Chapter 25
Iris felt each button of her dress give. Silk loosened around her ribs, easing its grip, baring the heat of her skin to the cooler air. She closed her eyes, and the world vanished, leaving only her and him.
“No,” Blaise said quietly behind her. “Keep your eyes open.”
Iris’s lashes flew up before she could resist. Her own gaze met her in the mirror. Her amber eyes looked too large, her mouth too soft and parted.
“I do not wish to watch myself,” she murmured.
“I know.” His tone was almost indulgent. “That is why you must.”
The gown flowed down, pooling at her feet like a pale puddle of silk. She stood in her chemise and corset, stockings and slippers; she was not naked yet, but she felt indecently bare already under his gaze. His eyes traced over her in the reflection, unhurried and unapologetic, claiming every inch.
“You will not bind me this time?” she asked innocently.
“Would you like to be bound again?” Blaise replied, his eyes not leaving hers.
Her breath hitched. Yes…I would.”
“Take off the rest of your garments,” he instructed, his voice soft but leaving no room for argument.
Iris hesitated only a heartbeat. Her fingers shook as she drew the linen up and over her head. Blaise stepped away only to pick up something from a nearby table. When he returned into her field of vision, he held a length of dark silk between his hands. It pooled like water between his fingers.
Iris’s breath caught in her throat, and she shuddered.
“Turn around,” he commanded.
Her feet obeyed before her thoughts had formed. Blaise lifted one of her wrists. His fingers encircled it, and he then laid the silk against it.
“You may tell me to stop at any time,” he said calmly.
“You would truly stop if I said so?”
“I would,” he said simply, and she believed him. “Lie down on the bed.”
She did as she was told, and he began to wind the silk around her wrist. Each turn tightened with the softest pull until it felt snug but not biting.
Iris knew then that she would not tell him to stop.
He bound her other wrist, then drew her arms above her head. A low sound worked its way up her throat. The vulnerable stretch of her body, the lift of her breasts, and the instinctive arch of her back all combined into a singular awareness that she was on display.
She heard a faint metallic clink overhead and watched in the ceiling mirror how he had secured the silk to some cleverly hidden ring. She could still move slightly.
“Look at yourself, Iris,” he said, stepping aside.
Iris did not want to. But she did.
Her reflection in the ceiling mirror stole her breath. Her cheeks burned, and shame rose, thick and choking.
“Is this what you wanted?” she demanded, hearing the tremor in her voice. “To see me helpless and… like this?”
His reflection joined hers in the glass. He kneeled beside her on the bed, hands loose at his sides, gaze traveling slowly up the bound lines of her arms, the peak of her breasts, the hollow at her throat. When his eyes met hers, they were intent.
“You are not helpless,” he said. “You chose to let me bind you. You may choose to have me unbind you. That is not helplessness. That is power.”
Blaise dipped his head. His lips brushed the tender place beneath her ear. Her body reacted with startling violence; her knees weakened, heat streaking from that light contact straight down through her belly. The silk at her wrists held firm, reminding her of her own acquiescence.
“You look,” he whispered against her skin, “exquisite.”
She made a small, protesting noise. “You said you would speak only truths.”
“And I am,” he said.
His mouth traced the line of her jaw, the slope of her neck.
Blaise moved one hand upward, fingertips gliding between her breasts.
Then lower down the rigid center to the slight softness of her stomach.
He never touched where she wanted him most, that throbbing center of aching awareness between her thighs, but every path he traced led toward it and then away again, mocking her.
He sank to one knee between her legs. The movement dragged his hands down along her hips, over the firm fullness there, and then to her thighs.
Iris gasped as he lifted her leg and placed a kiss on her heel. Her breath turned ragged.
“Spread your feet,” he said.
Iris’s blush went all the way down her chest. Still, she obeyed, feeling the stretch of muscles, the way it opened her.
His hands pressed her thighs further apart, a murmur of approval escaping him.
“Do you still feel humiliated, Little Blossom?”
The word had become soft and unfamiliar. It no longer fit what she felt.
She closed her eyes on a shaky exhale, then forced them open at once, remembering his command.
“No,” she whispered. “I feel as though I am burning with want.”
His breath drew in sharply. “And what is it you want, little blossom?”
“You,” she choked. “I want you.”
His hand, still resting at that unbearably sensitive juncture, pressed very lightly, and fire streaked through her. Her lips parted on a sound, and his fingers moved then, drawing a slow, deliberate line to her core. Iris could feel how wet she was already.
“You are drenched,” she heard Blaise whisper darkly.
It was intolerable, the way his words slipped under the solid structure of her shame and loosened it. She wanted him never to stop.
“Please,” she whispered, the plea dragged from a place so deep it startled her.
“Please, what?”
“I need more.”
“You will have more,” he said. “When I decide you are ready.”
Frustration flared, hot and helpless. He laughed softly as she tried to pull free from her restraints.
“Tonight, you will learn a new skill. You will learn to endure pleasure.”
Endure. The word felt wrong against the sensations building in her. She was not enduring; she was coming apart.
His hand moved with steady intention, knowing now exactly where to touch. Each stroke drew her higher. Yet every time she neared that blinding crest, he altered his touch and eased back.
Iris felt her wrists straining against the silk as sweat dampened her hairline, a bead slipping down between her shoulder blades. In the mirror, her eyes were wild, mouth open, chest heaving. She could not remember when she had last looked so alive.
“Say it,” he coaxed. “Say what you need.”
“I need you, Blaise. I need—”
“Ah,” he said, satisfaction sliding into his tone. “There, at last, is honesty.”
He did not relent as he touched her core and began to move his fingers in a satisfying rhythm. Blaise drew her to the edge and back again, until the Iris was desperate and aching for more.
“Look,” he said hoarsely. “See what you do to yourself.”
She forced her eyes open. In the mirror, she saw her shaking thighs and the way her hips pushed helplessly into his touch, seeking more. No one was forcing her body to move like that. Those small, greedy thrusts were her own.
Mortification and exaltation collided, leaving her dizzy.
“You may be ashamed of this. Or you may claim it. The choice is yours, Iris. That is what I want you to understand.”
Her mind scattered, shards of thought flying away like glass flung from a window. All that remained was the roaring need, the taut, trembling core of her.
“I choose… not to be ashamed.”
The instant the words left her, something inside her loosened. The tension that had been braced invisibly through her for years, holding her upright and dutiful and spotless, gave way.
“This is going to sting a little,” Blaise warned her as he slid a finger inside of her.
Iris whimpered. His movements changed, and the careful, withholding rhythm broke, becoming more urgent. He drove her hard, his finger mastering exactly the maddening spot he had been denying her, and the world fractured into blinding light as she cried out.
“Open your eyes,” he said as he held her legs apart and continued to touch her maddeningly.
Iris watched as she came apart with a strangled cry that filled the mirrored room and echoed back at her from every gleaming surface. Her body bucked, dragged up against the pull of the silk, muscles clenching around the pleasure that poured through her.
The climax rolled over her in waves, each one dragging some last scrap of resistance away. She hung there in the aftermath, chest heaving, eyes dazed, feeling as if she had dissolved and been rebuilt in a slightly altered shape.
Blaise did not move for a moment. His hand rested possessively at her hip, his forehead leaned against the side of her throat, his breath ragged.
“Look at what you can take,” he murmured. “Look at what you can enjoy.”
Blaise reached up. The silk that bound her loosened with a few expert tugs and fell away from the hidden ring, pooling around her wrists. Her cheek met the rough wool of his waistcoat, and she listened to the steady thump of his heartbeat against her ear.
The embrace was almost worse than the pleasure.
“You remain fully dressed. That is hardly fair!” she argued breathlessly.
Blaise’s eyes darkened, “Is that what troubles you, Iris? That I am dressed?”
“Yes,” she answered, surprising herself with the firmness.
“And here I thought I had exhausted you,” he said. “You are a rapacious little thing, are you not?”
The blush that followed felt different now, less like a punishment and more like a bloom.
“You have shown me a room full of… devices,” she said, glancing around. “You made an entire spectacle of binding and mirrors. And yet, I cannot help but suspect I have not yet seen the full extent of your potential.”
His laugh was low and disbelieving, as if he were genuinely delighted. “I bring a widow to the edge of madness, and she demands a full tour of my depravity.”
“You are the one who wished me to be honest,” she retorted, squaring her shoulders despite her lack of clothing. The confidence tasted strange and wonderful. “I am being honest. I want...”
She stopped. The word thrummed between them anyway.
He drew in a slow breath through his nose, as if reining something in. His hand slipped to the small of her back, fingers splaying possessively there.
“There is time enough for demonstrations.”