“I’ll push in now?” he asked.
Marianne nodded frantically, as if she, too, was nearing the end of her tether.
At first, he watched her little hole expand and stretch to take him, all the while going as slowly as possible to minimize the pain. Then he regarded her face, those dewy eyes and flushed cheeks, her lovely lips parted as she received her husband for the first time.
And then he heard a moan. And another. More musical and seductive than even the notes of her harp, washing over him and attacking his spine until he could not stem the surge of seed.
Frederick Clare, Duke of FitzOsbern, libertine and former member of the Grand Bucks, had barely gotten his cockhead within his bride before spending like a green lad with his first woman.
Marianne’s eyes were nearly closed as pleasure swept her away. Then they opened, unsure of why her husband had ceased his movements. He winced, then set his thumb on her clitoris and delivered the most apologetic orgasm to happen in London that year. And the next.
When she’d finished quaking — the motions of which squeezed what little of his shaft had made it inside before erupting — Frederick gently pulled his cock out. The smallest smear of blood mixed with his spend, and he fumbled in his dressing gown for a handkerchief. He should have been more prepared, he castigated himself. Should have known he’d react so strongly.
“Well,” he said, wiping them both and tucking her legs back together.
“Yes,” she said, a little too brightly.
And with that, Frederick swept from his wife’s room, fearful he’d never be invited to return.
Chapter 5
Marianne woke the nextmorning and discovered that she was not in her bedroom.
Well, she was in her bedroom, but the room had changed. She’d become a duchess yesterday, and accordingly, she now slept in the Duchess of FitzOsbern’s chambers.Herchambers.
She ran her fingers over the brocades and velvets used to furnish the room. Her guardians hadn’t been poor, but they were certainly never this rich. It was the sort of casual, lived-in wealth that made her feel every bit an interloper in this marriage.
But why should she? It was hardly a union she’d sought, she thought as she soaked in her bath. Between her thighs, the last of her husband’s spend — Frederick’s seed — mixed with water and left her. Would there be enough to make a child? An heir?
Part of Marianne grew hot at the thought of presenting a honeymoon baby to her husband, who must be desirous of a son to carry on the title. Oh, to be the proud mama at his christening!
The only problem was…well, in her limited experience, mostly gleaned from things she’d heard and peeked while playing the harp at that strange townhouse, the act between men and women tended to be more vigorous.
Frederick had been the most respectful and gentle of grooms, causing her no pain and not troubling her sleep with his large and imposing form beside her in bed. He’d even made her feel heavenly shakes when he touched her.
Yet, Marianne’s memory drifted to the nude men in their stag masks. It was animalistic and scary. Well, scary at first. Then it had become arousing.
“You may go,” said Marianne to the two maids who had been helping her bathe. “And lock the door behind you.”
The girls quickly bustled out of the bathing chamber, and she heard the tumbler click behind them.
The image of the masked man returned to her mind, unbidden and unwanted. She was a bride! She shouldn’t be thinking about that masked man she’d seen! Other men she’d viewed in glimpses. But this one had stood before her, his manhood hard and thick, body nude, and gaze directed at her from within the mask.
His antlers should have signaled horror. Instead, they’d aroused her strangest, most primal fantasies.
Marianne let a hand slip beneath the water to where her thighs had parted as if to receive that strange man. She slid a finger over her seam, then pushed a little deeper to feel the button that now throbbed for attention. Frederick had touched her there. This couldn’t be wrong.
But then her mind was back to the man who had haunted her.
In her dreams, it was always the same: she was in a forest, much resembling the decor in that strange townhouse. She ran, chased by something. Behind her, there were noises as he snapped branches and leaves crushed underfoot. Her heart thumping, she raced ahead — until she tripped on a root. Then woke, hot and wet, before she could see what happened next.
He found her prone on the ground of the forest, her thighs spread and cheek resting against moss as she tried to scramble away. She smelled decaying plant matter, with leaves from autumn crumbling in her hands as she braced for his touch.
Now, at last, as a married woman, she had a greater sense of what would happen next: the stag-man would insert that horn and release his essence.
She paused. If she were being truthful, she’d seen a much…rougher sort of coupling from gaps in the screen. Her breath quickened as she thought of the man holding her in place and driving himself into her roughly.
With one hand, Marianne touched a hardened nipple. With the other, she fondled the button Frederick had stroked to perfection just last night.
