was quite agreeable.”
Not. Even. Close.
He’d been like a man possessed. Something warm spread through her chest. He’d bitten her like he wanted to devour her. Her gaze trailed over the slight imprint of his hand on her hip. Other handprints flitted through her mind. Ones left on her wrists and arms from too tight grips.
