Sipping her wine, Charlotte scanned the room, searching for inspiration before she realized she already had exactly what she required.
Awareness rippled through his body once again as she approached to stand directly in front of him. Then she dipped her first two fingers into the wineglass, allowing the heady liquid to soak into the material of her glove.
“Give me your mouth, mon grand,” she whispered.
“Oui, Madame.” He slowly tilted his head back but kept his eyelids lowered. His features were stark and beautiful, his lips tense.
“Ouvre.”
His lips parted to show the even edges of his white teeth.
Removing her fingers from the glass, she slid them between his lips. His mouth closed instantly as he sucked the wine from the velvet without being told to do so.
Charlotte considered chastising him for his boldness, but she was enjoying the sensation far too much. His tongue lavedthickly against her fingers as he drew them deeper into his mouth. Her heart gave a hard lurch and her belly erupted with wild desire.
His mouth was wicked. The artistry of his lips and tongue and teeth were so delicious, she might not have noticed that he’d grasped her wrist in a tight hand if he hadn’t also opened his eyes to pin her with a dark, probing stare.
In that split second, he peered straight into the soul of her.
Every ounce of her self-preservation rushed quickly to the fore.
“Arrête,” she ordered. To her surprise, he complied immediately. Releasing her wrist and lowering his gaze back to the floor. But his lips remained parted and his chest rose and fell with his heavy breaths.
He had clearly been as taken away as she had. But she suspected he knew exactly what he’d done to her. There had been too much authority in his gaze. Too much satisfaction and possession.
She had to remind him who was in command. And quickly.
Draining the last of the wine, she took a step back. His gaze remained focused on her boots, following her movement, giving her an idea.
“You are not totakewhat you want, mon grand,” she reprimanded harshly, as she grasped her skirt and lifted it while bending forward to set her glass on the floor. Then she tugged at the laces of one of her boots. “I decide what pleasures you receive. And what punishments.”
Straightening again to stand, she stared intently down at him. Then holding her skirt out of the way, she lifted her foot to press it to the center of his chest—exerting just enough pressure that he had to fight not to fall back. She allowed herself a moment to enjoy the way his muscles tensed and his large hands gripped hard to his thighs.
“Lace my boot.”
“Oui, Madame,” he muttered, his voice thick and heavy. Lifting his hands, he carefully gathered the laces and deftly tightened then retied them.
Charlotte was almost disappointed by how quickly he managed the task.
But the man’s boldness had not yet been quelled. Before she could remove her foot from his chest, he clamped one hand atop her arch, holding her foot in place as he smoothed his other hand up her leg, past the ankle high leather to warmly caress the curve of her calve. His touch was warm and confident and seductive. For a moment, Charlotte forgot everything except how badly she wanted to feel his hand reaching higher—how desperately she wished to melt into his claiming touch.
Her lips parted on a swift inhale and he responded with a low rolling growl of hunger.
The sound nearly undid her. But it also recalled her to her senses just as his fingertips reached the sensitive skin behind her knee. When he started to bend forward, as if to press his lips to her thigh, she cursed roughly in French and swiftly stepped out of his reach.
He let her go, his hands falling back to his thighs.
Angry at her own desirous reaction as much as his insolence, Charlotte’s tone was unforgiving as she turned and strode away. “C’est fini,” she snapped. “If you do not behave, we do not continue.”
She managed to leave the room without looking back at him. Yet, somehow, she knew he wouldn’t move from where she’d left him. If she’d thought for a moment that he’d rise to his feet and come after her, she might have given him anything he wanted.
And she’d already given him far too much.
Chapter Eleven
The woman hadonce again abandoned him to a dark and growing need, yet Ralston felt himself smiling as the door closed behind her exit. Though his chest burned for air, his muscles ached with denial, and his skin was sheened with sweat, he felt amazing.
Every moment he spent in this room with the masked woman—he still had no name for her since Mrs. Dove-Lyon had refused to offer one—brought a new revelation. She had claimed some sort of wicked power over him. Her voice—her firmly issued commands—pierced straight to the core of him. Altering him intrinsically.
