And she wanted to know why.
That was her reason for coming directly to the Lyon’s Den. Not because she hoped to find him submissively awaiting the consequences of his clever deduction. Not because she was anxious and excited at the prospect of confronting him in that room—not as the mysterious masked woman, nor as Miss Charlotte Dickson, but as some amalgamation of the two. Certainly not because she was just a little desperate to take it further than she had previously…because now it felt as though she had to. That he’d expect it. That it was exactly why he was already there…waiting for her.
Amélie’s gentle hand on her shoulder nearly gave her a start. “You’ve become lost in the mist, ma chérie. Est-ce que tu vas bien?”
Charlotte took a breath and met the other woman’s concerned gaze. “I’m afraid I’ve gotten a bit over my head.”
Amélie laughed. “But that’s how one learns to swim, is it not?” Then, seeing that Charlotte did not join in her mirth, she tilted her head. “What is causing this distress?”
Taking a deep breath, Charlotte lifted the corner of her mouth in a rueful smile. “I’m afraid I may not be as fearsome as I want to be. I’ve discovered a…vulnerability in regard to my…gentleman.”
“Ah…” the Frenchwoman breathed. Then she smiled with compassionate understanding. “That is not so terrible a thing. In fact, wemustpossess a certain tenderness for those we command. It is a delicate balance we create between the essences of power and surrender. You are not holding the scales, ma chérie, you are dancing on them. Leaning to and fro as you delicately give and take what is required to provide the greatest pleasure. You must intuit what he is needful of. You cannot do that if you are unfeeling and removed from the experience. He is necessary to your pleasure as much as you are necessary to his. There is no separation. Not in that room.”
The courtesan’s words resonated throughout Charlotte’s body. The truth within them, both terrifying and liberating.
“Come,” Amélie said with a gentle nudge toward the rack of black clothing. “Choose your costume for the night. You will feel better once you’ve donned your armor.”
Once again, she chose the same short black chemise from her first night. However, instead of a corset that cinched her waist and lifted her breasts, Amélie insisted upon outfitting her in a gown of transparent black lace. It possessed a full, flowing skirt, fitted sleeves that ended in a point at her wrists, and a plunging neckline that exposed the silk chemise beneath. Though the gown covered her from neck to toes, it concealed absolutely nothing.
She wore no gloves this time and no jewelry. She left her hair in its elaborate coiffure, but donned the mask all the same.
“C’est magnifique,” Amélie whispered.
Charlottefeltmagnificent. Her insecurities had all but completely faded as she once again embodied the fearless woman. She thanked Amélie for her help as the other woman rushed from the room—already late for her own assignation.
Taking another long moment to breathe deeply, Charlotte tried to convince herself that she wasn’t about to encounter her utter ruin at the hands of a man whose arrogance infuriated her even though his stare—his touch—his very existence seemed to trigger a blaze of sexual desire.
With a final bolstering inhale, Charlotte turned from the mirror and strode boldly to the room where she knew he’d be waiting. Every step quickening the beat of her heart. Every breath heating the blood in her veins.
By the time she stepped through the door, securing it silently behind her, her body was nearly humming with anticipation.
And then she saw him.
Already stripped naked to the waist. Kneeling in the center of the room. His hands splayed on the surface of his thighs. His focus directed to a spot on the floor no more than two feet in front of him.
Sudden, acute, and forceful need expanded like a blast inside her. Melting her reticence and concern. Obliterating fear and denial. Consuming all but the driving hunger tohavehim.
Sangbleu! She was in serious trouble.
But she’d gone too far to turn back now. The path had been set. Her purpose fully formed. It was clear by his posture and demeanor that he had come here to offer himself to her—despite knowing who she was. It was a gift she could not refuse.
She didn’t say a word as she started toward him, the sound of her boots announcing her arrival. His only response was a ripple of tension that spread through his abdomen.
Charlotte’s mouth watered. She had to see more of him.
“Hands behind your head,” she ordered in a moderate but firm tone, clinging to the French accent she’d previously employed in this room. The truth may be known, but there was something vital to the façade she’d created. Vital to her.
“Oui, Madame,” he replied readily, his voice textured and low. Then he lifted his arms to link his hands behind his head, forcing a lowering of his chin that was quite beautiful. But she still wanted more.
Stepping toward him—close enough to feel the heat emanating from his body—she extended one foot into the space between his knees, nudging first to one side then the other, indicating without words what she wanted. The muscles of his thighs bunched deliciously as he spread his knees farther and farther until she hummed quietly in satisfaction.
Her hungry gaze took in the play of light on his sculpted form, the fine sheen of sweat already covering his skin, the rapid pulse at his throat. Following some dark inner impulse, she slowly trailed her finger along the cord of muscle that ran from his jaw to his collarbone, tracing the path of that pulse, gathering a hint of moisture from his skin. Without hesitation, she brought her finger to her lips, tasting the male saltines on her tongue.
Though he could not see her performing the action, she suspected he imagined it as the muscles of his arms bulged and his knuckles whitened. The effort he had to put forth to prevail over his instincts and hold his position was admirable.
She wanted so badly to ask him why he’d come back. She was desperate to know why he hadn’t exposed her at the ball. He’d have had every right and some would say an obligation to call out her less-than-virtuous behavior.
Yet, he was here—kneeling before her—of his own will and desire.
