Mastering The Marquess (Bound and Determined #1)(14)

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.