Mastering The Marquess (Bound and Determined #1)(9)

“Pleasure?” Now she was the one repeating. Pleasure? She’d never thought of this as involving pleasure. But as she ran her hand across his skin and again felt him respond, she knew that she was enjoying, indulging.

“Yes, pleasure. Anything you do not wish you have only to say. And anything you do wish you have only to ask. Did not Ruby tell you this?”

“Ruby?” Repeating was almost becoming a game.

“Ruby—Madame Rouge. Did she not tell you that all the decisions were yours? That you had the ultimate control? I will give direction, instruction in this matter, but it is all for your pleasure.”

“Yes, Madame had said something, but …” But she had not really listened, too busy picturing how it would work in her own mind. Her mother had mentioned the bed, staring at the ceiling. This had confused Louisa, because from what she’d seen of animals it was hard to imagine staring at the ceiling while the male, the man, did that. She had never been quite able to put the body positions together in her mind. But now she was going to learn.

Men had hair on their chests—and on their feet. They took their shoes off—but not always their boots. It was acceptable to touch. There was pleasure.

Already she was learning.

She was still not quite sure of that last. The pleasure. It went against everything she had ever heard.

“Are you going to smell me? I haven’t felt you near me, except for the wonder of your touch. Are you thinking about something else?”

She looked up at him again. She wished she could see his face, see his thoughts. “What is your name?”

“Why do you need to know?” His tone deepened, became gruffer. At least he had not repeated her words.

“I merely wondered. I’d like something to call you, some way to think of you besides ‘the man.’ ”

“John. You can call me John,” he said.

All the blood drained from her skin. What had Madame told him? What did he know? Could it possibly be a coincidence? She stepped back, her hand leaving his chest. She’d planned to imagine him as John, but this—this was too much.

“You’ve grown quiet,” he said.

“My husband’s name was John—but then, Madame must have told you.”

“Fuck.” His curse startled her. “No, she said nothing. I just chose the first name that came to mind. The most common. I did not mean anything.”

“So it isn’t even your name?”

“Yes. Well, no. It is one of my names. I have several. Shall I choose another? I thought you wished anonymity.”

“Yes, well … yes. I do. So what name do you choose?” She placed her hand back upon his chest. It seemed to belong there, just above his heart. The now rapid beat, calming and yet exciting.

“Does Charles work? No bad connotations?” He placed his hand over hers, holding it tight to him.

“Yes. And I will be Grace.” She’d always wanted to be called Grace, had named her childhood doll Grace, the doll that still stood upon her dresser.

“Then, Grace, are we ever going to progress to sniffing?”

Sniffing? At least she hadn’t said it aloud. She leaned forward and placed her cheek against him, across from her hand, letting herself absorb his warmth.

Soap. That was her first thought. And something with a slight musk—amber? Or was that just him? And leather? He smelled of leather. And yes, there was a hint of smoke, of tobacco. And apples? Did he truly smell of … “Apples?” she asked.

His whole chest moved beneath her face as a single deep laugh left him. “Yes. A green one. I like them sharp—not quite ripe. Hard to find at this time of year.”

Why did the words “not quite ripe” make her think of herself? Was he trying to tell her something? “Do you do this often? Take a woman’s virginity, I mean? Has Madame hired you before?” She hated the thought of that on some deep visceral level. She hadn’t thought of it before, but now that she had …

“What do you think I am?” He pulled away. “Some whore? Some Casanova?”

“No, I just thought … Oh, I don’t know. I didn’t think. Please, I am sorry.” It was her turn to bring him back. She caught at his arm, his muscles bunched beneath her fingers—harder than she could ever have imagined. She stopped and felt, stroked. Even in the midst of apology and anger, she could not stop herself from wanting—blast, she didn’t even know what she wanted, just that she wanted.

He stopped. And turned, staring down at her, as if such a thing were possible through the thick mask. “I am not being paid. Ruby asked me for a favor and I agreed—no, don’t move your hand. It was a favor I am delighted to fulfill. I am not doing this for any reason except that I want to. And I do not deflower virgins. Never have. Well, maybe once, but I was barely more than a boy, and never trusted that she spoke the truth.”

“Oh.” Her voice was very small. She moved her fingers down to his wrist and then up to his shoulder. His arms were so different from her own. The lower part, the forearm, was covered with those rough but soft dark hairs. They grew sparser as she proceeded up his arm, until near the shoulder there were hardly any. And his upper arm. It looked almost as if he’d stuffed a largish ball beneath the skin. She could not even reach about it with both her hands. She formed an almost-meeting cuff about his arm and then stroked downward. His body shook as she passed the tender skin of his inner elbow, then moved down to his wrist. Here she could shackle him, wrap her fingers tight. And up again and down. She loved how his flesh moved beneath her, how his whole body responded to her every move.