Page 35 of How To Marry A Marble Marquis
The sun had disappeared beyond the edge of the world, and she knew she only had a matter of minutes, if that. The first press of his cold marble tip made her gasp, as it always did, shivering as she sunk down on him slowly, the only thing that could soothe the fire in her blood. It had been a challenge, at first, learning to take him this way. The unyielding hardness coupled with his girth was an eye-watering press, and it had been painful until she’d learned that backing up on him was a gentler angle, easier for her muscles to loosen and her cunt to swallow him.
“It’s so unfortunate that you were left in such a state, my lord,” she murmured, twisting her head back to kiss the corner of his mouth. His face was frozen in a grimace, the agony of being past the point of no return and still unable to achieve completion, twisting his handsome features. She began to move, fucking herself on her husband’s marble cock, every vein and ridge that she loved, frozen for her enjoyment. The ridges at the base of his head rubbed over the spot within her he had discovered, one that made her toes curl and thighs tremble, as they did then. “It makes it far too easy to take lewd advantage of you whilst you sleep. I wonder how quickly you’re going to spill your seed when you wake.”
It did not take long for her question to receive its answer. Eleanor cried out in surprise as she was pushed forward, his arm around her waist breaking her fall, somehow winding up on her hands and knees at the base of his throne, his cock hot and alive, driving into her savagely.
“Minx,” he hissed at her neck. His feet were planted firmly on the ground, and it felt as if he were using his entire lower body to thrust into her. His thighs flexed, the slap of his balls an obscene percussion, and Eleanor keened. “You are going to pay for that, you devious little —“ He dropped to his knees, covering her body with his as his cock erupted, words forgotten. Eleanor linked her fingers with his as he groaned against her shoulder, fangs nipping at her skin, wide wings stretching, covering them like a canopy. He had stayed his knot, and she felt it pulsing at the lips of her sex as he emptied, relieved he’d had the cognizance to understand she was not sufficiently prepped to take the protrusion. Incorrigible, but the very best butterfly. She stretched an arm back to stroke his ear as his cock spit up the final vestiges of his day-long torture, one final spurt before his hips eased their fervor.
When he finally slumped against her, pulling out carefully a moment later, she turned into his arms. “You know, it’s very easy to take advantage of you when you sleep with your cock out.”
“Minx,” he repeated, wrinkling his nose. “I thought about trying to tip myself over this morning, thought I might be able to break it off, put an end to the agony.”
“Well, it’s a good thing you didn’t. The Duchess of Sackwell has taken to giving me advice on how to balance my humours to best conceive a child, and it involves taking the oil of a fish and a weekly bloodletting. I don’t want to know how they get oil from the fish, Silas.”
“Tell the Duchess of Sackwell,” he drawled, his tone a supercilious slide of satin, “to worry about her own bedroom. Ours is perfectly healthy, thank you very much. Actually, when she comes for your recital next week, I’ll tell her myself.”
“You’ll do no such thing, you dreadful man.”
The upcoming recital was both a cause of giddy excitement and crippling nerves, the first time she’d be singing publicly since she’d left Paris. An Evening of Music, hosted by the Marquis and his wife, had already been thoroughly investigated by the High Tea in two different columns, breaking down the short list of noblewomen — wives, sisters, and daughters — who would all be taking part, playing the harp, the piano, and singing. They’d made no mention of her past at all, as if she were a dead end, a dearth of information turning itself up, and it made her wonder if the infamous Lady Grey was someone they knew.
“Thank you for not knotting me,” she added as an afterthought. “I wasn’t ready for it.”
“A skilled butterfly has no need to injure the flower, little moth,” he sniffed, drawing her into his arms again once the banyan was tied snugly at his waist. “What would you like to do this evening?”
Eleanor sighed, pressing her nose against him. She had table coverings to pick out, and Kestin would likely already be lurking outside the lord of the manor’s study, waiting with a list of grievances. There was much to do before her recital . . . but there was no end to what the two of them could do together once the sun went in. Everything, she thought, leaning up to kiss the corner of his wide, smirking mouth, was prettier in the dark.
