Chapter 25 #2
She almost groaned. One month had felt endless at the beginning, a penance she might endure in exchange for the house. Now it felt terrifyingly brief. Desperation tightened in her chest, different from the earlier kind but no less fierce. Her fingers, still fisted in his waistcoat, tugged.
“I am not yet satisfied,” she said, shocking herself more than him. “If you wish me to learn to endure pleasure, as you say, then…”
“Then?” His voice had dropped.
“Then you ought to… finish the lesson,” she managed, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I have endured the mirrors and the silk and being made to say things I never thought I would. I have endured coming apart in front of you. Surely you can endure being… less fully clothed?”
His laugh broke from him then, uncontrolled, delighted, and dark. It washed over her like another kind of touch.
“You are bargaining with me in my own den,” he said. “Did no one ever warn you against attempting to outwit a rake, Little Blossom?”
“Perhaps I wish to see him lose,” she said.
The air between them thickened. For a moment, neither moved. Then something in his face snapped, as if a tether he had been gripping too tightly finally slipped.
“Very well,” he said, voice almost a growl. “Consider me lost.”
He kissed her with abrupt, consuming hunger.
One moment she lay braced against his chest, breathless with her own daring; the next, his mouth was on hers, hot and urgent, devouring the last of her words.
This was not the patient, coaxing seduction of their earlier nights.
This was a man whose restraint had been dragged too far and at last had frayed.
Iris yelped softly into the kiss, hands flying up to clutch his shoulders. The rough fabric of his coat abraded her sensitive palms. He tilted her head back, angling her to his will, tongue sweeping into her mouth with a confidence that made her knees buckle.
“There,” he muttered against her lips. “Are you satisfied now?”
She might have made some retort, but his hands were already at his own buttons, working with swift movements.
She watched, muddled, as he shrugged out of his coat; the heavy wool dropped to the floor without ceremony.
His waistcoat followed, then his cravat, the linen fluttering like a white flag trampled underfoot.
Each layer that came away revealed more of him: the strong lines of his shoulders beneath the plain shirt, the textured shadow of hair at his throat where the collar gaped open, and the ropes of muscles.
He stood bare to the waist before her, his chest rising and falling a little faster now.
The light highlighted old, faint scars across his ribs and a newer, more brutal one that sliced down his face and continued in a thinner line along his neck, vanishing beneath his collarbone.
His body exuded pure strength, shaped by more than mere aristocratic leisure.
He carried his power with the same effortless grace as he carried his titles.
Iris raised a hand instinctively, her fingers just above the scar that ran across his cheek. She had wanted to touch it for nights and had not dared.
His eyes flared, darkening further.
“Go on,” he said softly.
She brushed her fingertips along it. The skin was slightly raised, colder than the surrounding flesh, but no longer angry. His jaw eased beneath her touch.
“Does it still hurt?” she asked.
“Not in the way you mean,” he answered.
She let her hand drift lower, over the hollow at the base of his throat, the steady thrum of his pulse there. His body vibrated under her touch.
Blaise picked her up firmly, carried her to another mirror, and placed her on the ground. Iris felt unsteady on her feet as they both faced the long mirror and Blaise stood behind her, his bare chest pressed to her back, skin to skin. Heat rolled through her as his hands curved around her waist.
“Every time I think I have mapped you, I find some new terrain,” he whispered in her ear.
“And yet you remain overdressed,” she managed, glancing down toward the still-fastened buttons of his trousers.
His answering chuckle vibrated through her back.
“You are impatient,” he chided gently.
Blaise did not hasten. Instead, he toyed with her, kneading and shaping her, coaxing sounds from her throat she did not know she could make.
Only when she was near whimpering with need did he shift, walking her backward, his body a steady pressure against hers. She stumbled once, then felt the back of her knees encounter something firm and curved. Iris glanced down.
The couch.
The strange, sinuous thing she had noticed from the first time she had crept into this room. Upholstered in soft, dark leather, its shape was inviting, indecently so. It had a broad seat that sloped, a raised end designed to support a reclining figure.
Blaise guided her down onto it, his hands firm but careful.
The leather was cool against her overheated skin, but it warmed quickly beneath her.
He arranged her as if she were indeed a piece of art.
She was half-reclining, knees bent, one leg drawn a little higher to open her up to him, and the curve of the couch cradled her lower back and hips.
Iris was laid bare before him.
Blaise stood at the foot of the couch, looking down at her. His eyes were hooded and hungry. She took in his bare, sculpted chest, the faint dusting of dark hair that thinned at his waist, and the strong lines of his hips. His trousers strained visibly.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, stepping closer. His hand went to his waistband. This time, he did not tease. He fell silent as he undid the buttons; the air between them filled with anticipation.
“No, please,” Iris pleaded.
She watched, mesmerized, as Blaise pushed the trousers and his underthings down and kicked them away.
Heat flushed her in a new wave at the sight of him fully bared.
His strong thighs, lean hips, and the potent evidence of his desire proudly erect.
She dropped her gaze for half a second, then forced it back up, refusing to flinch from him or herself.
Blaise exhaled slowly, as if her gaze stroked him physically.
“Look at you,” he said, almost to himself. “Choosing to look instead of hide.”