Mastering the Marquess (6 page)

“Yes. And can I taste as well? Smell?”

Chapter Five

His penis, his cock, was magnificent. It was quite strange, but the closer she moved the more she appreciated the strength and beauty of the thing. It was beyond all she had ever imagined. She’d seen the penis of a small baby once—and a couple of times she’d sneaked peeks at those statues her mother had forbidden her to view, but she’d never seen anything like this. Never imagined anything like this.

It was so long and thick. And so hard beneath her hand, but wrapped in silk, like an iron bar within the finest handkerchief.

She still wasn’t sure she believed it could possibly fit inside her.

“You want to taste me? Do you mean you want to put your mouth, your lips, upon my cock?” He growled.

She smiled up at him, knowing he could not see. She was learning to discount that growl. It seemed to come when he was most pleased. His member—no: his cock—danced at her words. “Do women not touch men with their mouths?” She was sure she’d overheard something about this once—although she had not understood it then, or indeed now.

He released a long sigh, his fingers pressing against the bottom of the shaft. “Yes, women do put cocks in their mouths. It is an activity that men enjoy very much.”

“Then why do you act surprised that I ask?”

“It is not something that I have normally experienced with more innocent women. I have never before had somebody just ask me straight out.”

“Oh. But it is acceptable that I asked? It is not strange?”

“No stranger than anything else under the present circumstances. If I promise to let you taste me later, should you still desire, will you only touch for now? I can only repeat that I do not want it over too soon.”

“As long as you promise. I find myself most curious.” She leaned closer, wishing she could taste now. Instead she filled herself with looking, remembering.

Remembering how he’d stroked himself, she wrapped her fingers fully about him and stroked up to the tip. He grew wider at the top, and she hesitated before finishing. She tried
again, careful to keep the motion smooth. And again.

He caught her hand and stilled it. “I am going to say no before you unman me. It is my turn.”

“Give me one more minute. I want to be sure that I remember everything.”

“One.”

She hadn’t felt the sac beneath his cock yet. With a single finger she reached out and stroked it.

He hissed.

Only moments ago she would have taken that for a sign of displeasure, but now she was beginning to understand. She added a second finger and then cupped the sac.

A longer, drawn-out sound escaped his lips.

A single drop of fluid appeared at the tip of his penis. With her other hand she reached out and touched it—and then brought it to her lips. It was not what she had expected. She was not at all sure it was pleasant. Still, she wished she could taste it again.

She smiled to herself.

“Are you disobeying me? I told you to taste later.”

“How did you know?”

“I am coming to know you. I knew you would be curious. Now do not disobey me again.”

She wasn’t sure she’d agree to that, but it was probably better not to say anything. Even as a small child she had not been good at doing as she was told—more often she had done the opposite.

She cupped his bollocks again, considering their weight and texture. “They feel different than I expected. I thought the bollocks would feel more solid, but they seem like large grapes, or maybe plums—something that would pop if I squeezed.”

Even before she had finished the sentence, he’d captured her hand and pulled it away. “That is a definite no,” he said. “I have no desire to be popped—or even squeezed with any force. You will find that the bollocks—or simply ‘balls’—are a rather sensitive part of the anatomy. They must be treated with care.”

That seemed odd compared with the strength of the rest of his body, but she would respect his “no” and not experiment. There might be more questions later, however.

“And now it truly is my turn. Did Ruby tell you what to do? Give you the blindfold?”

“Yes. Although why you get a mask and I am blindfolded I do not understand,” she replied.

“Ruby thought you would be more comfortable if you were truly sure I could not see your full face. And I like the blindfold—and have enough experience that I trust it. Plus I would like your mouth free.”

She had no response to that. Her imagination was already wondering what he would do with her mouth. He had promised that she could taste him. Perhaps that was what this was about.

He continued, “She did tell you I wished to blindfold you myself, to be sure it was fitted correctly?”

“Yes.” She hesitated. “But I am unsure how we manage that without you seeing me.”

“And would it be so awful if I did?”

A moment’s consideration. It would be wonderful to see his face, to have that added piece of intimacy, but … “Yes, it would. I do not want anybody to know who I am, what I am doing. If it was possible I would wish Madame Rouge did not know.”

“If that is your wish.” His voice was very calm, very authoritative. “Then take the blindfold and kneel facing the bed, your face away from me, head lowered. I will remove my mask and then come from behind. I will place the blindfold over your eyes and upper face from the back. I will see only the crown of your head, not your face. Is this to your satisfaction?”

Was it? She’d relished him being unable to see, but it frightened her now that it was her turn. She understood what Madame had said about its being necessary. Madame had explained that while they could have both worn half-masks, that often came across as silly and cumbersome. A blindfold was far better. She had understood that at the time, but now … Now it seemed frightening.

Turning away from him, she walked toward the bed. It was huge, the white covers spread smooth as if prepared for a sacrifice—and she was that sacrifice. Her breath caught.

A moment ago this had all been so easy, so carefree, so exciting.

This was different.

With great care she lifted the black silk blindfold from the table beside the bed. She held it up to her eyes. She could see nothing through it—perhaps the slightest tinge of light, but that was all.

Her tongue felt caught in her throat. Was she truly ready for this?

She felt worse than she had before he entered the room.

And yet the truth was still there: This must be done.

She could only trust in Madame. And in him, in Charles. He had not let her down yet, and he had trusted her. Now it was her turn.

Facing the bed, she sank to her knees, then brushed her braid over her shoulder so it hung halfway down her back. She bowed her head to the floor, feeling almost like a doomed queen awaiting the executioner.

And yet, she doubted any doomed queen had ever felt these quivers deep in her belly, felt the dampness between her thighs, felt … She didn’t know what she felt, but she did know that it was not all bad.

There was even something about this position, about this vulnerability, that was doing strange things to her. She was scared, it was true—but there was something about passing over control that was almost as freeing as being able to examine Charles unobserved.

She had no more decisions to make. He was responsible for everything.

All she had to do was trust.

But, could she? She’d never felt so exposed, so open.

Tangling her fingers in the fine fabric of her dress, she waited, breathless.

She heard him take a step. Staring down at her clenched hands, she pulled in a breath and tried to relax.

He must have removed the mask; he must be able to see her. What did she look like to him, small and hunched? She hoped she was not shaking. Shaking would be bad. She did not wish him to know that he frightened her.

He was right behind her. Her breaths grew shallow.

What if he did not find her pleasing? She was short—although perhaps he could not tell while she was kneeling. And her hair was dark, almost black—what if he preferred blondes, preferred light hair? At least it was braided—he would not be able to tell just how unruly it was, how it sprang free with a life of its own.

What if he didn’t want her? He had assured her that men could be aroused by almost anything. But what if once he saw her he no longer found that true? What if only the mystery of the situation had intrigued him? What if he didn’t want to go through with this?

“Unbraid your hair.” He spoke with command, the voice flowing from just behind her head.

Butterflies took flight in her belly. With trembling fingers she reached and drew her braid over her shoulder, unfastening the tie. Why did he want her hair loose? It would only get in the way. She hadn’t worn it loose since she was a small child. It was such a mess. He was sure to find it displeasing, unattractive. She hesitated, prepared to question.

“Continue.” His voice rumbled about her. “You must learn to do as I say if this is to proceed as planned.”

“But—”

“No buts. Surely it is not that hard a task.”

Her fingers worked quickly through the plait, freeing it inch by inch until her hair sprang about her in a cloud, covering her upper back and shoulders. She bowed her head farther, letting her hair fall forward to cover her face.

She felt tears well in her eyes. There was so much emotion running through her that she didn’t know how to act.

The barest brush of his hands ran over her hair, not pressing down but skimming, the way one might caress a bird’s wing.

“Very beautiful,” he said.

Her hair? That was all he could see. Nobody had ever praised her hair—not that there had ever been anybody besides her mother and John to praise her. John had often remarked that she was pretty, but he’d never been specific.

“Are you ready?” His hand brushed with more pressure, the sensation exquisite.

It was hard not to move her head into his touch, but she could not risk her face being seen.

“Yes.” Even to herself she did not sound sure.

“Hold out the blindfold. There. Now I am going to place it about your face. You may use your hands to move it into position so that it covers your eyes and as much of your face as you wish. I do require that your lips be free. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

The dark silk passed around her head, across her eyes, and back. She felt it tighten, obscuring the world from her. Tentatively she reached up and pulled it slightly down her nose,
but not so far that it covered her nostrils. With care she arranged it across her cheeks and pulled it up higher on her forehead. He must never know who she was—not that they would ever meet again after this one night.

He gave a tug, pulling the fabric until he held it tight about her eyes and ears. She felt him tie the knot.

The whole world turned black.

She was his to do with as he wished.

She could only trust.

She was his to do with as he wished. The thought did nothing to cool the body he had only just gotten under control.

Gods, she was tiny. Ruby had not warned him about that, had not told him anything beyond that he would not be disappointed.

Stepping back, he took her in. A halo of dark curls sprang about her shoulders and draped most of the way down her back, the light of the fire filling the ringlets with reds and golds. He longed to bury his fingers in those curls, to use them to pull her against him even as he relished their softness—for after only the barest of touches he’d known they would be soft.

Her shoulders were narrow, draped in white silk, the barest edging of lace, nothing to scratch. It was hard to tell much beyond that as she knelt there, her body hunched forward. But he could see the tension in her, see her unease, her fear.

He would have to calm those fears, slowly and with care—and yet, while being true to himself.

She was beautiful—and so vulnerable, so trusting. Even in her fear she knelt before him, a virgin waiting to be conquered.

And he would conquer.

He took another step back, looked about the room, selected a chair, moved to it and set it a good ten feet from the fire. “Stand,” he said.

Without a word, she slowly rose to her feet, bobbling only a little, her arms spread out as she sought her balance. Once steady, she stood still, facing the bed.

“Move before the fire. Do you remember where it is? Do not get too close. It is not my desire to harm you, only to warm you, to stop your shivering.”

“It is not cold that makes me shiver.” She sounded hesitant, her bravery having deserted her with her sight.

“I know, but still the fire will help. Do you need my help to move? To find your spot to stand?”

He felt her pause, think.

“No,” she answered. “I can see where the fire is. Oh, not really—do not worry. But I can see a glow, a light that must be the fire. Surely a candle would not burn so brightly through the silk.”

“There is nothing between you and the flames. You are safe to walk.”

She took a half-step forward and then another, her toes shuffling along the carpet, helping her feel her way.