The fragrance of pine logs scented the air, the heat from the fire warmed the room to the same delicious temperature as passion had its occupants. A single kerosene lamp, its glass globe etched with grazing deer, shone in brilliant golden splendor from the dressertop, prisms of shimmering radiance reflected brightly from the tall pier mirror mounted behind it.
"Take your hair down," Etienne softly said, unlacing her arms from around his neck.
"I want to rip your clothes off instead," Daisy said, her fingers touching the silk of his cravat.
A soft rapping on the door interrupted.
"Later," the Duc promised, his tone provocative with promise. "Your milk, I expect." And he led Daisy over to the green velvet couch. "Wait here for me."
Their eyes met for a moment in the light of the dancing flames.
"I don't want to wait long," Daisy murmured.
"I don't want to wait at all," Etienne said, brushing his palm lightly over the fullness of her breasts.
Daisy's eyes shut as quivering need raced downward.
"Don't move," he whispered, kissing her gently on the mouth. Striding swiftly to the door, the Duc opened it, took a tray from Louis, thanked him and nodded his dismissal simultaneously. Locking the door after it closed, he placed the tray on the bedside table and returned to Daisy. "Take your hair down now," he quietly said, taking off his suit jacket, drawing up a chair and sitting down beside her.
The velvet couch was soft, cushioned in down, engulfing her in its sensuous luxury. She was reclining against the high tufted arm, her legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles, her arms raised already to do his bidding, the rounded curve of her breasts lifted high.
And he watched as she slowly pulled out the small jeweled pins holding her hair in place, watched the heavy coils of her hair slip over her shoulders, slide delicately over the olivine green of her dress. Putting out his hand, he took the hairpins from her, moving his chair closer so he could reach more easily. When she'd removed them all, he deposited the handful of sparkling pins on the table beside the couch. Turning back, he reached out, touched the heavy black silk of her hair, stroked it, let it slip through his fingers, swept it downward to cover the rise of her breasts.
"This is mine," he said, holding a sleek length of her hair in his palm. "You're mine," he added, brushing her lips with the curling end of her hair. "I've missed you," he murmured.
"I've felt deprived…" Arching her back slightly as tingling anticipation raced down her spine, her breasts rose provocatively. "… of everything."
He smiled, her meaning clear. "I'm here now to see that you're no longer deprived."
"I like the sound of that." Her fingers slid the top button of her olivine silk bodice free.
"You look… professional," the Duc murmured, intrigued by the number of small jet buttons yet to be undone, "in that mannish cut."
Daisy's dress was severely tailored, in a silk faille that was heavy enough to restrain the mounded exuberance of her breasts. With long sleeves and collar and cuffs in black velvet, it had almost a military look.
"This is my court persona."
"In contrast to?"
"My personal life."
"Which is being… exposed now." Each button sliding free further opened the bodice front, her satin skin, the lace of her chemise, the alluring curve of her breasts slowly unveiled.
"For you," she said with a seductive smile.
"Only for me," he murmured, the barbaric ring instantly apparent. He smiled. "Forgive me. My droit du seigneur comes to the fore with you. Do you want help?"
Daisy shook her head, almost finished slipping the faceted jet buttons free. The dress top opened like a jacket, the gown composed of skirt and bodice, and she slipped it off slowly, aware of Etienne's intense gaze. Tugging the tight cuffs over her hands, she leaned forward to pull it free, her breasts almost spilling over her chemise top. And the Duc shifted in his chair.
She handed it to him with a small smile, as if he were her waiting valet, and he tossed it on a nearby chair without looking, his gaze intent on her. "Your breasts are larger already," he said, sliding his fingers over the pliant flesh, across the sheer mauve silk of her chemise.
"They feel… motherly," Daisy said on a sigh of pleasure, the sensation of his fingers vivid and acute. "I can feel the air on them like a blanket… any touch or change of temperature"—her eyes held his for a moment—"like now."
"Do you mind being pregnant?" She looked beautiful, radiant, her gleaming hair trailing in arabesques over the smooth curve of her shoulders, her slender athletic arms languidly disposed on the back of her couch, her voluptuous form fecund in its splendor.
"I'm luxuriating in the state," she replied with a smile, stretching like a cat against the soft dark green velvet, her breasts swelling in luxury over the lacy top of her chemise. "And you promised to indulge me."
"Absolutely," he murmured, his arousal obvious as he sat beside her. "My promise on it."
"You must take your clothes off then because I haven't seen you in months and I'm impatient."
"We're talking speed here?" The quirk of his brow was sardonic.
"Definitely." Her voice matched the sultry promise in her eyes.
Pulling his cravat free, he draped it over the chair arm, unbuttoned his vest and shirt swiftly, sliding them both off in a single shrugging motion, and dropped them on the floor with the careless disregard a lifetime of servant-filled homes allowed. He unbuckled his low boots next, kicked them off, and pulled off his silk stockings bearing his monogrammed crest. When he stood to take off his trousers, Daisy's gaze focused on his fingers unbuttoning the fabric stretched taut over his arousal.
He looked up for a moment, grinning. "Tailors never consider amorous situations—damnable number of buttons." Although there was no hesitation in his strong, lean fingers, their task accomplished with dispatch. His long muscled back turned to her briefly as he stepped out of the fine gray wool, the crisp cotton of his monogrammed underwear coming off with the same smooth movement.
He was beautiful as she remembered when he stood before her a moment later, dark as an Arab, powerful and elegant both in line and limb, his erection so large, she said on a small caught breath, "I forgot—"
"Let me refresh your memory then." The light in his tropical green eyes, amused and knowing, an arrogance, too, implicit in his tone. There had been too many women to miscue that breathless comment. He knew what he looked like aroused.
"I should resent that tone."
"Perhaps under less dramatic circumstances you could afford to," he softly replied, sitting on the couch beside her.
"There's drama in ravenous desire?"
"In a manner of speaking. Actually," he added with a wicked grin, "It outranks any other form by a wide margin. Feel my heart." And taking Daisy's hand in his, he placed it over his heart.
She could feel the racing beat, strong and thudding beneath her palm. "You're emotionally involved then." There was pleasure in her smile and lush teasing in her voice, her delirium echoed in the tripping beat of his heart.
"Oh, yes." he whispered, lifting the green silk of her skirt. Slowly pushing up the diaphanous mauve of her petticoat, he ran his hand up her silk-stockinged legs to the lace garters circling her thighs.
"You have a great number of undergarments on," he said with a smile, sliding a garter down her leg, "for someone who wants to hurry. You're shielded against invasion."
"My day clothes. We came home so late from court."
"Even drawers," he noted with a sidelong look of ironic query. "I remember when you made a point of not wearing any." He was untying the bow at her waist and drawing the lace-trimmed garment down over her hips.
"Now that you're here," Daisy murmured, feeling him lift her to slide them off, "I've reason to discard them again."
"So you can always be ready for me?" He stroked the silky hair between her thighs.
"Yes…" she whispered.
His fingers slipped downwa
rd to glide over the luscious liquid evidence of her wanton need, his fingers gliding sleekly inside, invading gently, deeply, and she moaned as rich luscious splendor inundated her senses.
"You are ready," he murmured.
She was always ready with him, she thought, like a houri whose hours were devoted only to her master's pleasure. It always astonished her how erotic sensation was stimulated by his presence: his touch, his beauty, the sound of his voice. His smile could make her forget completely who she was or where she was, make her heedless of her carefully cultivated independence, make her feel like a docile possession. She smiled at her personal enthusiasm.
"When you touch me, kiss me, want me—I'm completely abandoned, meek, and compliant, as if I must do what you ask or…"
"Or?" he softly prompted, his fingers gently stroking her slick hot sweetness.
Her eyes were half-lidded against the heat coursing through her body, an exquisite throbbing urgency spiraling up from his expert touch. "You won't…"
"I will, though," Etienne whispered, his proficient fingers bringing her nerve endings very near to orgasmic release. "And I understand." He knew what Daisy meant because his need for her had inexplicably altered his life. And if someone had told him six months ago he'd meet a woman who would do this to him, he would have scoffed.
"I can't wait," Daisy breathed, pulling him toward her, her hands on his shoulders strong, urgent.
And when he moved over her, to satisfy her passionate need, she touched the swollen pulsing crest of his erection, her fingertips gentle and guided him into her honeyed warmth. He filled her slowly, penetrating in measured degrees until his entire length was deep inside her. Then slipping his hands under her hips, he slid her down so he could invade a fraction more. And when he thrust forward that small extra distance, Daisy cried out in ecstasy.
"Welcome home," he murmured.
They made love in a fevered tempestuous haste the first time on the green velvet couch before the fire because it had been too long for both of them. And it was over swiftly.
"You embarrass me," Etienne said, short moments later, breathless and panting, his long black hair swinging forward to frame his face as he looked down at her. "I'm like an unchecked schoolboy."
He lay lightly over her, the crushed volume of her silk skirt and petticoats, buoyant, smooth and heated on their skin, a magical dissolving tenderness pulsing through their senses.
"I'm coerced by the same unbridled eagerness… so we're matched," Daisy murmured, touching the full sensuous curve of his bottom lip, the diminishing waves of sated passion balmy and sweet.
"I'll make it up to you." He was serious and teasing at the same time.
"A man after my own heart."
"Greedy woman."
She smiled in a delectable languid way. "So I'm not absolutely perfect."
But she was, he thought, like a man in love would think.
He carried her a short time later to the bed, placed her sitting on the edge and finished undressing her. Untying the ribbons gathering the décolletage of her chemise together, he pulled it over her head while she dutifully lifted her arms to his murmured command.
Smiling up at him as he reached for the buttons at the waistband of her skirt, she said, "I'm all sticky."
"We'll have to remedy that. Now be good and sit still," he ordered because she was stirring slightly on the bed, "while I finish undressing you and then I'll wash you."
"It doesn't feel… displeasing." Her voice held a sultry insinuation.
His faint smile took on a wolfish cast. "How does it feel?"
"Like there's a hot part of you still inside me."
"Clever child," he teased, dropping a kiss on the fullness of her bottom lip. "You noticed."
"Kiss me here too," she softly said, touching her tingling nipples. They were still distended and stiff as though her body was ardent yet, ready for love.
"Let me undress you first or we'll never manage to get the rest of your clothes off."
"How can you sound so reasonable and look like that." Reaching out she stroked the rigid length of his arousal. He was hard again, as enormous as though he'd not climaxed short moments ago.
"Someone has to be reasonable," he said with a grin.
"Why?" Coquettish dark eyes gazed into his.
"Because I want to get rid of this damnable interfering skirt and these petticoats. This waistband is too tight," he added, the button reluctant to be dislodged.
"I'm beginning to add an inch or so, here and there."
He gazed at her for a moment, desire, affection, an odd contentment in his eyes. "A pleasant thought," he murmured. "You need a new wardrobe then. Tomorrow."
"We can't do everything tomorrow and I may not want to get out of bed tomorrow."
"A gratifying possibility," he said, his voice hushed for a moment. "The next day then or we'll have someone come out here and you needn't get out of bed at all."
"This isn't decadent Paris."
"Tradesmen refuse money in Montana?"
"Gossip travels fast in a town this size."
"As it does in Paris. So?"
She grinned. "Will you always be a spoiled child of fortune?"
"In some things—yes. I intend to keep you forever. In that I won't be thwarted. And in other small ways, as well, I refuse to be gainsaid." He snapped the button off with a small ripping sound. "Smaller buttons or larger buttonholes from now on," he declared, his smile lighting his eyes, "If I'm going to be your dresser."
"And undresser."
"Even more, then, we'll need ease of operation."
"Right now, I'd be content to not dress for a month or so."
"I'll arrange it."
"I'd die of bliss… before a week."
"I wouldn't let you."
"Arrogant."
He grinned. "I read about this somewhere."
"In addition to volumes of empirical experience."
"From the day I met you, I've been faithful," he said, shrugging away her statement. "Now stand up and we'll get rid of—"
Throwing her arms around him, she kissed him in a great rush of love, overwhelmed by her emotions and his faithfulness.
"Did I say the right thing?" he asked, his mouth curved in a roguish smile as she released him.
"It had better not been smooth and consummate charm," she sternly charged, although she was teasing and he knew it.
"I brought you presents, too, as a measure of my consummate charm. I hope they work."
"In what way?"
"In the usual way," he teased. "Now don't pout," he playfully added, "or I won't give them to you."
"I'm not pouting," Daisy said, her lush bottom lip irresistibly rebuking, half playful and half serious, at the thought of all the other women he'd bought gifts for. "You've no doubt had previous success with amorous bibelots."
"You don't like presents?" he said, lifting her to her feet so he could slide her skirt and petticoats off. "You'll like my presents," he went on, immune to her small jealousy, as he placed her reclining against the snow-white pillows. "Soon."
He washed her then with warm scented water left ready on the washstand, the act itself erotic as he slowly smoothed the linen cloth over her thighs and upward to wipe away the residue of their lovemaking.
And she was content to let him care for her, redolent in her love, lazy in the aftermath of her climax, warmed by the heated room and her heated senses.
He washed himself afterward with an efficiency she admired and begrudged. How many times had he done that before in how many boudoirs before how many admiring ladies?
He was beautifully formed, his erection turgid and engorged. But he seemed detached from the phenomenon of arousal, and she wondered how he disciplined himself to subvert his obvious physical need to some rational chronology of gift-giving. But she discovered later, as he had years ago, that the ebb and flow of passion was enhanced by respite. Bringing over a small leather portfolio, he took numerous prints from it, spreading t
hem across the bed. And with a punch for himself and warm almond milk for Daisy, they sat crosslegged on the white satin coverlet admiring Bonnard's seductive array of female nudes. In various stages of undress, small feminine women bathed or rose from bed, lay indolently, covered or uncovered their slender legs with long black stockings, admired themselves before mirrors, lazily brushed their hair.
"They're beautiful," Daisy said, gazing at the score of small prints, "and very stylish in their black stockings."
"They pale in comparison, love," the Duc replied, Daisy's voluptuous form, perfection, "but they've a sense of independence and charming freedom I thought you'd like. I've another in a different style," he added, rising to fetch a small painting that had been tucked away behind a chair.
The painting was of a mother holding a baby just out of the bath, a delicate, patterned composition derivative of Japanese prints, but imbued with a touching rapport between mother and child.
"This was done by an American woman painter—Mary Cassatt. I thought you might like it."
Both the mother and baby had dark hair, their heads close as the mother held the small child in an affectionate embrace, and Daisy felt a small heated joy at the tender scene… and at Etienne's thoughtfulness. "I didn't buy you anything," she softly said. "I feel guilty." Her fingertip ran over the elaborate gold frame.
"No gift could equal the child you're giving me." And leaning over, he kissed her, a long, slow, heated kiss of sweetness and love that deepened so she felt a glow begin to radiate in a seeping languor of arousal.
He felt her response, felt her mouth open beneath his, tasted her welcome, felt her low purr of desire vibrate delicately against his lips. With tender leisure he absorbed the resonance of her warming passion, his mouth and tongue toying and teasing, nibbling and possessing until Daisy wanted more.
Lifting his mouth, the Duc took the empty cup she held in one hand and placed it with his on the nightstand. "I don't know if Louis is aware or not," he said, taking in the sultry passion of her glance, "but the warm almond milk his mama prescribed as a soothing elixir is used for another purpose in the Arab world."
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