“Bébé, there is no need for you to be upset about asking for help. I don’t mind in the least.”
Elie crossed to the tub and thankfully worked the faucet, making sense out of the complicated knobs. At once steam began to rise as water flowed into the deep bath. He beckoned her to him.
“Come here and turn around.”
Elie sat on the edge of the tub, his thighs spread wide, leaving very little to the imagination. The towel didn’t hide much and he didn’t seem to care. He didn’t ask again, just sat there with the steam rising behind him and those dark eyes fixed on her face.
Heart pounding, she obeyed, albeit slower than she would have liked. It was very daunting to force herself to be so close to him when he wore nothing but a towel and he was going to undo the buttons of her wedding dress. She’d had far too many fantasies about this man.
She had little resistance against Elie Archambault. She had known that the moment his shadow had collided with hers. If she was honest, even before that, when she’d spoken with him in the café and later in the restaurant. How many times? She had read every article and collected every magazine she could find that featured him in it. When he was photographed coming out of the kink clubs, Brielle found her imagination running wild and she was always at the center of the fantasy with Elie as her dominant.
Brielle was terrified he could read her mind. Could an Archambault do that? Did they have that kind of psychic gift? All riders had gifts. She couldn’t control the blush that spread over her body so she kept her head down as she approached him and turned her back to him the moment she got close.
Elie wrapped his arm around her waist and drew her between his thighs. Thankfully, her dress was A-lined and had enough material to give her a bit of a respite so she didn’t feel his bare skin against her, but that didn’t stop the brush of flames as his knuckles touched her back when he began threading the buttons through the loops, allowing the material to part.
She hadn’t worn a bra because it was built into the dress. She worked out and dieted carefully, but she still had a more-than-generous butt. It was there no matter what she did. Firm yes, but still generous. And she did have breasts no matter what Elie had implied earlier. The fact that she did always made her look two sizes bigger than she was. In spite of what she was told, that was not the first place she lost weight. Her butt and breasts were always the last place.
Great. The moment Elie had the dress opened all the way down the back, he would see she wasn’t at all what he was used to. A small groan escaped before she could stop it. She was just too tired to censor the way she needed to.
“Ma femme, talk to me. What are you so worried about?”
He reached up and pulled the dress from her shoulders. She caught at it to keep it from falling from her breasts.
“You can’t wear your dress in the bathtub, Brielle.” There was a hint of amusement in his voice. “I’m not going to assault you when you’re this damn tired. Let me take off the dress and get you in the bath.”
He was going to see her naked body sooner or later. It wasn’t as if she could hide from him forever. She might as well get it over with. It wasn’t as if she really cared that much, did she? He’d apologized to her there in Jean-Claude’s sitting room. He’d written her so many letters of apology. He’d made it clear both to Stefano and to her that he had been attracted to her long before the Archambault family insisted they marry. Why did she have such a problem?
She dropped her hands and allowed him to peel the wedding gown from her body, leaving her in a barely there thong, garter, stockings and heels.
“Your heels add another three inches?” There was laughter in his voice.
“Not three,” she denied, casting a quick look over her shoulder.
She shouldn’t have looked at him. He skimmed his hands down her back and then shaped her bottom, cradling her firm cheeks, his thumbs sliding over her skin. Just the touch, skin on skin, sent electricity snapping through her nerve endings and arching over her, a deluge of flames falling like sheets of fire to envelop her in a scorching heat.
“Three,” he affirmed. “Don’t move.” His breath bathed her ear in warmth as he spoke.
She could see him in the mirror as he stood up slowly behind her, his much larger frame towering above her. Elie reached around her and took her hands in his, turning her body halfway so she was facing the large sink with the giant mirror.
“Look how truly beautiful you are, Brielle. I’ve regretted the ugly callous and very untrue things you overheard me say to Jean-Claude every single day since I told those lies. No one, for me, will ever compare to your beauty. You have to be able to hear the honesty in my voice. I know you’re afraid of this marriage, but I swear to you, I’ll make you happy. I know what you need and I can give you those things. I want to be the man to give you everything you ever need or want.”
She shivered. He had no idea and she hadn’t been courageous enough—or idiot enough—to admit to her real needs. The cravings that ran deep and would eventually begin to gnaw at her. His voice alone could trigger that hunger inside her and he didn’t even know it.
He placed her hands on the marble surface and then very gently put the flat of his palm between her shoulder blades and applied pressure until she bent over.
She’d dreamt of just such an encounter with him. How did he know? How could he? In nothing but stockings and heels, in a steamy room with Elie commanding her every move. Her entire body trembled.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured. His hands slid from the nape of her neck all the way down her spine to her bottom. “Stay still for me while I get your clothes off.”
Once more, he cradled her cheeks and then began stroking and kneading the firm flesh. He took his time exploring, literally following the curve around the sides and down around the bottom and in between, separating each cheek, using his thumbs and fingers to slowly trace the lines of her body as if memorizing them. Then he crouched down, his hands running down the backs of her legs to her high heels. Very gently, he untied the bows and removed first the left one and then the right. When she stepped out of them, he held each foot in his hand for a moment and stroked the sole before setting it on the floor. She was definitely three inches shorter without the heels.
Elie nudged her legs apart and reached up to unsnap the silk stockings from the garters, slowly rolling them down her legs. There was nothing hurried about his movements. She found herself shaking so badly, she could barely hold herself up. His every action was purely sensual and yet, at the same time, almost casual. Everywhere he touched, it felt like a flame on her skin, a brand of ownership.
This time, as he removed the stocking from her right leg, he placed her foot on his thigh, up high so she felt the scorching heat emanating from his groin. His fingers kneaded the sole of her foot and moved over the top of her foot and ankle before placing it on the floor at least a shoulder width apart from her other leg. Then he lifted her left foot and repeated the same action.
Her entire body reacted to the way he undressed her. She could barely breathe, air moving raggedly through her lungs. Her breasts felt heavy and achy. Her nipples were hard pebbles, standing stiffly, pulsing and hot with need. Her sex felt as if he’d lit a match to her. She was slick, her thong soaked. She told herself she would not be embarrassed. He was deliberately seducing her and he was good at seduction. If she got nothing else from her marriage, at least she hoped to get outstanding sex.
“You’re moving,” Elie reprimanded softly. His hands paused at the tiny string that was her thong. “I believe I told you not to move.”