Angel in Scarlet (Bound and Determined #4)(77)

His fingers dipped low into her bodice, caressing the upper swells of her bosom and reaching for the puckered tips. She swallowed hard.

“What of your breasts, your nipples? You have shown them to me with only mild distress and much, much pleasure.” His fingers came to settle about her nipples. He pressed tight, rubbing slightly. “And even when I asked you to squeeze them, to twist, even when I could see the pain in your eyes, I also saw pleasure. I could see the sensations move through your body.”

“Yes,” she breathed, feeling her breasts swell into his palms, arching her back to give him greater access.

He pressed her nipples, squeezing hard. “How would you feel if I bound your breasts tight until they were red and swollen and so, so sensitive—even a breath upon them would feel too much.” His nails dug into the tips. Her body arched more.

It was hard to breathe, hard to understand what he said when all she wanted was to feel. “I don’t know.”

“But you would try.”

“Yes.” Another shallow breath.

He paused, lifted his hands from her breasts, then straightened, so that he stood between her legs as she lay back upon the bed. He reached out and gently pulled her forward until she was sitting. She could sense how serious he was. “And what if I brought out toys to play with them, things that pinched and stung, that brought tears to your eyes, but also left you crying for more?”

How could such a thing be possible? She didn’t like pain. Nobody liked pain. Yet she could see how much her answer meant to him. His eyes stayed on hers, seeking her answer.

She spoke with care. “I cannot imagine such a thing—such things. But I would try.”

Still watching her, he reached out and slowly, achingly slowly, pushed her bodice down, revealing the tops of her breasts and the beginnings of those swollen tips. He rubbed the lace edging back and forth for a moment, pressing it tight. The knit of the lace caught against her delicate skin, incredible sensation filling her nipples. Her head fell back and a soft moan escaped her lips.

His hands reached lower, cupping her breasts and lifting them above her bodice. They pressed forward like the prow of a great ship. He leaned down and blew on them—and all she could think about was his words, about how sensitive he could make them, about what he could do—about how he would make them ache while she cried for more.

He stepped away and went to the high chest of drawers and pulled one open.

Staring into the drawer, his brow furrowed. He reached in, paused, then pulled out a long stiff quill. He turned to her, then paused again. Turned back and placed the quill in the drawer. This time when he came toward her, his hand was fisted about something she couldn’t see.

She edged over and he sat beside her on the bed, his hand still hiding its contents.

“I promised myself I would be honest with you,” he said.

“Then do be. I have already told you that I saw you with another woman and that I fear I care too much for you to risk being hurt. What is there that you cannot say to me?”

“I fear to explain exactly how different my tastes are from that which you might expect….”

“Why do you not just say it and get it over with? I have not turned away yet.”

He opened his palm. “This is part of why I turned you away all those months ago, why I thought we did not suit. I was not ready to marry a woman I did not think could be what I need. I kept searching for some glimpse that you might be willing to explore at least the mildest forms of what I like, and when you started to follow every convention of what a young lady should be, I feared that I had been mistaken in you. I want you to take risks, to jump without knowing where you will land, but I confess that I lacked the courage to do so myself. When you began to act so differently, I lost faith that you could ever be what I needed, and so I told you that you had been mistaken, that I had no interest. And so I lied.”

Her eyes were on his face, not on his hand. “I am sorry that I too had lost faith and hid my feelings; perhaps if I had told you what I had seen then, we could have talked.”

“I cannot picture such a discussion taking place between us at that time.”

“Nor I, to be honest.”

Finally she let her gaze drop to his hand. What was that? Two metal pieces fastened together with some sort of mechanism. A clip? Was it some sort of…She didn’t even know where to begin to guess what it was. She looked up blankly.

“These are for your breasts.”

Oh. She regarded them again. Tried to imagine. Ouch. No, they did not look like fun. “You want to put those on me?” It was hard to imagine.

He took her hand and placed it on the flap of his trousers. Yes, he did want to put them on her. He really wanted to put them on her.

She swallowed. “Is there more?”

He glanced at the large chest of drawers. “Yes.”

“Oh.” She didn’t know what else to say.

She reached over and took one of the clips from him. His fingers started to close, but he let her take it.

Holding it in her hand, she considered. “I don’t know.”

He started to take the clip back. “I would never force you.”

“I know.” She said the words softly but firmly, both for him and herself—because she did know. She wrapped her fingers tight about it, feeling the warmth of his hand that the metal still held. “What else do you like to do?” She tried to hide the quaver in her voice.