“There she is,” he murmured.
No one had spoken to her like that. As though some hidden creature had lifted its head and been recognized and not condemned. Her shame did not vanish. It changed shape and became heat, surrender, and the fragile courage of remaining where she was.
His hand slid into her hair, heavier now, fingers spreading through the honey-colored strands. He tilted her head back. She felt him close behind her, broad and warm with his mouth near her ear.
“You wrote that you remembered my hand here.”
Her breath left her.
“I cannot remember?—”
“Your body will remind you.”
That should have offended her. Instead, it made her ache even more for him.
Blaise turned her gently to face him. His eyes moved over her face, lingering on her mouth, then lower. He looked as if he were studying what restraint cost him.
“May I kiss you?”
The question undid her more thoroughly than the command.
“Yes, please.”
He leaned forward and kissed her slowly, as though time had been made for this single use. His mouth was warm, patient, and devastating. Iris had expected conquest. Instead, he gave her sweet attention. Her hands rose to his chest. Beneath her palms, he was solid and controlled. She wanted to disturb that control. She wanted to be the reason it failed.
His mouth left hers and moved to her jaw, then her throat, leaving her breathless.
Her head tipped back, and his lips traced fire down her neck, just as she had imagined, but imagination had been a pale, obedient thing. This was unruly. This made her fingers clutch at his coat, and her breath turn uneven.
“Blaise.”
“Yes.” His voice was rougher now. “Say my name like that again, and I shall become insufferable.”
“You are already insufferable.”
He laughed against her skin, and the tenderness of it nearly broke her.
Then his hands were at her waist, steadying her as his mouth continued lower to the place where her gown permitted no more. He did not rush. He did not tear or take. He made each pause a question and each answer hers to give. When he lowered her to sit, when he knelt before her, the sight of him in supplication sent a shock of feeling through her that was almost painful.
“You wrote of my hands beneath your skirts,” he said quietly.
Her face burned. “I wrote too much.”
“No.” His palms rested on her knees through the fabric. “You wrote honestly.”
She could not look away from him.
“Part your knees for me, Iris.”
The command was soft, and she happily obeyed.
Blaise’s hands moved to her ankles. Before she knew what was happening, he buckled each ankle to the leg of the chair. Iris’s heart plummeted. Blaise reached over the outer layers of her skirts, not yet beneath them. The anticipation became its own touch. When at last his fingers slid under the fabric, her breath caught, and his gaze lifted at once to hers.
“Still yes?”
Her pride might have made some clever answer, but desire made her truthful.
“Yes.”
