It seemed to work.

She stepped back, lovely in her confidence. Untying and dropping her dressing gown, she stood before him in nothing but her hair, long and loose about her.

He waited. His interest evident. Her gaze was drawn there. Her eyes dilated. He would wait like this forever if she wished it of him. He would be the proof she needed of a different kind of man. In the end, she was likely to ignore it, but he had to hope she was strong enough to accept. She was strong enough to have come back to him tonight, although he’d have wagered against himself in Mawkins’ pool. She’d been so confident in her denial when she left his bed, and so cold all day. He thought he’d lost her. The relief at having her back was nigh overwhelming.

“You said to ask you again tonight.” She spoke at last. Her voice was still clipped, not yet roughened by desire or tears. The moisture he felt was in his own eyes, not hers.

He let his head fall forward, for he did not want her to see his sentiment. She might discard him for it. Preshea admired strength, not empathy. It made him self-conscious. “I did?”

“Yes.”

“About what?”

“About what you wanted.”

He relaxed. This was easy territory. He wasn’t afraid to open himself up to her in that way. After all, how much more lost could he be to her? She already had all the ammunition she needed to destroy him, whether she knew it or not. “You hadna guessed?”

“No. Well, perhaps a little.”

He blushed, actually blushed. “I want to please you.”

“What?”

“Ah.” He cleared his throat. Considering all that they had done and said the last night, she obviously found it amusing to see him embarrassed. “For me, it is about your pleasure. I dinna know the right way of saying it, but I wish it to be for you. This, me, everything.” He gestured down towards his arousal, up towards his heart and head, struggling to explain. “I dinna enjoy it if the woman is unwilling. I canna function if she’s under sufferance or passive. I dinna believe it makes me less a man, although my peers might disagree. Fortunately, they are na privy to my proclivities.”

Preshea cocked her head, frowning. Her hands, thank heavens, never stopped moving – caressing, testing the weight and heat of him. She clearly enjoyed touching him and took reassurance in it. “Does that mean you wish me to be in charge, give orders? As though you were a servant?”

“If you like. I wouldna protest. Ideally, I should wish for plenty of time to learn what makes you moan, what makes you wet. I’d as lief please you without your having to ask, although I’m happy to take requests.”

She seemed to come to some decision, then she nodded. “If I am demanding, I always get exactly what I wish for from the milliner, and the dressmaker, and the cobbler, and so forth. Why should this be any different?”

He strained to hide a smile. “Why indeed? I’m thinking if we move to the bed, I might start taking measurements?”

CHAPTER TEN

A Scotsman Without His Beard

Preshea was going to say that, from last night’s endeavors, she already had his measure. Then she noticed something peculiar about his bed.

He had tied a cravat to each of the posts. It reminded Preshea of something she’d once learned, on the securing of prisoners for interrogation.

“I will not!” She revealed herself and her fear immediately in a way she would have thought impossible a few days before. “How could you ask?”

He rested a hand on her shoulder, gentling her like a skittish horse. “Softly, lass. Those are na for you. They are for me.”

“What?”

“You are a lass who prefers control. I’m thinking that in this way, you’d see me as no threat. Simply yours for the taking.”

She tilted her head. “For the asking?” she corrected, not liking the aggression in the word.

“That, I already am.”

Preshea was surprised to find how excited she was by the idea. This big man, entirely at her mercy, with no ability to act on his own needs. “You would do this thing voluntarily?”

“With pleasure.”

She did not use the knots she’d been taught (the ones that limited blood flow, designed to be cruel). She tied him firmly, but in a pretty bow. That way he could, with a little dexterity, pull the tail and be free without her aid.

He lay spread before her and under her gaze – passive, eager, and uninhibited. As if he had waited for this all along. She did not wish to think of him as different, but there seemed no way around it.

Preshea explored at her leisure. She used her hands mainly and her teeth a little to nip here or there. She applied lips and tongue sparingly, unsure but eager. She found herself delighted by his noises. How close the sounds of pleasure are to those of pain.

She crawled over him on her quest, not concerned about her weight, so slight compared to his.

She adored that she could watch and see if what she did appealed. There was obvious evidence when she aroused him. He enjoyed the licks a great deal, her use of teeth slightly less so. Depending on how she moved, what he could see of her body also caused a reaction. She found herself playing him like an instrument, to see the way he jerked and moaned, the moisture beading at the tip of his cock.

“Lass,” he said. “You’re killing me here.”

“Now, now, I promise things would feel a great deal different if death were in play.” She was straddling him, faced towards his feet, exploring the length and texture of him with long, tight strokes.