Master of Love

by Catherine LaRoche

  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

  Pleasure 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.”

  He drew the loosened shift down over her arms, while making her gasp from kisses pressed into the V between her shoulder and neck. Distracted, she felt the library air moving over her belly before she realized he’d lifted her derriere to slip the chemise off completely. Before she could quite process the startling fact that she was naked save for stockings in the library of the notorious Viscount Rexton, he stood up to tug her body down the length of the settee and dangle her legs over its rolled and padded armrest.

  “Dominick! Whatever are you doing?” She grasped at the leather and tried to pull back, but he would have none of it as he propped cushions under her head and—rather shockingly—high under her hips as well.

  “You’re my pupil tonight”—he grinned, looking down on her—“and it’s time to teach
you another lesson.”

  “Because you’re the Master of Love?” There was something sarcastic and mocking in her tone she knew immediately was wrong. It was fed by her fear of not knowing what she was doing, of not being attractive enough, of not measuring up to his previous lovers, and—perhaps worst of all—of tonight never happening again.

  She regretted the words as soon as they spilled out. Because he somehow wasn’t the Master of Love, or at least not tonight. All he was doing felt entirely, deliciously, most decidedly masterful, but he wasn’t that indiscriminate and dissolute lover of his reputation. Even though she barely understood what was happening, some part of her knew she wouldn’t have let herself be here tonight if he were that man. And yet everyone said he was. It was a conundrum she couldn’t pierce at the moment, although everything about the moment told her to proceed nonetheless.

  His grin faded. “No, not because I am the Master of Love,” he said, spitting out the term. “Because I am Dominick and you are Callista and this love play between us brings pleasure to us both.”

  “Love play,” she repeated slowly. Whether she said the words as apology or question, she wasn’t sure. All she knew was the waters were proving deeper by the moment, and she felt herself a very small fish.

  He knelt down on the thick carpet beside her and framed her face between his hands. “Look at me, Callista,” he commanded. “At me.”

  It was still so difficult not to be overwhelmed by the fierce masculine perfection of his face. But here he was, in front of her, blazing hot with some need focused on her. What did he want? How could there be anything he would want from her?

  “Yes, I see you.” She forced herself to hold steady that burning gaze, sensing something important in the moment, some hurt she’d dealt him that she had to heal. “I see you, Dominick.” As she heard his name slip from her lips, she realized with a start she’d been using it for some time this evening. Lord, she was in deep.