“Do you like it, baby?”

My eyes drift back to half-mast and I nod, snuggling against him. I like it very much. It’s perfect for this soft, small place, and it leaves both my hands free to touch him, to hold on to him, and I breathe in the broad warmth of his chest.

“Good girl. Mon Dieu, you should see how fucking cute you look. I’ve been picturing this all week.”

I revel in the heavy richness of his voice, his arms holding me tight against him. We lie like that for a long time, just drifting, coming down together. It’s a private, precious thing, what Frederic and I do, and I believe something for the first time in over a year: Despite what I once felt, there really isn’t anything wrong with me. The damage that Adam did is slowly unwinding from my body, and I feel free.

I want to tell Frederic how grateful I am, and how much he means to me, even if he doesn’t feel the same way and never will. I can be brave. It’s better than keeping secrets. My eyes open and I emerge slowly from that small, safe place. Taking out the pacifier, I say, “Frederic, I...”

I what? What do I want to say?

He looks at me expectantly, his face full of tenderness. “I...wish I could say your name like Frenchwomen do.” All right. I’m brave but I’m not that brave. “I make it sound so flat and English. Fred-ric. All lips and tongue, at the front of the mouth. I want to say it in that beautiful, throaty way. Fred-er-ric.” There are so many things I feel for Frederic, but I couldn’t begin to put words to them. He’s here, and he cares about me. That is enough.

He smiles. “You say it beautifully with your lips and tongue. But my name, what’s my name? Yours is beautiful. Evie. Ee-vee. It sounds like biting your lip while making love. A gasp. And then there’s Evangeline. So caressing. Like angels and lace. But also excellent to scold with. E-van-geline. Stop that and come here at once. Get over my knee.”

Giggling, I stretch my arms over my head and encounter the debris of our lovemaking. Something soft runs over my wrist. It’s a piece of my dress, and I draw the scrap through my fingers. Regretfully, I say, “Well, it was nice to wear it for a few minutes at least. Did you like it?”

Frederic levels a reproachful look at me. “Baby, I may be a sadist but I’m not a monster. Did you think I would just ruin your favorite new dress and not get you another?” He leans over the edge of the bed yet again and comes back with a box. It’s stamped with the same label that was on the dress. He takes my pacifier from me so I can open it, and my fingers find silk amongst the tissue paper. I draw out the garment. It’s exactly the same as the one he just cut to ribbons, and I grin.

“I saw it hanging in the wardrobe this week and it gave me ideas. It’s a fucking great dress. Better than the gingham, even.”

“You think so?” I take it out, holding the soft, flimsy fabric up to the light. But I find more fabric than I was expecting. “Daddy, there are two dresses in here, identical ones.”

He levels a smoldering look at me. “Yes. That’s in case I have those ideas again.”

I don’t doubt that he will. Exasperated, I shake my head. “You could have ruined a cheaper dress, you know. The gingham only cost me thirty pounds.”

“Ruin a cheap dress? Where would be the fun in that?”

I smile and rub the silk against my cheek. “My lover the sadist. Nothing is safe around you, is it?”

As I’m still feeling very small and clingy—and very mussed from his fierce attentions—Frederic cancels our dinner reservation and we order in. After we eat, we sit on the couch, me in an oversized nightshirt with Christine in my arms and the new pacifier in my mouth. I really quite like it. It feels comforting and indulgent as I cuddle against him. We watch a film adaptation of Jane Eyre and Frederic makes notes for himself about his character.

Jane has just unknowingly come upon her employer in the lane when Frederic taps my pacifier. “Can you speak, baby? Should Rochester carry a riding crop in that first scene, when he falls from his horse?”

I take it out. “Oh, god yes.” That sounded too emphatic, as I’m remembering what he just did to me with a riding crop a few hours earlier, so I add, “You know, because it would be historically and situationally accurate, and because you might need to imply that you were on a horse if you can’t actually have a horse onstage.”

He thinks for a moment. “Good point. I think the stage manager is planning something with lights and the sound of a horse, so the crop will emphasize the moment.” Then he slants a heated look at me. “And then I could bring that one home and use it on you, too.”

I remember how well he played Frollo for me, with the flogger and his priest’s costume. The thought of being whipped by Frederic in his Rochester costume makes my breath come a little faster. I tilt my mouth up to his and let my voice become breathy. “Only if you promise to bring the rest of the outfit home, too. I’ve been such a wayward little governess, sir.”

He gives me a smoldering look, puts his pen down and caresses my throat, his firm fingers sending sparks of pleasure shooting through me. My mouth is open, an invitation to his.

“Miss Eyre, have you been having filthy thoughts about your master?”

“Yes, sir.” We watch each other, just breathing each other in, every soft inhalation and exhalation a promise. He’s very convincing when he plays the part of the priest, the home invader, Rochester, though I’m aware that any role he puts on is a veneer over who he really is—my tender sadist.

Shaking himself slightly, as if trying to remember what we were talking about, he says, “I’ve got an initial meeting with the costume designer on Friday. Will you come with me?”

I have to claw my way back to sensibility, too. “Think it will help me with your book?”

“No. I want your opinion about the costumes.”

I twist the corner of my nightgown, thinking. It’s nice that he wants me there but I don’t see what use I’ll be. “I don’t know, Frederic. The costume designer might not like me hanging around, and what can I really offer?”

He raises his eyebrows, incredulous. “You are joking? You’re writing a thesis on Victorian literature. The outfits for the dolls you sew are all historically accurate and have incredible detail. What’s more, you know the book back to front. It would be remiss of me not to ask you. Chérie, what’s wrong?”

He asks this because I’m staring at him, bewildered. When he puts it like that it actually does sound like I might be able to help at the meeting. I never imagined obsessing about old novels and sewing little figurines would be useful. “Nothing’s wrong, I jus

Tags: Brianna Hale Romance
Source: readsnovelonline.net