Chapter 14
Iris sat back in her chair with quiet satisfaction, watching the dark red stain spread across the table and Blaise’s lap.
The wine had landed exactly where she intended.
It was a small, petty victory in their ongoing war, but a victory nonetheless.
She kept her expression one of perfect innocence, though inside she felt a thrill of triumph.
Let him deal with the consequences of his high-handedness.
The silence stretched between them as Blaise’s dark eyes remained fixed on her; his expression was unreadable at first.
Finally, in that low, commanding voice that always seemed to stroke along her nerves, he said, “This mess will not clean itself, Iris.”
She blinked. “Of course not. I shall call for a servant at once.”
“No,” he said calmly, the single word brooking no argument. “You will do it.”
Iris’s heart stuttered. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me, Little Blossom.” Blaise leaned back in his chair. “You arranged this little accident. Therefore, you will clean it. All of it.”
Heat flooded her face. “That is hardly appropriate. I am not a maid.”
His scarred brow lifted, and the ghost of a dangerous smile touched his lips. “Tonight, for me, you will be whatever I require. Now, come here.”
Her defiance warred with the undeniable pull of his command. Part of her wanted to refuse, to storm from the room and reclaim some measure of dignity. But another, far more treacherous part, the part that had dreamed of him every night since his arrival, yearned to obey.
With as much grace as she could muster, Iris rose from her chair and sauntered toward him, hips swaying with deliberate poise. She stopped in front of him, close enough to smell the faint scent of his cologne mixed with spilled wine.
“Good girl.” Her breath hitched. Blaise picked up a fresh linen napkin from the table and held it out to her. “Now, start cleaning.”
Iris took the napkin with slightly trembling fingers.
Under the intense weight of his gaze, she began dabbing at the tablecloth, wiping away the spilled wine in slow, careful strokes.
She could feel him watching every movement she made.
The air in the dining room felt impossibly warm, and she felt her skin heat up.
“Thoroughly, Iris,” he murmured; his voice felt like velvet. “I would hate for the stain to set.”
She bit her lip and continued.
“What did I say about biting your lip?”
She let go of it immediately.
The napkin grew damp in her hands until the table was as clean as she could make it. Iris straightened when she was done, expecting relief, but Blaise’s dark eyes gleamed.
“My trousers need cleaning as well.”
Iris’s breath caught. She could murder him. Right here, with the butter knife if necessary. Yet her body betrayed her; a fresh wave of heat pooled low in her belly at the command, and her pulse quickened. She could not deny her curiosity and excitement.
“You cannot be serious,” she whispered.
“On your knees, Little Blossom,” he commanded.
The words sent a shameful thrill through her.
Slowly, gracefully, Iris approached him and sank to her knees before him on the thick carpet.
The position put her at eye level with his lap, where the dark wine had soaked through the fine fabric, outlining the strong contours of his thighs…
and the unmistakable, growing ridge of his arousal.
She heard the sharp intake of his breath as she kneeled, and the sound sent pure desire straight to her core. He handed her a new napkin.
“Start cleaning,” he said.
Iris began to wipe at the stain on his thigh, carefully avoiding the thick, hard length that began to strain against the wet material.
Her hands trembled as she worked, dabbing gently, moving closer and closer to the evidence of his desire despite her best efforts.
The heat radiating from his body was intoxicating.
She could feel him beneath her touch, flexing slightly under her ministrations.
“Do you enjoy seeing me suffering?” he asked huskily.
“N… no.”
“No, what?”
“No, Your Grace.”
Blaise’s large hand settled on the top of her head, heavy and warm.
Not pulling or forcing, just resting there, fingers threading gently through her carefully arranged hair.
The simple touch drove her nearly mad with desire.
She wished fiercely that he would tighten his grip, pull her hair, drag her face forward until her mouth was pressed against that hard bulge.
The thought made her thighs clench together beneath her skirts.
“You are doing very well,” he said softly this time, although his voice was rough with restraint. “Such a diligent little cleaner. Look at you on your knees for me, Iris.”
Iris’s breath hitched at the bold words.
She should feel offended, humiliated, and furious, even.
But instead, she felt the familiar hot liquid heat flooding between her legs.
Her body ached with shameful need as she continued to press the napkin higher and closer to the rigid outline of his shaft.
Iris felt it twitch beneath the fabric, and she gasped.
“I… I do not think we should be doing this,” she whispered, though her voice was breathy and unconvincing.
Blaise’s fingers stroked slowly through her hair, a gentle caress that felt far more intimate than it should.
“Liar,” he murmured. “I can see it in your eyes. You are curious. Wondering what I have beneath these trousers. How thick and hard I am for you. How I would taste on that pretty tongue.”
Iris looked up at him then, unable to resist. Their eyes locked. His eyes were dark with lust, the scar pulling tight as his jaw clenched. He could see every wicked, forbidden thought flickering across her mind.
“Tell me, Little Blossom, does kneeling before your duke make you ache?”
Her cheeks burned, but she could not look away.
The hand in her hair felt like both a promise and a torment.
She wanted more. She wanted him to lose control, to fist her curls, and guide her lips exactly where she was shamefully curious to explore.
Instead, Blaise kept stroking her hair with maddening gentleness, watching her with dark, knowing eyes as she knelt before him, napkin in hand, cleaning the mess she had deliberately made.
And Iris had never felt more lustful… or more dangerously alive.
“Yes, it does,” she admitted.
“Do you want to touch me?” he asked in a dangerously low voice.
“Yes.” The word came out as a gasp.
Her confession surprised her, but she could not help herself.
Whatever he was offering, she would take it.
Their words hung between them like a live wire.
Iris stayed on her knees before him, the damp napkin still clenched in her delicate fingers, her body trembling with a mix of shame and overwhelming desire.
Blaise’s dark eyes burned into hers, the scar on his face making him look even more dangerously handsome in the candlelight.
His hand continued its maddeningly gentle stroke through her hair, as if he were petting a cherished animal.
“Do you know what I want, Little Blossom?” A slow, predatory smile curved his lips.
“No, will you tell me?” she begged.
“I want you to touch yourself for me.”
Iris’s breath froze in her lungs. She knew exactly what he meant. The command was clear, filthy, and utterly scandalous. Heat flooded her entire body; her thighs clenched tighter together.
“I… I cannot,” she breathed, wide-eyed with shame.
“You can,” Blaise countered. “And you will. How can you be so eager to touch me, to explore what strains against these trousers, if you cannot even bring yourself pleasure first? Touch yourself, Iris. And let me watch.”
Mortification overwhelmed her, but so did a dark, thrilling excitement. She should refuse. She should stand up and walk away from this wicked game. Yet her body remained, and the intensity in his gaze kept her captive.
His fingers left her hair and moved to her chin, tilting her face up firmly but gently. His touch was warm, but it sent a shiver through her.
“Do it,” he said, soft yet utterly demanding. “Now.”
Something inside Iris broke. She did not know what possessed her, perhaps the years of quiet widowhood, or perhaps the way this man had awakened every suppressed desire within her. No matter what it was, she obeyed his maddening words.
She dropped the napkin and, with trembling hands, gathered the skirts of her gown, pulling the fine fabric upward until it bunched around her waist. Cool air kissed her bare thighs. Her fingers hesitated, then slipped inside her drawers and in between her legs.
The first brush against her slick folds made her gasp.
She was soaking; her own arousal coated her fingers instantly.
She found the sensitive pearl at the center of her mound and circled it tentatively, biting her lip to stifle a moan.
All the while, Blaise’s hand remained on her chin, holding her gaze locked with his.
His own breathing matched hers, and she could not look away even if she wanted to.
“That’s it.” his voice was thick with lust. “Let me see how wet you are for me.”
She removed her hand and showed him her glistening fingers.
“Such a good, obedient girl. Does it feel good, touching yourself while your duke watches?”
“Y… yes,” Iris whimpered, her fingers returned to her sensitive spot and moved faster.
The mortification was still there, burning hot in her cheeks, but beneath it bloomed a sort of freedom she had never experienced before.
For once, she was simply a woman who was desired and allowed to feel desire.
Her shame only heightened the pleasure, making every stroke of her fingers more nerve-wracking than the last.
Blaise’s breathing grew heavier. His thumb brushed across her lower lip, parting it slightly. Iris’s hips rocked instinctively against her own hand, imagining it was his hand pleasuring her.
“I enjoy looking at you,” he rasped as his eyes darkened like the midnight sky. “Kneeling so prettily, while I watch. I can hear how wet you are, Little Blossom, and that sweet sound is driving me mad.”
Iris moaned softly, her head tilting back slightly against his hold. She was lost in it now, circling herself faster, and chasing the building pleasure. Blaise’s hand moved to the front of his wine-stained trousers. He unfastened them with practiced ease and freed his member.
Iris’s eyes widened. He was magnificently thick, long, and achingly hard. He wrapped his large hand around his shaft and began to stroke himself slowly, deliberately, in time with the movements of her fingers.
The sight undid her completely.
“Oh… Blaise,” she moaned.
The vision of the powerful Duke of Knoxford pleasuring himself while watching her pushed her straight over the edge.
Her body tightened, thighs trembling, and pleasure crashed through her in a shattering climax.
She cried out, fingers pressing hard against her pulsing core as waves of ecstasy rolled through her while Blaise stroked himself.
It was all a blur for her as she watched him grunt, hot seed spilling from him, mixing with the wine on his trousers.
Before she knew it, Blaise rose to his feet and looked down at her.
“Good girl.” His voice was rough with restraint.
He grazed her lip with his thumb, and without another word, he turned and left the dining room, closing the door softly behind him.
Iris remained on the floor for several long moments, trying to catch her breath.
Her body still hummed with aftershocks, her core clenching rhythmically around nothing.
Slowly, she lowered her skirts and rose on unsteady legs.
All she could think about was how much more intense it would have felt if it had been his hands. His mouth on her. Or his thick shaft replacing her own tentative touch. The fantasy made fresh heat stir within her despite her recent release.