Chapter 21
The confession startled Iris so completely that she almost looked behind herself to discover who had spoken.
Blaise’s eyes darkened.
“Say it again,” he commanded.
Iris swallowed, and her knees felt unreliable, but her voice was steady enough to shame her fear. “Yes.”
Only then did he offer his hand. She looked at it for one suspended moment. His hand could direct, restrain, comfort, and undo her. She placed her gloved fingers in his as he led her from the room without haste.
The corridors of Knoxford House seemed longer.
Iris was aware of every step and every point of contact where his hand enclosed hers.
He did not speak. That restraint worked on her more powerfully than persuasion.
Had he teased her, she might have retreated into wit.
Had he demanded, she might have armed herself with pride.
Instead, he gave her silence, and into it her own desire rose, unmistakably.
At the door to the red room, they stopped, and Blaise faced her, but she dropped her gaze.
“Look at me.”
Iris listened.
“If you wish to leave, you may say so.”
“I know...I do not wish to.”
“You must do more than know. You must believe in and trust me. And you have to listen.” His face was severe now, stripped of charm.
The scar made him look almost brutal, but his eyes held her with a care that stole the strength from her defenses.
“I believe you, and I trust you,” she whispered, and she could not help but feel the intimacy of the moment.
Blaise opened the door, and the room received them in red shadow.
Iris had imagined it so many times that the reality should have disappointed her.
It did not. Silk, leather, and iron were present not as ornaments but as promises.
The air felt warmer here, charged by secrecy and intention.
This was not a room made for polite comfort.
It had been designed around surrender, and the recognition of that made her pulse beat in places she did not name.
Blaise closed the door.
Iris stood just inside, her hands clasped before her, no longer certain where to look. The red of the room seemed to touch her skin. She had asked for this in ink. She had not understood that ink could become breath and heat and the slow approach of a man who meant to answer.
Blaise came behind her. “Remove your gloves.”
Her fingers trembled over the buttons.
He did not help. He simply watched her obey as he circled her.
When the gloves were gone, he took them and set them aside. Then his hand settled at the back of her neck, beneath the weight of her hair like she was his possession.
“Good,” he said.
The praise struck low and deep. Iris’s eyes closed before she could prevent it.
“There she is,” he murmured.
No one had spoken to her like that. As though some hidden creature had lifted its head and been recognized and not condemned. Her shame did not vanish. It changed shape and became heat, surrender, and the fragile courage of remaining where she was.
His hand slid into her hair, heavier now, fingers spreading through the honey-colored strands. He tilted her head back. She felt him close behind her, broad and warm with his mouth near her ear.
“You wrote that you remembered my hand here.”
Her breath left her.
“I cannot remember—”
“Your body will remind you.”
That should have offended her. Instead, it made her ache even more for him.
Blaise turned her gently to face him. His eyes moved over her face, lingering on her mouth, then lower. He looked as if he were studying what restraint cost him.
“May I kiss you?”
The question undid her more thoroughly than the command.
“Yes, please.”
He leaned forward and kissed her slowly, as though time had been made for this single use.
His mouth was warm, patient, and devastating.
Iris had expected conquest. Instead, he gave her sweet attention.
Her hands rose to his chest. Beneath her palms, he was solid and controlled.
She wanted to disturb that control. She wanted to be the reason it failed.
His mouth left hers and moved to her jaw, then her throat, leaving her breathless.
Her head tipped back, and his lips traced fire down her neck, just as she had imagined, but imagination had been a pale, obedient thing. This was unruly. This made her fingers clutch at his coat, and her breath turn uneven.
“Blaise.”
“Yes.” His voice was rougher now. “Say my name like that again, and I shall become insufferable.”
“You are already insufferable.”
He laughed against her skin, and the tenderness of it nearly broke her.
Then his hands were at her waist, steadying her as his mouth continued lower to the place where her gown permitted no more.
He did not rush. He did not tear or take.
He made each pause a question and each answer hers to give.
When he lowered her to sit, when he knelt before her, the sight of him in supplication sent a shock of feeling through her that was almost painful.
“You wrote of my hands beneath your skirts,” he said quietly.
Her face burned. “I wrote too much.”
“No.” His palms rested on her knees through the fabric. “You wrote honestly.”
She could not look away from him.
“Part your knees for me, Iris.”
The command was soft, and she happily obeyed.
Blaise’s hands moved to her ankles. Before she knew what was happening, he buckled each ankle to the leg of the chair.
Iris’s heart plummeted. Blaise reached over the outer layers of her skirts, not yet beneath them.
The anticipation became its own touch. When at last his fingers slid under the fabric, her breath caught, and his gaze lifted at once to hers.
“Still yes?”
Her pride might have made some clever answer, but desire made her truthful.
“Yes.”
He touched her with reverence disguised as authority, with an intimacy that made every nerve wake.
His hands found her warm mound and the place where she had been untouched until she met him.
Iris gripped the arms of the chair, eyes closing as sensation spread through her in waves she could neither name nor govern.
“Look at me,” he said.
She forced her eyes open.
His dark blue gaze held hers while he pleasured her, and there was no escape from being seen. Her ankles strained against the buckles, but her legs remained open and inviting to him. That was the humiliation. That was the release. She knew that Blaise saw her want and she yielded to his touch.
“You are beautiful,” he said.
The word entered her like mercy.
She shook her head, but he tightened his hand on her thigh.
“Do not deny me when I praise what is mine to praise.”
A sound escaped her. She did not know if it was a protest or a plea.
Blaise rose and kissed her again, swallowing it gently. His mouth moved from her lips to her throat, across the upper curve of her breasts, lower only in promise, in heat through fabric. She trembled against him, stunned by the pleasure she was already experiencing.
Then he reached for the silk, and Iris went still.
Blaise noticed.
“I will untie your ankles and only bind your wrists,” he said. “Only if you wish it.”
She looked at the silk in his hands. It appeared too soft to frighten her.
“I wish to do that,” she whispered.
“I know.” His voice was gentle. “Give me your hands.”
She did, and he bound her wrists with care; the silk was smooth against her skin, and it was a restraint more symbolic than secure. Blaise unbuckled her ankles and lifted her off the chair and placed her on unsteady feet.
He touched the knot in her tied-up hands, then her cheek. “Is it too tight?”
“No.” She wriggled her wrists to prove it.
It was tied securely but not too tightly.
“Are you frightened, Little Blossom?” he asked her huskily.
“A little.” She confessed.
He kissed her bound hands. “Good. A little fear keeps us honest.”
She laughed then, breathless and astonished that they were actually in the red room. Blaise looked down at her with what seemed like admiration. It was not at all how she imagined he would be. She expected a harsh demeanor and cold acts of passion.
“You are magnificent when you stop fighting for what you want.” Tears pricked unexpectedly at her eyes.
She turned her face aside, but he caught her chin.
“You are not allowed to hide anything in this room, not even your tears.”
Iris nodded, and Blaise drew her closer, her bound hands caught gently between them, as he kissed her until the last of her resistance loosened. Behind him, she saw the suggestion of leather, the hard glint of iron, and instead of terror, she felt an answering pull.
Blaise rested his forehead against hers.
“This is only a taste,” he said.
Her body still trembled, and her heart had not yet learned its ordinary rhythm.
“Then you are a wicked man,” she said, “because now I shall think of nothing else.”
His smile brushed her mouth. “Good.”
And when he kissed her again, Iris stopped thinking altogether.
Blaise’s mouth claimed hers with raw hunger, his tongue stroking deep as he lifted her effortlessly into his arms. She gasped against his lips, her bound hands lay on her lap as he carried her to the bed.
“Put your hands above your head.”
Iris did as she was told, and in one smooth motion, he laid her on her knees facing the headboard. Before she could catch her breath, Blaise secured her wrists to the headboard with practiced ease.
“Blaise…” she whispered, half protest, half plea.
“Yes, Little Flower?” he murmured, his large hands already working at the fastenings of her skirts.
“I do not know what to do.”
“I will do everything.” He kissed her softly before he moved behind her and began removing only the heavy outer layers of her skirts, pushing them up around her waist and leaving her chemise and stockings intact.
His strong fingers gripped her hips, raising them until her wrists fell down the bar in the headboard, and she was on her knees, bottom lifted high, face pressed into the pillow.
Iris trembled with embarrassment and arousal when he lifted her chemise and cool air kissed her exposed skin.
The bed shifted as he knelt behind her, spreading her thighs wider.
Iris gasped when he slightly smacked her; the sting was sudden and so pleasurable that she felt the wetness gather between her thighs already.
She heard his breath hitch before he slapped her again.
He added a little more pressure, and Iris moaned.
Blaise continued until her thighs began to shake; the discipline felt more intense than the pleasure.
She felt the bed shift under his weight again, and then he stopped.
“Blaise?”
Iris cried out when she felt his mouth on her core.
Another strangled cry escaped her as his tongue dragged slowly from her dripping entrance up to her swollen pearl.
He licked her from behind with devastating thoroughness, groaning against her wet flesh as though she were the most delicious thing he had ever tasted.
His hand held her hip firmly in place while his other snaked around and pressed slow, torturous circles on her most sensitive spot.
Blaise feasted on her, sucking and licking with relentless hunger.
“Oh God—” Iris moaned when she felt his tongue enter her.
She pushed back against his mouth instinctively. The position was obscene, humiliating, and impossibly arousing. Every stroke of his tongue sent sparks of pleasure racing through her.
Blaise pulled back just enough to speak, his breath hot against her soaked folds. “You are so sweet, Iris. And so wet for me already. You love being like this, do you not? You are all presented for your duke.”
Before she could answer, he returned to her with renewed fervor. His tongue circled her soft mound before plunging inside her with slow, deep strokes. Iris’s bound hands clenched above her head as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter.
“Can I pleasure you with one finger?” he asked almost gentlemanly.
“Y…yes!” Iris would allow him to do anything.
When he slid one thick finger into her entrance, she cried out.
The stretch burned for a moment; she was so tight and so untouched, but Blaise was patient and gentle.
He curled his finger gently, stroking a sensitive spot inside of her while his tongue returned and continued its assault on her pearl.
The pain quickly melted into overwhelming pleasure.
Iris moaned loudly, hips rocking back against his hand and mouth as the discomfort faded completely.
Every time she thought she experienced the ultimate form of pleasure, he proved her wrong.
“That is it,” he growled against her. “Look at how you open for me, Little Blossom.”
His tongue and thick finger pushed her over the edge. Iris shattered with a broken cry, her walls clenching rhythmically around his finger as intense waves of pleasure crashed through her.
She was still trembling when Blaise withdrew his hand and slowly turned her over onto her back, her arms twisted above her head but not painfully. Iris admired him as he towered above her. Blaise freed his member; it looked thick and heavy, and Iris’s breath caught at the sight of him.
“May I cuff your ankles?” he asked, voice rough with need.
Iris nodded, dazed and aching. “Yes.”
He secured her ankles to the bottom posts with soft leather cuffs, spreading her wide open for him. Then he climbed between her thighs.
“I will not enter you,” he whispered before he began rubbing the thick head of his shaft slowly up and down her soaked slit, teasing her sensitive center with every stroke.
Iris whimpered and hips lifting desperately. “Please…”
Blaise leaned down, kissing her deeply as he continued rubbing his hard length against her. The slick, rhythmic friction built quickly, driving them both higher. His breathing grew ragged against her mouth as he rocked faster, grinding relentlessly.
“Come with me,” he commanded hoarsely.
The pressure and heat became too much. Iris cried out as another powerful wave of pleasure ripped through her, her body arched beneath him, and Blaise groaned deeply, spilling hot seed across her stomach and breasts in thick pulses as he joined her in release.
For several long moments, the only sound in the room was their ragged breathing as Blaise rested his forehead against hers, both of them lost in the aftershocks of pleasure and sweet pain.