Bound by Bliss (Bound and Determined #2)(75)

Ignoring the crop, he pulled out a small glass vile and unstopped it. Roses. Deep red roses. He glanced at her. No, not right. Lilies? No. Sandalwood and musk? Far too masculine. Amber? Close. Lilac? Lavender? Vanilla? Lemon? All were close but none quite right for his Bliss. Orange blossom? Yes, tart but with such a level of sweetness as to…



Was he really having these thoughts? When had he ever considered what scent he wished oil to have as long as it did not stink or smell rancid? He might have understood his prolonged thoughts if he’d been considering oil that heated the skin, pepper or cinnamon, but just for scent? That was for women—or other men. He did not have time for dainty smells.

Yes, the orange blossom was just perfect.

He lifted the vial and placed it upon the top of the wardrobe, pulling open the next drawer. A neatly arranged pile of varied-colored silk scarves lay spread across the entire width. He smiled to himself. Trust Ruby to understand the importance of the right visual. It was part of what separated Madame Rouge’s from any other house he’d been in.

Without thought he chose a length of midnight blue silk, soft and flowing. As with the orange blossom, he only had to look to know that it was the right choice. Debating briefly, he slid the drawer shut and turned back to the bed. He might dream of seeing her tied to his bed, but tonight was not the time. Exploration needed to proceed one step at a time.

Cool blue eyes met his as he turned. She might be quiet. She might be still. None of that meant she was in perfect agreement with him. Bliss was not one to give in easily—if at all.

“Roll onto your stomach,” he ordered.

Her eyes flashed once. Her lips parted and then closed again. With incredible slowness, she lifted herself and resettled on the great bed, cheek turned to the side, cushioned by the lush pile of pillows, her glorious ass tilting up like a very ripe peach. It was not an original metaphor, but so very fitting. Her mouth puckered in a very definite pout as she caught his gaze.



He held up the length of dark silk, watched as her eyes ran its length, saw her questions.

“I am going to blindfold you. I want you to concentrate completely on what you feel and sight is only a distraction. There will be nothing to prevent you from removing the blindfold except the knowledge that it will make me most unhappy. I need you to trust me.”

Her head moved a bare inch, but he recognized the nod.

Her gaze moved to the bottle of oil in his other hand.

“Nothing but oil, sweet and slick. I am sure you pour something similar into your bath.”

Another almost nod.

Her eyes darted to the chest behind him.

“There is nothing else in there that need concern you…” And then he reconsidered. Placing the oil and the scarf beside the candle near the bed, he opened the drawer that held the scarves. Several long feathers lay there, neatly placed along the front of the drawer. He pulled out two, one long and dark and sleek, slightly stiff. A raven’s feather? The second was the palest of grays, soft and flexible, a feather fit for a lady’s best bonnet. He held them out to her. “I will take nothing else out tonight. I will leave your imagination to decide what these are for, but I think you can see that you have no true worries.” Little did she know what a man with imagination, skill, and patience could accomplish with so little. “I will not always give you such reassurance in the future. Most often I will enjoy surprising you—or I may not know what I wish until I am already doing it.”



Her throat moved as she swallowed.

He was glad she did not feel the need to protest that there would be no other nights. The argument was growing tiring.

Putting the feathers down beside the oil and the silk, he climbed onto the bed, moving to straddle her hips. She stiffened momentarily, but then relaxed. He rested some of his weight upon her, but kept most of it upon his own thighs. She seemed so small and fragile as he knelt above her. His spread hands could span most of the breadth of her shoulders. Leaning forward, he lifted the silk and drew it near, letting it trail across the bare flesh of her shoulders. Her skin shuddered at its touch.

He ran it back and forth across her pale body, watching for each whisper of movement. With infinite slowness, he drew it up until it hung before her eyes. Tension filled her body, but she did not demur as with great care he covered her eyes and brought the ends behind her head to tie them in a tight knot in the midst of cascading blond curls. She held herself stiff as she drew accustomed to the sudden darkness.

Taking a moment, he eased back on his ankles and just took in her beauty. She lay in the middle of the bed, light creamy skin on white linen sheets, arms straight down by her sides, long smooth back rising to rosy behind, the cheeks still glowing from his touch. His palm itched with the desire to caress that flesh again, to feel her move beneath him, to know his touch fired her desire. He moved back, letting his eyes settle on the enticing crevasse at the base of her ass, that magic point where thighs joined and secrets resided. He could see nothing of her at this moment, her touching legs hiding all from his view, but the promise was enough. He lingered there for a moment, his mind filling with the images of all he had seen and all he would see again.



She was his. No matter how much she might deny it, she was his.

He let his gaze wander back up, settling on the tousled curls that partly hid her lovely features, on the deep silk, so dark against her paleness. His cock stirred against his leg, reminding him of its wants. He didn’t know what it was about the sight of her lying there, her eyes hidden, her full lips slightly parted, that called to him so deeply, but there was no denying that seeing Bliss lying upon the bed caught at something within him and pulled—and in far more ways than the expected. She might stir his cock, but his mind was called as well—and perhaps his heart.