Chapter Ten
An unholy satisfaction warmed her blood and curved her mouth into a subtle smile. Was it possible to enjoy this too much? She suddenly felt terribly wicked. And powerful. And fascinated.
Removing her finger from his lips, she stepped back again, requiring a certain distance so she could soak up the sight of him.
He was tall and strong. His toned form created delicious contours of light and shadow.
Though he’d relaxed by a certain minimal degree, she suspected he was capable of more.
His arrogance—his assumed superiority—was still too prevalent.
She suddenly, desperately wanted him naked before her.
Stripped bare. But she doubted her ability to retain the necessary command should he do so.
In exposing his weaknesses, she was quickly coming to understand her own.
The man’s sensuality was a palpable thing—restrained and carefully concealed by social artifice and proper demeanor.
But there was no denying its existence. Not when it was fully exposed.
Not when it called to her on such a primal level.
Not when she sensed how powerful he really was should he give free rein to the instincts he denied.
Forcing herself to display a measure of calm authority despite the riot of sensation claiming her insides, Charlotte tilted her head and took a deep breath.
His chest expanded as he matched his breath to hers, drawing air into his lungs.
Did he even realize he did it?
Charlotte exhaled slowly and his breath followed. She couldn’t prevent the low sound of pleasure from escaping her. Hearing it, he tensed again. The muscles of his throat straining, his hands fisting, his belly tightening.
Charlotte’s core tightened too. She wanted to see other ways his body responded.
“Lift your hands and link them behind your neck.”
He filled his chest with air and did as she said. The new position tugged at the muscles crossing his chest and stretched his skin across his rippled abdomen.
Charlotte’s throat threatened to close as heated lust flooded her body. Her next words were rough and quiet. “Step your feet apart.”
He did.
And she nearly melted into a pool on the floor.
A deep instinct for self-preservation had her turning sharply away from him.
Requiring distance, she strode across the room.
Fear rippled through her. But, again, it wasn’t fear of him, but fear of her own power.
A part of her urged her to leave. Abruptly and without explanation, as she had the prior night.
But a more insistent part demanded that she stay.
For the first time, she noticed a sideboard set up with an array of refreshments. A selection of wine, a large carafe of water, fresh fruit, and a variety of nuts and sweetmeats.
As a distraction and because she felt suddenly parched, Charlotte poured a small glass of red wine and tipped it down her throat. Then she poured another glass before turning to look at the man still standing silently in the middle of the room.
Feet braced wide, causing the muscles of his thighs to grip tight to his bones. Arms bent and fingers linked at his nape, forcing a slight bend to his head as he stared rather fiercely at the floor in front of him.
Il est magnifique.
She could see the fight in him. The quiet, internal confusion. Just as she could see the desire and the approach of acceptance.
At any moment, the marquess could lower his arms and raise his eyes. He could walk right out of that room if he chose to. Or he could overpower her—strip away her mask and reveal her true face.
That he chose instead to honor her command filled her with a profound sense of responsibility. Responsibility and gratitude.
The power she held over him here was a total illusion. No—not an illusion, a gift. He was giving her the power she felt so strongly. And a gift like that should not be squandered.
With her wineglass in hand, she returned to the center of the room.
Pride filled her when his body tensed in awareness of her approach but he did not shift position or lift his gaze.
“Très bien, mon grand,” she murmured in approval. Her words seemed to ripple across his skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. She smiled. But it wasn’t enough. She wanted to push him farther.
“On your knees,” she commanded.
When he started to move with a subtle flex of his torso, she stopped him with a quick “Arrête” before advising firmly, “When I give you a command, you will say, Oui, Madame, before you comply.”
An inhale expanded his chest, drawing his muscles into taut bands. Then his voice emerged, thick and slightly hoarse. “Oui, Madame.”
Charlotte was inexorably changed by those two words.
His submission was expressed so deeply, so richly and deliciously, she feared she could become a glutton for it.
It was all she could do to hold herself still as he lowered to the floor, resting back on his heels, his knees wide, his hands still clasped behind his head.
His movements were so beautiful. So strong and graceful, she felt compelled to offer him a boon.
“You may lower your hands to your thighs.”
“Oui, Madame,” he murmured as he followed her instruction with a low, barely perceptible grunt. No doubt the position had caused some discomfort for being held so long.
He deserved a reward for following her command so well.
Sipping her wine, Charlotte scanned the room, searching for inspiration before she realized she already had exactly what she required.
Awareness rippled through his body once again as she approached to stand directly in front of him. Then she dipped her first two fingers into the wineglass, allowing the heady liquid to soak into the material of her glove.
“Give me your mouth, mon grand,” she whispered.
“Oui, Madame.” He slowly tilted his head back but kept his eyelids lowered. His features were stark and beautiful, his lips tense.
“Ouvre.”
His lips parted to show the even edges of his white teeth.
Removing her fingers from the glass, she slid them between his lips. His mouth closed instantly as he sucked the wine from the velvet without being told to do so.
Charlotte considered chastising him for his boldness, but she was enjoying the sensation far too much. His tongue laved thickly against her fingers as he drew them deeper into his mouth. Her heart gave a hard lurch and her belly erupted with wild desire.
His mouth was wicked. The artistry of his lips and tongue and teeth were so delicious, she might not have noticed that he’d grasped her wrist in a tight hand if he hadn’t also opened his eyes to pin her with a dark, probing stare.
In that split second, he peered straight into the soul of her.
Every ounce of her self-preservation rushed quickly to the fore.
“Arrête,” she ordered. To her surprise, he complied immediately. Releasing her wrist and lowering his gaze back to the floor. But his lips remained parted and his chest rose and fell with his heavy breaths.
He had clearly been as taken away as she had. But she suspected he knew exactly what he’d done to her. There had been too much authority in his gaze. Too much satisfaction and possession.
She had to remind him who was in command. And quickly.
Draining the last of the wine, she took a step back. His gaze remained focused on her boots, following her movement, giving her an idea.
“You are not to take what you want, mon grand,” she reprimanded harshly, as she grasped her skirt and lifted it while bending forward to set her glass on the floor. Then she tugged at the laces of one of her boots. “I decide what pleasures you receive. And what punishments.”
Straightening again to stand, she stared intently down at him.
Then holding her skirt out of the way, she lifted her foot to press it to the center of his chest—exerting just enough pressure that he had to fight not to fall back.
She allowed herself a moment to enjoy the way his muscles tensed and his large hands gripped hard to his thighs.
“Lace my boot.”
“Oui, Madame,” he muttered, his voice thick and heavy. Lifting his hands, he carefully gathered the laces and deftly tightened then retied them.
Charlotte was almost disappointed by how quickly he managed the task.
But the man’s boldness had not yet been quelled.
Before she could remove her foot from his chest, he clamped one hand atop her arch, holding her foot in place as he smoothed his other hand up her leg, past the ankle high leather to warmly caress the curve of her calve.
His touch was warm and confident and seductive.
For a moment, Charlotte forgot everything except how badly she wanted to feel his hand reaching higher—how desperately she wished to melt into his claiming touch.
Her lips parted on a swift inhale and he responded with a low rolling growl of hunger.
The sound nearly undid her. But it also recalled her to her senses just as his fingertips reached the sensitive skin behind her knee. When he started to bend forward, as if to press his lips to her thigh, she cursed roughly in French and swiftly stepped out of his reach.
He let her go, his hands falling back to his thighs.
Angry at her own desirous reaction as much as his insolence, Charlotte’s tone was unforgiving as she turned and strode away. “C’est fini,” she snapped. “If you do not behave, we do not continue.”
She managed to leave the room without looking back at him. Yet, somehow, she knew he wouldn’t move from where she’d left him. If she’d thought for a moment that he’d rise to his feet and come after her, she might have given him anything he wanted.
And she’d already given him far too much.