Master of Love (23 page)

Dominick was quick to comply. He undid the upper hooks at the back of her gown and loosened with practiced skill the top set of corset laces. Her ruffled silk sleeves slid down to trap her arms while freeing her breasts to spill out over the edge of her corset. Looking down, she was amazed at the picture she presented: hair tumbling around her shoulders—all right, maybe it
was
a rather vivid red—emerald silk binding her arms, the creamy tops of her breasts bared to the dark golden head bent over them, a puckered pink nipple disappearing into his mouth . . . Could this be her?

The shot of sensation as he tugged at her breast with tongue and lips brought her out of her reverie. She hadn't known her body could
feel
like that! Hot and tingling pleasure spiraled from her nipple in his mouth down to the base of her spine and gathered there to feed the growing fire. Her bosom and womb seemed connected in a path of glowing energy.

He pulled back as if to inspect his handiwork and then pursed his lips to blow a stream of cool air onto the other nipple until it puckered like its twin.

“Hmmm, Callista,” he purred, “such beauty you keep hidden under your strict façade. It's like cutting open the pages of a new book, cracking that leather binding for the first time and unexpectedly finding the secrets of naughty French erotica inside. Look at you!” he said in a tone that sounded strangely like awe.

She had but a moment's hesitation, as she wondered if he used such lines with all the women he seduced. The thought was a painful one, but stopping now for the sake of her pride would be more painful still.

He slipped both hands inside the pink silk of her loosened corset to cup her breasts and push them together. Then he bent his head anew to lick both nipples at once. The contrast of his large, warm hands with the library's cool air on the moistened tips of her breasts sent a ripple of pleasure down her back. The feeling of need between her legs grew more insistent with his attention to her breasts, as well as with the pressure he maintained between their thighs. She moaned again and felt herself start to pant at the layers of sensation he was lavishing across her body.

She needed more of something, and soon. But with her arms bound tight to her sides in her silk sleeves, she could do no more than grip at the fine black wool of his trousers. Suddenly, he seemed to be wearing far too much. Wasn't there supposed to be more nudity involved in these matters? Her fingers itched to feel his flesh, to smooth and caress their way across his skin the way his were doing at her neck and bosom.

“Dominick . . . ,” she said, but got no further as he nibbled again at her lips.

“Mmm . . . yes, love?”

His use of the term caught her off guard, with an odd stinging pang. “Don't call me that,” she whispered. Surely he couldn't mean it in any sense other than as a seducer's blithe throwaway. “That's what you call them. Please, just Callista.”

She had to steel herself to the effect of such endearments, delivered in that honeyed drawl and coming from such a man as he. She didn't want him to play the seducer with her, but simply to be himself—the man who loved books and liked to write and who was, at the moment, introducing her to more pleasure than she'd ever imagined.

He agreed easily. “All right. I'll call you Callista. As long as you keep calling me Dominick. Or”—he flashed a crooked grin—“just call me wicked.”

“Yes, my wicked lord Dominick.” She wasn't yet fully comfortable with the intimacy of his given name, any more than, she could see, he was ready to give up the mask of seducer.

She was, however, prepared with mounting urgency to seek another kind of intimacy. “Please, umm . . .” How did one ask for this? She tried plucking at his trousers and waistcoat, which was all she could reach. “Please.”

“Callista, in fairness to you, I want you to be sure.” He cupped her face in both hands and brushed back the tresses from her cheeks. “Is this truly what you want?”

She knew Lady Barrington and the others from the society-page stories still hovered in the distance, that he offered no more than an evening's dalliance, that by the dictates of society's morality she should say no. Perhaps even more to the point, to protect her heart she ought to stop things right here. But she couldn't. Oh, she just couldn't. Not tonight. Not with the contrast this slow lovemaking presented to the nightmares she still had of Garforth's hands on her and the threat of bills coming due sooner than she could pay them, and the daily fatigue and struggle of keeping her motley household together. He treated her with respect and tenderness. It was not for her to judge him or to expect the impossible. They had now, and tonight.

“Please,” she whispered again.

It was all the prompting he needed to finish unhooking the back of her gown and unlacing her corset.

She freed her arms and set to work on his garments. So many buttons and fasteners! Her fingers stumbled on the studs of his fine cambric shirt as his skin became visible beneath.
Oh my goodness
. She'd never before seen a man's naked chest. Removing the shirt was beyond her boldness, and she started to blush.

“Beauty”—the corners of his mouth curved—“let me, why don't you?” He worked most of their clothing into a puddle of linen and silk and fine woolens with the quick efficiency she expected, and then surprised her by scooping her up in his arms. A whoop of alarm escaped her, and she clutched her arms around his neck.

“Dominick, I'm not a small woman!” she chided. “Have a care for your back.”

He laughed and carried her over to the long leather settee facing the fire. She was clad in naught but the sheer ivory silk chemise and silk stockings Marie had insisted on loaning her for the evening. And he was finally, gloriously, wearing no more than his black trousers.

As he laid her across the settee, he traced a finger over her cheek. “For a prize such as this, I would carry you over the Khyber Pass and across the endless trek of the Silk Road. I would tie you up in my tent night after night, seducing you with love words and caresses until you opened your heart to me and accepted me as your lord.”

“At which point you would add me to your harem of a thousand other conquered ladies and forget all about me?” It was a question a little too close to reality to fit into the fantasy he spun.

His smile grew bemused as his gaze swept down her length. “Callista, deeply unworthy of you as I am, I will never forget you.” He stood up to toss more coals on the fire and then gathered pillows and a cashmere throw from the armchairs.

It was a line he'd surely used before to ward off the affections of a lady inclined to want more than he cared to give. “Yes, I'm sure of it,” she answered lightly. “Now come and prove how wicked you are.”

Laughing, he sat beside her as she lay sprawled on the settee and tucked his armful of items around her on the makeshift bed. She could feel his hip pressed up against her own, heat radiating from his flesh as from a strong male animal. She felt the smooth leather under the thin silk of her chemise, the cashmere now half draped over her legs, and the velvet pillows supporting her head and shoulders. Never had she been so aware of her body, of the sensation of textiles on her skin. Never had she felt so alive!

And never had she imagined a seminaked man would look like this: hard muscle rippling under soft flesh, all those planes and curves so unlike her own, curling dark golden chest hair. A new world opened up. What odd creatures men were, so compellingly different and so . . . intriguing.

Dominick picked up a corner of the cashmere, tugged down her loosened shift until it hung off one shoulder, and then teased the exposed nipple with a light back-and-forth brush of the throw. Her mouth parted, and she licked her lower lip. When one of his hands—large, warm, firm, rough—slipped under the hem of her chemise and started a slow glide up her leg, she couldn't help but arch her back. A soft, yearning
yes
escaped her lips.

“Don't worry, little one, your pleasure will come. I promise.” Such a promise, from such a man, sent shivers down her spine.

“You already do give me pleasure,” she said, turning her face into the curtain of her hair, shy at the boldness of her own words.

He tucked the hair behind an ear, lingering to toy with the whorls and roll her earlobe between his thumb and index finger. “Do you know about the other pleasure, what the French call
la petite mort
?”

She frowned. “I'm not sure.”

He leaned closer, framing her body with one hand by her shoulder and the other still toying with her ear. “Would you like me to show you?”

She felt pinned in place and mesmerized by the heat of his dark gaze, the throaty purr of his voice, and the rhythmic rolling of the nub of flesh between his fingers.

She caught her bottom lip with her teeth and nodded. “Yes, please.”

Chapter 14

P
leasure built within Callista in spreading pools of heat. Dominick sat beside her on the settee, one of his clever hands inching up her leg, pulling her chemise with it. The other had moved to her breast, where it stroked circles of delight with both the flat of his palm and the tips of his fingers.

“Am I . . . should I . . . do something to you?” she managed to get out, embarrassed at her gasping breath. The beastly man was no doubt accustomed to producing such an effect on the women around him. “It seems wrong somehow for me to simply lie here and accept such . . . umm, ministrations from you,” she said, determined to frame a coherent sentence. “Somehow selfish or lazy. Does the man normally do all the work in these matters? Not that it's
work,
exactly—”

“Callista, my sweet”—he interrupted her, grinning, with the sweep of a thumb across her lips—“one does not normally engage in disputation at such a moment as this.”

“But that's the problem, isn't it? Young women are allowed to know so little about such matters.” Her tangled thoughts tumbled loosely around. “If only there were proper books one could read to explain these matters, scientific treatises,” she said as she undulated beneath his hands. “Do you not think that would be a good idea?”

The corner of his irresistible dimpled smile quirked up. “My little librarian, not all knowledge is to be had from books. Although perhaps that
will
be your calling”—he nodded gravely—“to write such a respectable treatise, for the edification and education of young ladies everywhere.”

She laughed breathlessly. “I may do that! I imagine it would sell quite well.”

“As for what you are to do right now”—Dominick continued his lazy swirling strokes—“do as you wish, as your pleasure moves you to do. Since tonight is your first experience, it is entirely appropriate for you to allow me to show you the possibilities that lie between us.” His voice dropped into its sinful brandy register as he propped his hands on either side of her shoulders and leaned in to fill her vision. “Lie back and take the pleasure I can give you.”

An unfamiliar thrill shot through her at the dark promise of his words. He made her melt in some way she didn't understand. Truth be told, even though she'd decided on this course, its unknowns made her nervous. She bit her lip and tried to hold on to rational thought as a defense. “But how then do you get pleasure? Surely it would be unfair if only I enjoy these . . . umm, ministrations.”

His golden head bent to press slow kisses across the swell of her breasts. “I receive pleasure from yours, rest assured.” But when he looked up, he seemed to read in her gaze her hesitancy and need for the reassurance of words. “A man's pleasure is guaranteed, Callista, whilst a woman's is more subtle. Women are more complex, less straightforward in their response, but also, I think, capable of more intense pleasure.”

“Really?” She struggled to sit up. “How do you know what you say is accurate?” She truly was beginning to think—to the extent logical reasoning was still possible—this would make an excellent subject for a book.

He arched one perfect brow. “I do know
something
about women and their pleasure, Callista.” Reaching around her, he plumped the velvet pillows more comfortably behind her back. “It's certainly true, for example, that a woman can reach the peak of her pleasure more often than a man, with shorter periods of rest in between.”

“Oh. How . . . interesting.” What
did
one say to that?

“Shall I show you?” Again, that deep brandy voice sank into her bones. “Shall we make a study this evening of the complexity and power of a woman's pleasure? What if we were to explore three different pathways to
la petite mort,
three climaxes of pleasure?”

“Three? Is that normal?” She wasn't entirely sure what this “climax of pleasure” involved, but it was quite beyond her ability to refuse to find out.

“There's no normal, but three is a fine number to begin with.”

“Very well—that sounds a wise plan.” She nodded with a small smile. Somehow turning her seduction into a study calmed her nerves.

It occurred to her suddenly that he
understood
. How many men would be so sensitive to a new lover's needs and so willing to play along? Or was that simply the cynical secret of his success as Master of Love—he unerringly intuited a woman's anxieties and desires and tailored his seduction accordingly?

Either way, did it matter? Her die was cast. She would no more back down now than give up her ability to read.

She wriggled lower on her velvet and leather bed. “Pray, sir, do proceed. I'm prepared to be a most attentive participant in this evening's experiment.” Feeling quite daring yet also frightfully vulnerable, she slid her leg up along the back of the settee and watched her chemise hitch up on her bent knee. She peeped at him through her lashes to see if she'd shocked him; the rules of this game were still beyond her.

“Callista . . .” There was something of longing in his tone that made her think for a moment he was as moved by their play as she was. But surely that couldn't be the case, and when he met her eyes again the moment was gone. His self-assured mask was back in place, and that dark voice again glided goose bumps across her bared flesh. “Let's resume our path to the first pleasure.”

She ducked her head into the pillow.

Lying near-naked in front of Dominick and letting him touch her was one of the hardest things she'd ever done. Could he really find her attractive? And yet, he seemed pleased. Was it so simple? Could he bed any woman with equal pleasure? She didn't know whether to be reassured or depressed by the thought.

But then thought became difficult again.

He swept lazy strokes up her legs and tantalizing circles across her belly. “What elegant curves you have, Callista—such mysterious valleys and sweet peaks.” Fire sparked as he played with her breasts, alternating his attentions from one to the other and rolling her nipples under his fingers. He kept his gaze on her while lavishing her with praise she didn't dare believe. Although she stole glances from around the curve of the pillow, the intensity of his dark eyes was more than she could bear.

The moaning sounds of pleasure spilling from her throat embarrassed her even further, but she couldn't seem to help herself, nor stop her back from curving off the settee. His self-satisfied male smile told her that he was quite pleased with her response. He moved his hand lower to press the heel of his palm over her mound. The pressure felt exquisite and sent a sharp spike of yearning into her belly.

“Dominick, please . . .” The words of need tumbled out as her hips pushed of their own accord against his hand.

“Shhh, yes.” It seemed some kind of promise. At least she hoped it was.

With one palm pressed low on her belly, he threaded the fingertips of his other hand through her curls below. The first feel of him on her flesh tore a gasp from her throat, and she arched up hard. Panicky instinct had her closing her thighs against the invasion until, soothed by his murmurs of reassurance, she reopened slowly to him. The sleek glide of his fingers allowed her to feel the wet folds she'd never dared explore on her own. She curled one hand into the cashmere of the blanket and the other into his trouser leg as he traced lazy patterns into her slickness. An amazing, extraordinary pleasure started to gather focus at the juncture of her thighs.

She gasped again as the tip of one finger stroked down and pushed into some part of her that opened for him. “This lusciousness will be for later”—he smiled, his wicked lover's smile—“but not yet.”

She had a vague sense of how these things worked, and had certainly seen many a larger-than-life marble statue of the male form in Italy. A glance down at the swell of him stretching his trousers helped put the pieces together. “But . . . how?” she asked dubiously.

“Don't worry about the logistics, beauty. All will work out; trust me.”

“But—”

“Not another disputation, Callista. Not now.” He stroked back up along both sides of her opening, to a concentration of fresh sensation at the top. “Tell me instead, how does this feel?”

“Oh!” At this new move, she felt herself quite deliciously sidetracked. “Dominick!” He circled slowly with his fingertips, a leisurely and languid caress that seemed to go on and on and on. She felt like a cat slowly petted by a patient and devoted master.

The focus of her pleasure started to pull together into a growing knot of hot tension. The feeling spiraled out through her core. He flicked his finger slowly back and forth, while lavishing the same attention on her nipple.

“Sweet Callista, let your pleasure build,” he murmured, eyes shining. “There is a peak. Relax and you'll find it.”

Relax? Is the man insane?
She'd never felt less relaxed in her life, although her veins did beat with a heavy drugged sensation and her bones had melted down to indolent bliss. He bent to pull her nipple into his mouth and tug wet circles on it in time to his lazy caresses.

Something was happening to her body. All her being felt centered at the juncture of her thighs. Her mind, always so full of words, now carried but sensation and image: dark red satin ribbon, winding tauter in a spiral dance, in time with the maddeningly slow flicker and stroke of his knowing hand. The spiral pulled her forward, or was it deeper, so deep inside her core?

It curled into a dark coil and then, when she'd forgotten how to breathe and thought death must surely be next, it burst open and sent shock waves of intense pleasure arcing through her limbs. He pushed his hand hard against her mound and rocked it there as she helplessly ground her pelvis into his palm.

When the haze cleared, she realized she was gasping, her hands threaded through his hair and clenching him to her breast, which he still suckled to the aftershocks of what must surely have been his vaunted “climax of pleasure.”

One was definitely enough.

Until he lifted his head and looked at her.

Were she a romantic—an addle-headed, half-wit romantic—she would have read something in those spellbinding eyes gone hot and black with passion, mere inches from her own. She would have sworn she saw raw hunger there and would have sunk down into it, never to come back up. She would have believed it went beyond lust to some deeper need he'd never been able to voice before—some hopeful, timid offer of his
self
. She would have given over half her soul and tied her fate to the open outreach he surely meant by that look.

And she would have been a fool.

For she wasn't romantic. Or special, or beautiful, or anything else. She was simply levelheaded, ever-practical, always-responsible Callista. And he couldn't possibly mean anything of the sort. The appearance of a startle in his gaze, the odd impression of vulnerability, must have been due to the fact that she was new to this game and misreading his cues. She forced herself to ignore a strange impulse to comfort him and simply stroked his hair back from those searching hypnotic eyes whose dark intensity she suddenly couldn't stand for another moment.

And so she looked away and laughed, a little self-conscious laugh, and when she looked back, the Master of Love had returned.

“One,” he murmured, that sinful grin back in place.

“Yes, it apparently was.” She managed enough control over her drugged limbs to wiggle up the leather couch and straighten her chemise neckline to modesty. “Are you quite certain I'll survive three?” Her heart was beating loud and her breath hitched in her throat, although whether in recovery or anticipation she wasn't sure.

“There's only one way to find out,” he drawled as he arched a golden brow in promise. “But perhaps some refreshments would be in order first.” He disentangled himself and paced barefoot to the sideboard. “Madeira?”

At her nod, he poured for her and measured out brandy for himself. The ripple of lean muscle across his back and shoulders captivated her. She'd never realized how beautiful men could be!

When he sank back down beside her, she shifted over to make room. The tight bulge along the front of his trousers fascinated her more than ever, although she was still too shy to do other than peek.

Eyes dancing, he handed her a cut-crystal glass and waited until she sipped before drinking from his own. “Is there something you'd like to ask me, Callista?”

“Only, perhaps,” she mumbled into her Madeira, blushing, “whether you'd not be more comfortable if you loosened your clothing.”

“All in due time.” He smiled as he stroked her cheek with the back of his knuckles. “You, however, do seem overly dressed for the occasion.” After tossing back the brandy, he reached for her glass. “May I?”

A shiver rippled through her. With a last fortifying sip, she held out the crystal.

He reached to set their glasses on the marble side table—more undulating muscle—before tugging on her chemise ribbons until her neckline gaped even lower than before. His palms rasped across her breasts and then swooped under to press them tight together. “I don't believe I've become sufficiently acquainted with these beauties.”

She gasped as his mouth covered both nipples at once and his tongue began to swirl hot magic across their tips. The tingling at her core, not yet fully faded, sparked again along that lightning path linking womb and breast. He languorously licked and nipped and suckled her breasts until the slow burn rekindled bright.

“How does that work?” She rubbed like a cat against his muscled side before realizing she'd spoken aloud.

That gorgeous dimpled mouth curled. “An excellent question, little one. Men and women have sought to map this territory and probe its mysteries for millennia. I think it's time I showed you a new angle on the terrain.”