Iris raised a hand instinctively, her fingers just above the scar that ran across his cheek. She had wanted to touch it for nights and had not dared.
His eyes flared, darkening further.
“Go on,” he said softly.
She brushed her fingertips along it. The skin was slightly raised, colder than the surrounding flesh, but no longer angry. His jaw eased beneath her touch.
“Does it still hurt?” she asked.
“Not in the way you mean,” he answered.
She let her hand drift lower, over the hollow at the base of his throat, the steady thrum of his pulse there. His body vibrated under her touch.
Blaise picked her up firmly, carried her to another mirror, and placed her on the ground. Iris felt unsteady on her feet as they both faced the long mirror and Blaise stood behind her, his bare chest pressed to her back, skin to skin. Heat rolled through her as his hands curved around her waist.
“Every time I think I have mapped you, I find some new terrain,” he whispered in her ear.
“And yet you remain overdressed,” she managed, glancing down toward the still-fastened buttons of his trousers.
His answering chuckle vibrated through her back.
“You are impatient,” he chided gently.
Blaise did not hasten. Instead, he toyed with her, kneading and shaping her, coaxing sounds from her throat she did not know she could make.
Only when she was near whimpering with need did he shift, walking her backward, his body a steady pressure against hers. She stumbled once, then felt the back of her knees encounter something firm and curved. Iris glanced down.
The couch.
The strange, sinuous thing she had noticed from the first time she had crept into this room. Upholstered in soft, dark leather,its shape was inviting, indecently so. It had a broad seat that sloped, a raised end designed to support a reclining figure.
Blaise guided her down onto it, his hands firm but careful. The leather was cool against her overheated skin, but it warmed quickly beneath her. He arranged her as if she were indeed a piece of art. She was half-reclining, knees bent, one leg drawn a little higher to open her up to him, and the curve of the couch cradled her lower back and hips.
Iris was laid bare before him.
Blaise stood at the foot of the couch, looking down at her. His eyes were hooded and hungry. She took in his bare, sculpted chest, the faint dusting of dark hair that thinned at his waist, and the strong lines of his hips. His trousers strained visibly.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, stepping closer. His hand went to his waistband. This time, he did not tease. He fell silent as he undid the buttons; the air between them filled with anticipation.
“No, please,” Iris pleaded.
She watched, mesmerized, as Blaise pushed the trousers and his underthings down and kicked them away. Heat flushed her in a new wave at the sight of him fully bared. His strong thighs, lean hips, and the potent evidence of his desire proudly erect. She dropped her gaze for half a second, then forced it back up, refusing to flinch from him or herself.
Blaise exhaled slowly, as if her gaze stroked him physically.
“Look at you,” he said, almost to himself. “Choosing to look instead of hide.”
He came over her then, lowering his body over hers without quite settling his full weight yet. The couch’s clever curve supported her hips, tilting her up to meet him. When his head touched the core, she bit back a cry. Every inch of her felt like a nerve ending exposed to air.
“Blaise”
His mouth found hers again, slower this time. His tongue stroked along hers in languid, claiming sweeps. His hand slipped between them, finding her center, testing her readiness with a confident, practiced touch. She trembled, and he groaned quietly.
“You want more,” he said, as if confirming a hypothesis rather than stating the obvious.
“Yes,” she whispered. The word felt too small.
His gaze devoured her face. “Say it plainly.”
