The napkin grew damp in her hands until the table was as clean as she could make it. Iris straightened when she was done, expecting relief, but Blaise’s dark eyes gleamed.
“My trousers need cleaning as well.”
Iris’s breath caught. She could murder him. Right here, with the butter knife if necessary. Yet her body betrayed her; a fresh wave of heat pooled low in her belly at the command, and her pulse quickened. She could not deny her curiosity and excitement.
“You cannot be serious,” she whispered.
“On your knees, Little Blossom,” he commanded.
The words sent a shameful thrill through her. Slowly, gracefully, Iris approached him and sank to her knees before him on the thick carpet. The position put her at eye level with his lap, where the dark wine had soaked through the fine fabric, outlining the strong contours of his thighs… and the unmistakable, growing ridge of his arousal.
She heard the sharp intake of his breath as she kneeled, and the sound sent pure desire straight to her core. He handed her a new napkin.
“Start cleaning,” he said.
Iris began to wipe at the stain on his thigh, carefully avoiding the thick, hard length that began to strain against the wet material. Her hands trembled as she worked, dabbing gently, moving closer and closer to the evidence of his desire despite her best efforts. The heat radiating from his body was intoxicating. She could feel him beneath her touch, flexing slightly under her ministrations.
“Do you enjoy seeing me suffering?” he asked huskily.
“N… no.”
“No, what?”
“No, Your Grace.”
Blaise’s large hand settled on the top of her head, heavy and warm. Not pulling or forcing, just resting there, fingers threading gently through her carefully arranged hair. The simple touch drove her nearly mad with desire. She wished fiercely that he would tighten his grip, pull her hair, drag her face forward until her mouth was pressed against that hard bulge. The thought made her thighs clench together beneath her skirts.
“You are doing very well,” he said softly this time, although his voice was rough with restraint. “Such a diligent little cleaner. Look at you on your knees for me, Iris.”
Iris’s breath hitched at the bold words. Sheshouldfeel offended, humiliated, and furious, even. But instead, she felt the familiar hot liquid heat flooding between her legs. Her body ached with shameful need as she continued to press the napkin higher and closer to the rigid outline of his shaft. Iris felt it twitch beneath the fabric, and she gasped.
“I… I do not think we should be doing this,” she whispered, though her voice was breathy and unconvincing.
Blaise’s fingers stroked slowly through her hair, a gentle caress that felt far more intimate than it should.
“Liar,” he murmured. “I can see it in your eyes. You are curious. Wondering what I have beneath these trousers. How thick and hard I am for you. How I would taste on that pretty tongue.”
Iris looked up at him then, unable to resist. Their eyes locked. His eyes were dark with lust, the scar pulling tight as hisjaw clenched. He could see every wicked, forbidden thought flickering across her mind.
“Tell me, Little Blossom, does kneeling before your duke make you ache?”
Her cheeks burned, but she could not look away. The hand in her hair felt like both a promise and a torment. She wanted more. She wanted him to lose control, to fist her curls, and guide her lips exactly where she was shamefully curious to explore. Instead, Blaise kept stroking her hair with maddening gentleness, watching her with dark, knowing eyes as she knelt before him, napkin in hand, cleaning the mess she had deliberately made.
And Iris had never felt more lustful… or more dangerously alive.
“Yes, it does,” she admitted.
“Do you want to touch me?” he asked in a dangerously low voice.
“Yes.” The word came out as a gasp.
Her confession surprised her, but she could not help herself. Whatever he was offering, she would take it. Their words hung between them like a live wire. Iris stayed on her knees before him, the damp napkin still clenched in her delicate fingers, her body trembling with a mix of shame and overwhelming desire. Blaise’s dark eyes burned into hers, the scar on his face making him look even more dangerously handsome in the candlelight.His hand continued its maddeningly gentle stroke through her hair, as if he were petting a cherished animal.
“Do you know what I want, Little Blossom?” A slow, predatory smile curved his lips.
“No, will you tell me?” she begged.
“I want you to touch yourself for me.”
