Page 25 of When the Marquess Needed Me (The Rake Chronicles #4)

Chapter Twenty-Three

L eith stilled.

He hadn’t meant to incite this inquiry. In fact, he thought that Beatrice understood his hesitancy. He did not think it would be very difficult for her to divine.

And yet she seemed to be confused.

“You were only wearing your nightshirt last night,” she said, her voice distinct despite the rattle of the wheels over the cobblestones. “It was not particularly good at disguising your form. I did not see any horrors lurking underneath your white lawn. And, in fact, I saw a few things that I admired very much indeed.”

She gave him a saucy smile with that, letting him glimpse that gap he had come to, he feared, adore. It sent a dangerous thread of longing wending through his chest. She was completely ravishing—and for now, she was his.

She had been worried about calling him my love . That he would think she was getting overset in her feelings. That he would see her as the type of cloying mistress that powerful, aristocratic men dreaded. Who wanted more emotion than their protectors felt.

The idea that he could feel less for Beatrice than she did for him was, unfortunately, laughable. The kind of joke that, if she could see it from his angle, he would no doubt appreciate.

“There is no particular horror to my form. I just do not take myself as a pleasing sight for a woman.”

“But don’t you want to feel me against you? When you’re bare yourself?”

He clenched his jaw. Of course, he did want that.

“I do. But—” He broke off.

“It would be difficult for you to understand.”

“Please. Enlighten me,” she said, echoing him.

“You are so beautiful. You have no reason to worry about showing yourself to anyone.”

She laughed. “Come now, Thomas. When you first saw me, you did not think quite so highly of my beauty as you do now.”

He shifted in his seat. It was true. He had at first found her too rustic.

“I know what I am. As all women do. There isn’t a woman alive who cannot list out her imperfections. My hair is too wild. I have a gap between my teeth. And my breasts are too large.”

He rolled his eyes at the last.

“Large breasts are to no one a serious defect.”

She laughed. “Fine. Perhaps. But my hair and teeth are very real. Furthermore, I have a certain wild, untamed air about me that sets a certain kind of refined gentleman’s teeth on edge.”

He laughed. “And makes his cock hard.”

“To that, I cannot attest.”

“Yes, you can.” He glowered.

She knew she was tempting. He was sure of it.

“Perhaps in one instance. And I forgot to add that I orgasm with indecent ease. Lord Gilchrist even called it unladylike.”

“Bastard,” he spat out. It was lucky for Lord Gilchrist that he was already dead. Or else Leith couldn’t be trusted not to visit some harm on the man.

“But tell me. What stops you?”

He thought of how to explain it to her in a way that was not humiliating. The truth was that it was a very complicated matter—his feelings were all tangled up in his past, in who he had been once and who he had come to be now because of who he had been then. And the way in which he had chosen to be with women because he was young and self-conscious and spoiled and had more money than sense. He could see some of that now.

But he couldn’t explain all of that at this moment.

And this question, about the nightshirt, it was relatively simple, really.

“I don’t like women to see my cock. Or touch it.”

Her brow furrowed. “But why?”

He shifted in his seat, casting his gaze down to the carriage floor. “It’s not very large. It’s small, in fact.” He had begun in a way that he felt had dignity, but now that he had said the words, he did not feel he was succeeding. “And I know that must be what any woman thinks when she sees me unclothed.”

Leith couldn’t meet her eye. He wanted it not to matter what she said next, but of course it did. In fact, he felt his entire life hung in the balance of her next words.

For a long moment, she said nothing.

He wished that he could sink through the carriage floor and be run over by the wheels beneath. That would be preferable to this silence.

Mercifully, finally, she spoke.

“But,” she began, “but…your cock is wonderful. I told you so last night.”

He looked up. He was afraid that she would be laughing at him, but she appeared perfectly serious.

“I warrant,” she said, “that you are not as large as some men. But to be honest the size of a man’s member has never mattered to me. Or, rather, that’s not quite true.”

His heart stuttered in his chest at these words. He prepared for the worst.

“I do not care for a large cock,” she continued. “I prefer, in fact, one like yours.”

Leith felt his own features freeze in shock. “Truly?” he finally croaked, in disbelief.

He had been under the distinct impression that all women wanted a large cock. The larger the better. He didn’t know it was possible for them to want anything else.

“Yes,” she said, in her matter-of-fact manner. “Particularly for me. Because I am so sensitive. I find a larger cock a bit too much sensation. It doesn’t quite create the right feeling. For me, at least, your cock is perfect.”

Leith felt his heart thudding in his chest. She really meant it, he realized, as she had last night. She was being honest.

“I see,” he said, his skin prickling, heat rising up through his body. “I—thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” she said, with a pretty little toss of her head. Then, she let out a gasp. “You said you did not like a woman taking you into her mouth. Is this why?”

He met her eye, so kind and curious.

“No hiding a small cock when it is in a woman’s mouth.”

She tutted. “You are absurd. What a silly reason to deny yourself.”

He shook his head. She didn’t understand. Not fully. “My mistresses—many of them have gone on to bed other powerful men. I didn’t necessarily want my—limitations advertised.”

“So, you tried to be discreet?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I assure you that if I ever speak of your cock to another living creature, it will only be to praise it. I’m sure when I’m an old woman, sitting alone by my fire in Parkhorne Hall, I’ll still be dreaming of your cock.”

Leith laughed. And pushed away the unaccountable pain that such a future vision gave him. He didn’t like the idea of her alone as an old woman. He didn’t like to think of a time when they would be parted—never mind a time when they would have been parted for so long.

“I knew something was strange,” she continued, “when you looked so aroused by my description of the gentleman getting his cock sucked in the carriage. But then you said later that you didn’t like the act. But you would like your cock sucked, wouldn’t you?”

He suppressed a groan. God, she would be the death of him.

He met her eyes. She was smiling, the gap between her teeth on full display once more. He loved the mischievous, fathomless deep brown of her eyes, he realized. He had once found them calculating—now he saw that they merely displayed her intelligence.

“You do, don’t you?” she urged him.

He closed his own eyes in embarrassment. “Obviously,” he finally said.

He heard her laughter. “Then let me do it.”

He opened his eyes again.

His cock was already hardening. If he were halfway decent, he would be tired out by their couplings yesterday. But apparently he was neither decent nor sated.

“Here?” he said, desperately. He liked the idea of soiling his carriage no more than he ever had, but his distaste for dirty squabs was nothing beside his desire for her.

“Yes, here.”

Beatrice leaned over and pulled the curtains closed. The bright spring day outside disappeared behind the heavy velvet. She dropped to her knees in front of him.

“Beatrice,” he warned. He didn’t know why he was warning her. She knew all his concerns. She claimed not to care.

She ran her hands over his legs and up to the placket of his trousers. She gave a little huff of approval when she felt his hard cock.

“I have wanted to do this. So badly.”

“Beatrice, God.” He placed his hand on her hair, just gently, unsure of what to do with his emotion and his desire or any of his limbs.

She began unbuttoning his placket. Out of instinct, he jumped back.

“Shh. Just let me.”

Then her hand was on his cock, stroking him, her lightly calloused fingers swirling around his shaft and up to the head.

“Holy fuck,” he hissed.

It felt indescribably good to be touched in such a way by her.

“You have been so ridiculous. Denying yourself such things over nothing.”

“You are really sure that—you don’t mind?”

She looked up at him, her dark eyes emitting a faint glow in the dim carriage. “Yes, I mind very much. I mind very much that this cock hasn’t gotten what it needs for such a long time.”

“Fuck. Beatrice.”

He didn’t understand how she was able to break him down in this way. When no other woman ever had. No other woman had ever even come close.

She kept stroking him, taking her time, it appeared. Luckily, the flow of carriages appeared to have slowed to a stop. He prayed they would not arrive back at St. James’s any time soon.

It appeared that, despite their vigorous tupping yesterday, he was still extremely sensitive to her. Her stroking was urging him onward.

“I—you—if you don’t—”

She tutted. “Don’t you know I understand?”

Then she took him in her mouth. He tensed at the exquisite sensation, the soft wet glory of her mouth. His fingers tightened in her hair, just a little.

“That’s good,” he said. “Fuck…that’s…really good.”

“Mmm,” she murmured in assent, the vibrations sending trills of pleasure through him. “Do you understand how ridiculous you’ve been now? Denying yourself this?”

“Ahh,” he moaned, as she put her mouth back on him, “I suppose I have been a bit…fastidious.”

He had been looking away from her, from what she was doing to him. He was afraid that if he looked, he would feel disgusted with himself. But when she made another little sound of content, he felt too tempted. He wanted to see Beatrice with her mouth around his cock.

He looked down and instantly groaned. While he would never be delighted, he supposed, by the sight of his own member, he had to admit that it looked much better in her mouth.

She looked up and caught his eye. She withdrew her mouth from him and smiled.

“You enjoy watching?”

“Fuck—yes. But don’t stop.”

She laughed. Of course.

And then she angled herself so that he could watch her suck his cock.

He watched her slide him in and out of her mouth. The sight alone threatened to undo him.

But then there was the feel of her. She seemed aware of how much to give him—how much would be too much—and had resolved to give him just enough to keep him on the brink but not send him over it.

The carriage, he was aware, had begun moving again, but, with the curtains closed, he had no notion of where they were. He could care only vaguely. Because the slide of her mouth over him drowned out everything else.

“Christ, Beatrice. That feels so good.”

He couldn’t believe these words were coming out of his mouth. He, who only days before, had abhorred any talking in the bedroom. But with her, he found himself capable of behaving in a completely different manner.

She seemed to have divined exactly what felt best to him. She was licking the underside of his shaft in long, languorous strokes. She was sucking him so tenderly, as if it were the greatest act of care one person could give to another. The way that she did it, he could believe that it was.

He felt a small amount of seed escape him as she sucked and licked and he knew his release could not be far off.

“You’re going to make me come, my love.”

Her endearment slipped out of his mouth effortlessly.

She gave a hum of approval but didn’t veer from her task.

The carriage halted and he heard Preston jump down from the box.

“Fuck, Christ, no,” he moaned. There was no way he could stop now. It would kill him, he was sure.

Beatrice disengaged her mouth from his cock. “Don’t worry.”

And then she opened the bloody door.

“Beatrice!” he hissed.

She stuck her head out through the door.

“We only need another moment, Preston.”

“Very right, ma’am,” he heard his good-humored coachman answer.

She closed the door and turned back towards him.

He was in an acute state of distress. If she didn’t put her mouth back on him, he feared that he may shuffle off this mortal coil.

“Please,” he begged.

She didn’t make him wait. She put her mouth back on him and resumed that rhythm she had found before. He put his hand back in her hair, enjoying the feel of the warm strands on his fingers as she suckled him.

“You’re too good to me, Beatrice,” he said, finding that he needed to speak. He closed his eyes at the ecstasy of the feeling. “I don’t deserve you.”

He knew he was raving again. But he couldn’t help it. It was true, as far as he was concerned.

“I am going to come—I don’t know if—your mouth—if you want—”

He was going to spill in her mouth, which he couldn’t imagine any woman would want.

But, as usual, she shocked him.

“I want it,” she said, between licks. “Give it to me.”

That did it for him. He might be a marquess, but he was only human, after all.

He jerked and began to spill. Then he could feel his seed pouring out of him, filling her mouth.

“I—am—sorry,” he spluttered, aware even through the haze of pleasure that his spend was indecently tremendous.

But she didn’t seem to mind. She swallowed it all.

Once he was finally done, she looked up at him and smiled.

“I am sorry,” he said, wincing. “That was beastly.”

She shook her head. “You never need to apologize for such a thing. Not with me.”

“Come here,” he said, pulling her up from the floor of the carriage.

She obeyed, situating herself on his lap.

He buried his face into her hair.

He couldn’t bear to move.

No, after that, he needed to hold her.

And, then, with a dawning dread, he realized that only a week and a half did not sound like nearly enough time with her.

No, he reflected, panic rising in his chest, it was not even close.