Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“What do you think?”
Tingles traveled through Ophelia’s body as Tristan whispered the question into her ear.
They both stood near the entrance of the main room of the new location of the secret club.
Even though it was a new place- this one further out of Mayfair- Tristan had still been there to gather her the moment she stepped through the door.
Ophelia took in the now-familiar massive black and red silk draperies that masked the walls from the ceiling all the way to the high-polished floors.
There were no mirrors this time, which Ophelia thought was a pity, but there was three bed-sized swings hung from the ceilings scattered between the chaise lounges.
They were already laden with naked men and women, all of them writhing and moaning in ecstasy as the momentum of the large swings seem to do all of the work for them.
“I think the swings look rather interesting,” she confessed.
Tristan hummed in agreement as he slid the warm palm of his hand over the nape of her neck.
The soft touch made her tremble, and she bit her lip in excitement.
Between her tasks of managing her father’s care and organizing his office, thoughts of what to expect at her next visit to the Devil’s Masquerade had poured through her mind.
She wanted to know more. About the club.
About the members and what they did there; and particularly, about Tristan and what he liked.
“Come along,” he insisted, gently guiding her by the back of her neck, “I will take you to my new office. We have some work to accomplish before we play.”
Ophelia frowned behind her mask. She had not forgotten that she had two paintings to finish. She had just not expected to be working on them tonight. However she knew he was right, and let him guide her without complaint.
With no mirrors to create a secret hallway this time, Tristan led past the main room and into another silk-draped hallway.
This one was much busier than the private hall that had led to the previous office, and Ophelia gawked openly behind her mask as they passed open rooms full of people in various stages of dress, a trio of people pressed together in the hallway wall, taking turns kissing one another, and a naked woman kneeling in front of a closed door, her head bowed and her hands on her thighs; as if waiting patiently for whoever was inside.
“Take off your mask,” Tristan demanded when they reached the privacy of his new office.
As usual he’d locked the door behind them, ensuring their privacy. Still, Ophelia didn’t reach for her mask yet.
“Why do you insist that I work with my mask off?” She asked.
Tristan slipped his own mask off and placed it carefully on his desk.
“I like to see your face when you are working,” he answered honestly.
Ophelia laughed at that.
“What is so humorous about that?” He asked, raising a curious brow.
“Well for one you stand behind me,” Ophelia pointed out, “So I do not understand how you could see my face.”
“Is there a for two?” Tristan asked, his deep voice laced with amusement.
“And for two you never cared about my face before,” she quickly added, “I do not see why you would care about it now.”
Tristan crossed his arms as he sat atop his desk. The look he gave her was so intense that she reached up toward her mask and slipped it off; blushing as she did so.
“Gather your easel and things,” he said, nodding to the far wall as he still held her gaze, “They are right over there.”
It took Ophelia a moment but she finally tore her eyes from his, and looked in the direction he’d nodded his head.
She found her materials and began setting them up in silence.
It wasn’t until everything was precisely where she wanted to be that Tristan rose from the desk and walked around her; going to her back as he always did.
She let out a gasp in surprise and shivered when she felt his fingertips smooth over the edge of her left eyebrow and to her temple.
“You think I can not see your face when you are working?” He asked, his tone quiet; almost reverent, “I see more than you think. I see how this brow here tenses when you have decided that you do not like something in your painting.”
He gently traced his fingers down her face to the left corner of her lips, making her lashes flutter and heart beat spike.
“And your lips?” He went on, stroking his thumb gently over her bottom lip from one corner to the next, “They twitch, ever so lightly, when you are pleased with what is happening on your canvas.”
He then slowly dragged his thumb down the center of her bottom lip, over her chin, then to the front of her throat, right above her vocal cords as he stepped closer to her back and pressed his lips to her ear; sending a shot of heady arousal straight through her lower belly.
“And your throat?” He whispered, tracing his bottom lip over her ear; making her whimper, “It bobs, right here, when you are having an erotic thought. You swallow, as if doing so would make your feelings go away. I wonder…does it work?”
Ophelia swallowed against the feel of his fingertips. Not once in her entire life had she felt her secrets be so exposed as they were in that moment.
“No,” she breathed, then swallowed again, “It does not.”
“Pity,” Tristan murmured, sliding his hand away from her throat.
Ophelia’s body swayed forward as he removed his touch, and she blinked several times, trying to draw herself into focus.
“See? I can view much more than your work from my position back here,” he said from behind her. “Now, show me what you have come up with for tonight.”
A bold thought struck Ophelia, and instead of reaching for her brushes, she turned to face Tristan.
“I want try something new,” she told him.
Tristan raised a curious brow, his blue eyes glittering.
“Oh?”
“For inspiration,” she mustered.
God, I cannot believe I am about to say this.
A wickedly handsome smile spread slowly across Tristan’s face.
“Go on,” he urged.
Ophelia drew in a breath for courage, and raised her chin boldly.
“I am giving you permission. To touch me.”
Tristan’s predatory smile shifted into a wide-eyed look of awe.
“You apologized at the ball, for not having my permission before. I said at the time it did not so much matter, but now that I have thought about it, I like that you expressed your regret. But you said you acted without thinking and I-” she paused, blushing.
If she was going to be bold she decided she was going to do so brilliantly.
“If I enjoyed those moments before,” she ventured on, “those brief moments of accident. I believe that I would- or could possibly, enjoy your touch when it is deliberate.”
Tristan took a step forward, his eyes darkening.
“I need you to be specific, Ophelia,” his deep voice sinking her deeper into that warm space of arousal. “Walk me through precisely what you are thinking.”
So lulled by the tone of his voice, it took Ophelia moment to answer.
“I am going to paint,” she finally explained, “I found the swings particularly interesting and I would like them to be my next focus.”
Her heartbeat raced as she approached the most direct part of her request.
“However,” she said slowly, “while I am painting, I want you to…to…” she nibbled at her lower lip.
“I need to know,” he said softly, his eyes locked on hers.
“I want you to touch my neck again,” she finally confessed. “As you did the other night. After you lost yourself for a moment your touch was incredibly…something. I liked it. And I want to feel it again.”
Tristan raise a questioning brow.
“And you are sure that this will not be a distraction?” He asked.
“I do not know,” she admitted, “It is why it is an experiment. But I do want to try. Just do not turn me around. Let my eyes keep focused on my work.”
Tristan studied her for another intense moment, then nodded.
“I think I understand what you are asking for,” he replied, “However if I do something you do not like, you must tell me, Ophelia. Right away.”
Ophelia’s nerves started to tremble within her as she nodded in agreement.
“I will,” she promised.
Tristan took another step toward her, so close now that the warmth of his breath fluttered against her cheek.
Then his eyes dipped down, and he drew the ties of her cloak out the knot at her throat.
Lust tunneled through her veins as she drew the fabric from her shoulders, then tossed it on his desk.
His hands, gentle and guiding, then went back to her shoulders, and he turned her around to face her canvas.
Ophelia’s knees grew weak as he pressed his chest to her back, and slowly drew the tip of his tongue over the shell of her ear.
“Begin,” he whispered.
Heat rushed through Ophelia’s body as she heard his command, dampening the edgy sensation of her frazzled nerves, and she picked up her stick of charcoal.
As she began to sketch, Tristan began to give her exactly what she had asked for.
Pleasure sizzled over her skin as his lips and teeth began to trace where his hands had once soothed and massaged.
She began to feel dizzy and sleepy, aroused and sated, as she drew her charcoal over the blank canvas.
At one point, when his lips found a particular spot that made her loins quiver, she slowly tilted her head, giving him more access.
As if he understood, he curled his palm around the other side of her neck, holding her in place, and sank his teeth slowly into the spot.
Ophelia’s lashes fluttered at the sensation as her body threatened to collapse into him- yet there was something powerful about not giving into such and staying upright.