Page 107 of Madcap with a Marquess
Rupert needed to feel. To touch. He gripped the tip of his gloved finger with his teeth and gave a hard yank. Franny’s gaze shot to his mouth, her lids falling heavy. He frantically repeated the action with each finger in turn and tossed the gloves aside. And then his hands were slipping through the silky waves, cradling her head, and tilting her up to him. Finally, he tasted the first of many pink parts of her that he planned to feast on tonight.
Their lips molded together, and it was fervent, heated. It was need. Her hands slid between them, and she made quick work of his tailcoat. She assisted him out of it, their lips never leaving one another. Which was actually becoming a bit of a hindrance, but he was loathe to break away from her. Until she pulled on his cravat—and tightened it instead of loosening it. A strangled sound pulled from his throat, and he pulled away, tackling the constricting neck cloth himself.
“Oh, gosh. I’m so sorry Rupert!” She bounded up and down on her toes, her forehead knit in concern while she chewed on her bottom lip.
The cravat fell loose, and he took a deep, refreshing breath. He caught Franny’s eye, and they both burst out laughing.
“Gloves,” he ordered, nodding toward her hands. And the bloody minx mimicked his earlier movements. Drawing one black fingertip to her mouth, sinking two even white teeth into the fabric, and tugging it free. But instead of frantic, hurried movements like he had made. She went slowly. The little tease.
By the time both her gloves floated to the rug, he was in nothing but his breeches. And his wife was still far too overdressed.
But what a picture she made.
“I love your hair,” he murmured. “It’s the truest of blacks, soft as silk.” He ran his fingers through it. “Seemingly untamable. Like its owner.” Down so that the pads of his fingers traced over her skin. His gaze flicked to hers. “Seemingly.” He paused above the mounds of her breasts. “Do you know what else I love about your hair?”
He leisurely rubbed over the top of her nipple, and her breath stuttered. “This,” he said, his voice low, gritty. “This is one of the things I love about your hair. The stark pink of your nipples peeking out from behind inky tresses. It’s beautiful. I’ll never forget the image of you before the pond, covered by nothing but these ebony waves.”
His hands wandered down, and he tugged at the tapes of her petticoats until those too pooled at her feet. God, she had been gloriously defiant that day. He spun her and loosened the strings of her stays and that fell to the floor with athump. His cock, already at half mast, went fully hard. He needed her naked now.
“Go stand in front of the mirror,” he ordered.
She didn’t move. She just cocked her head, the right side of her mouth curving the slightest amount. His blood heated.
“Franny,” he warned.
But she still didn’t move from her spot before him. Instead, her hands gathered her chemise inch by inch, until it was bunched below her hips. And then she drew it over her head and took his breath with it. Because she was left before him, completely bare except for midnight black stockings. And bloody fucking hell, the combination of black silk stockings, sweet black curls, and black silk waves? It was devastating. Nearly brought him to his knees. She was too bloody lovely. And he wanted her to see it.
“Mirror. Now.”
He turned her and gave her a small push forward. And when she took her sweet time, that apple-bottomed arse sashaying. He stepped up to her and let his palm fly, landing with a crack against that soft skin. She jumped, her sharp cry slicing through the room. He leaned down, his lips hovering next to her ear.
“Now, Franny.”
Her eyes fluttered shut, and the most beautiful whimper came from her throat. It was faint, and she tried to keep it back with those dusty-rose lips pressed tight. But he heard it. His cock heard it. And it had his blood rushing south.
But just to be sure. “Green?” he whispered over the shell of her ear.
“The greenest,” she said, her lips curving.
He gave her arse a tight squeeze and then thrust her forward again.
Time to show her how beautiful she was. Time to show her exactly who she belonged to.
55
Epilogue - Franny
RupertsteppedupbehindFranny, and she shivered. Heat radiated off him, breathing into her skin even though he wasn’t even touching her. She tracked him through the mirror, her pulse picking up. He was so large compared to her, his broad shoulders framing her, curving over her as he leaned forward. His hands landed on her hips, fingertips digging into her and pulling her flush against him.
She knew it was coming, but she still gasped at the searing feeling of naked skin against naked skin. He leaned over her, more of his strength, warmth, surrounding her. And then he did one of her favorite things. He dragged his nose up the column of her neck to her ear, inhaling deeply.
Scenting her.
His fingers tightened. His cock jumped against her bottom. Everything about the way he loved her was animalistic. He drew his hands up her body, his pace unhurried, like he was savoring her skin with his fingertips. He palmed her breasts, and she squeezed her thighs at the instant spark of lust that streaked through her core. His fingers tightened, gripping her like he owned her breasts, like they were his.
Possessive.
She found Rupert’s gaze in the mirror, and a breathy whimper escaped her lips. Lust burned in his hooded gaze, and as much as those rich brown eyes swam with liquid heat, they were sharp, branding in the way they roamed over her. He loosened his hold and torturously rolled his palms over her achingly hard nipples. Each roll had a pang of pleasure shooting through her core.
