Master of Pleasure

by Delilah Marvelle

Whoever thought so many insults from a woman could make a man want more.

  Leona, Leona, make me bleed and suffer in unending bliss, Leona.

  Malcolm plastered a disbelieving hand to his mouth, his body still pulsing from so much want and so much need. A cavernous yearning he’d been struggling to bury since he was eighteen years old gripped him. For he had finally met the one.

  She was the leopard he’d been waiting to embrace. The one whose spots were all visible, for her nature refused to let her hide it. The one who growled when angry and purred when content for her nature refused to let her hide it.

  He knew he had wounded more than her pride. He wounded her heart. A heart she tried to foolishly place into his hands without fully understanding how much he lived in fear of crushing it. Over his lifetime, his greatest sin was living with a need to feel so much until it became too much. What she considered to be a mere kiss, was him actually wanting to bite down and take her tongue right out of its socket to ensure she felt what he did: everything. And when she had flinched against him in pain in response to his yearning, he reveled in it.

  Which he knew was wrong. Very, very wrong.

  Letting his hand fall away from his mouth, he slowly turned to the wall where he carved the word deltangam. Which meant: ‘My heart is tight’. It was a Persian expression for longing. It was how she made him feel.

  Shifting his jaw, he yanked out the dagger he’d stuck into the wall. Angling the blade, he was about to gouge out the Persian word he wished he hadn’t written, when a flurry of two female voices, one belonging to Leona and the other to one he did not recognize, drifted toward him.

  He paused, lowering his blade and intently listened to what was going on.

  “He was told I would be calling,” a female voice lectured in a refined, but heavily French accented tone. “It is imperative I tap a finger to this head that reminds me all too well of a man I once knew. A man who rattled himself to pieces in the same way.”

  Leona interjected. “Whilst I wish I could understand, Madame, he simply isn’t accepting any visitors right now. Nor is this a good time. He isn’t—”

  “Absuridté,” the woman tossed back. “When a man is in need, the time is always right. And I assure you, I am not just any visitor. I am Madame de Maitenon. Back in France, not even the National Assembly would have turned me away. No one puts dirt on my bonnet like this. Non, non, non. I will find him myself. Try to be useful elsewhere, mon chou. Excusez-moi.”

  The clicking of determined steps made him realize that the female voices were coming up the stairs and heading down the corridor toward him.

  His throat and chest tightened. It was the French woman Nasser mentioned. The one who was supposed to help him. He doubted she could. He’d been this way a very, very long time.

  But if he wanted Leona and Jacob to be part of his life, if he wanted to be part of a real and normal family, he had to try. He’d always yearned to be normal. He’d always yearned to be able to gently kiss a woman’s hand without thinking of nipping or biting it. He’d always yearned to be able to bend a woman backward without breaking her back.

  This was his one and only chance. It was this or nothing. And he was rather tired of nothing.

  Malcolm swung toward the open doorway and waited. With the holy thou shalt be holy: and with a perfect man thou shalt be perfect. Help me, Lord, in understanding how to expel this evil from within me.

  An elderly woman wearing an oversized bonnet trimmed with too many feathers and lace and ribbons breezed into the room.

  He awkwardly lowered the blade he forgot he was holding. He tossed it, letting it clatter. She looked like an elegant version of his grandmother who died when he was ten. And here he was greeting her like a sea hoodlum. “Forgive the dagger.”

  Bright blue eyes that could have put the sky to shame pertly skimmed the blade and then Malcolm’s appearance. She puckered her full, pink lips during her perusal, and although it appeared to be disapproving in nature, the merriment that glittered in those eyes after seeing the blade, contradicted said disapproval.

  With the sweep of gloved fingers, she unraveled the length of the ribbon belonging to her flamboyant bonnet and removed it, revealing silver hair elegantly bundled in perfect ringlets. “Lord Brayton. A pleasure. I am Madame de Maitenon.” She regally held out her bonnet to Leona, letting the feathers wag. “This will take a while, mon chou. Leave us and do not linger by the door or I will give him permission to toss you on your pretty little ear. This will require utmost discrétion. Are we understood in this?”

  Leona hesitated and slowly took the bonnet.

  How fitting she was here to see what he’d been trying to hide all along: the truth.

  After years and years of denying it, he was done. He was done fighting it. He was done pretending the other half of his dark soul didn’t exist. It did. It always did. No matter how many good deeds he tried to plaster over it, it was always there nagging him. Once in a while, when he couldn’t stand it, and he’d be lying alone at night, unable to sleep and refusing to stoop to the level of masturbation, he’d take a blade, dip it in gin and poke himself. Just so he could stop thinking about having sex with a woman who would not only leave marks all over his body but would let him leave marks on hers, as well.

  It was a bit of a problem.

  He puffed out a breath, not wanting Leona anywhere near this conversation. “Miss Webster, can you please close the door after you and go downstairs? Mr. Holbrook and your son should be back soon. It’s important this is addressed before they return. It is my hope you will forgive my earlier behavior that led to our argument. I wish to progress in sharing something more meaningful with you. I would like us to move forward.”

  Leona’s lips parted as she edged back with the bonnet. “I’m moving backward, right now. I’ll go…clean something downstairs.”

  Madame de Maitenon turned to Leona, a silver brow going up. “Am I to understand you and Lord Brayton are involved, Miss Webster?”

  Leona winced. “I…well…oooo…I’m merely a glorified scullery maid. I’m no one.”

  Malcolm swiped his face, the taste of Leona’s tongue against his own still making it hard for him to focus. “Leona, this woman is here to help me. So don’t play games with her or me.” He leveled his gaze at the French woman. “I leave to Persia in eight weeks. If you can help me bed Miss Webster well before then and have her willingly follow me out of the country, I would appreciate it.”

  Leona gasped. “Have her help you bed me? What? I’m not—”

  Malcolm pointed at her. “Don’t pretend you don’t want what I do. This is happening whether either of us are ready for it or not. You want everything? Fine. You’re going to get it. And given you want me in your bed, you’re going to get that, too. In fact, I’ll be in your bed so damn often, you won’t have time to leave it.”

  Leona’s mouth dropped open.

  The French woman chimed out a laugh and swept back toward Leona, her viridian morning gown rustling in the silence of the room. Pausing before Leona, she tugged back her bonnet from Leona’s hand and pertly set it atop of her hair, angling it. Madame tied the ribbon around Leona’s chin, fluffing the ribbon. “This stays on until he keeps his promise.”

  Leona dropped her hands to her sides and puffed at a large ostrich feather that fell over its rim. “Oh, yes, and how will I sleep with it?”

  Madame de Maitenon smiled. “I am hoping you will not have to.” Turning Leona around by the shoulders, she gently nudged her toward the door. “Peer in on us in exactly two hours. By then, he will need you.”

  Leona swung back around. “Need me? For what?”

  Madame tsked. “If I answer that, you will be long gone. Which would defeat him and the point. Now go. Go, go, go.”

  Leona blinked rapidly from beneath the angled rim of the oversized bonnet, then awkwardly turned and left, closing the door behind her. Harried steps indicated that she was not only leaving, but had no interest in staying or listening
in.

  Malcolm shifted from boot to boot and after a long, awkward blanket of gnawing silence, he set aside all common sense and blurted, “Given you’re here to help me, help me. I almost pulled her damn tongue out of her socket when I kissed her. And I thoroughly enjoyed knowing she was in pain. I enjoyed it. What do you have to say to that, Madame? How can anyone even begin to help…that?”

  Turning toward him, Madame de Maitenon tugged on the wrists of her gloves, as if that entertained her far more. “What was her reaction?”

  He lowered his chin. “What do you mean?”

  “When you almost pulled her tongue out of her socket. What was her reaction?”

  He hesitated. “She stupidly wanted to do it again.”

  “And did you let her?”

  “No, of course not. Why would I— I was scared I’d…”

  “Hurt her.”

  He swallowed. “Yes.”

  A delicate breath escaped Madame. She was quiet for a long moment and eventually walked toward him, the click-click of her slippered heels drawing closer. “Prince Nasser was very concerned about you. And rightfully so. These tendencies can lead to very dangerous situations. No one knows that more than I. It can be frightening to a young woman who has never been exposed to it and equally frightening to the gentleman who only yearns to fulfill the dark fantasies in his head.”

  She sighed. “Prince Nasser told me everything, but there are too many things even he could not answer. If I am to help you, I must better understand the depth of these tendencies. For I am not about to prod you into a relationship if you are a danger to yourself and whatever woman you wish to get involved with. I am therefore asking you to be incredibly honest and filter nothing. Even if you think the answer may disturb me, I want that answer. I need that answer. Can you do that? Because I cannot help you without your honesty.”

  Malcolm became uneasy. Not even Nasser knew the extent of what he was. No one did. No one but his brother had ever truly known.

  “Lord Brayton?” she prodded.

  He puffed out a breath. He could either move forward or backward. And his back was simply too far up against the wall to go anywhere. “Yes. I can do that. I can be honest.”

  She inclined her head. “Merci. I appreciate your attempt to face this.”

  Hell, he appreciated his own attempt. “I just want to be a normal man.”

  “Let us not run with the dinner fork quite yet.” She hesitated. “Do you remember a time when you were not drawn to pain?”

  Malcolm puffed out another breath and scrubbed his head with both hands, knowing it had started a long time ago. In his youth. He and his brother only ever had each other. His parents were too damn occupied with their social lives to bother with two boys who needed far more attention than even God was willing to give.

  He was about nine when he accidentally slammed the door on his fingers. He’d done it many times before, but something was different about it that day. Although he had cried, he was fascinated with the way his heart had pounded and the way his fingers had trembled as the pain ebbed away, giving him peace. So he placed his fingers in the door and slammed the door on them again. Harder.

  It had been a little too hard, and he wailed loud enough for all of England to hear. The governess scurried over and yanked him onto her lap, kissing and kissing his fingers and begging him not to cry. In between those full-lipped kisses, which she never bestowed on him, given she was usually too busy yelling or spanking him, he realized the pain had been well worth the reward.

  He’d been obsessed with the power play of pain ever since.

  A breath escaped him. “I think I was young when I purposefully started slamming doors on my fingers,” he admitted. “It was the only time the governess ever gave me the attention I wanted. Even worse, I fancied myself to be in love with her. So I went out of my way to…hurt myself. My brother liked my approach and started doing the same. Only he wasn’t using doors to slam his fingers. That was mere – pardon the expression – ‘child’s play’ for him. He was obsessed with breaking glass, and we basically competed with each other to see who the governess would run to first. Blood won out over bruised fingers every time, so I had to get more creative. The governess eventually figured out what we were up to and stopped responding. So despite our love for her, we…got her dismissed. We soon had a new governess every Season doing the same damn thing. Our parents never thought anything of it. They were too busy with their lives and thought we were merely being boys. It wasn’t until our mother died some of those habits changed, seeing our father was more intent on interacting with us.”

  Madame de Maitenon traced a finger across her bottom lip in thought. “What you are describing goes far beyond sibling rivalry. How is it your brother shared your same tendencies for pain? That is unusual. You are two separate people with two separate desires.”

  Ha. “In the eyes of the world, yes, we are two separate people, but James and I have always viewed ourselves as one. He is my twin. And he is very much the darker half of our darkness.”

  Her eyes widened. “Mon Dieu. Twins. I understand.” She rounded him, searching his face. “Your scar is rather prominent. Was that done during your attempt to gain attention?”

  He snorted. “No. I was never that stupid when it came to getting attention. The forceps sliced my face at birth. I almost died.”

  She continued rounding him. “Were you born first?”

  “Yes. Although one wouldn’t know it. James always sought to lead. Always.”

  “And do you still associate with your brother? With this James?”

  He rolled his eyes. “I prefer to stay away. I’ve learned to live a life separate from his.”

  “Why?”

  “James is overly comfortable with the idea of hurting not only himself but others. There isn’t a line he won’t grip or cross. He isn’t…mean-spirited, but…he expects everyone to kneel to him every time, no matter what it is. Even if it isn’t safe. Whilst I? I’ve learned to enjoy more of a…oh, I don’t know…a softer approach. I don’t like to impose on others. Especially women. They’re…delicate. You can’t just…rough them up and leave marks all over their bodies. I also can’t ask them to return the favor, because I know they would think I’m touched in the head. So I’ve avoided it, because I’ve always wanted women to like me. Not dread and fear me. I already dread and fear me. I don’t need them doing it for me.”

  Her mouth quirked. “You are fascinating. What is even more extraordinary is you are unaware of how special you are. Very few men who have your tendencies can exercise such control over their minds and bodies as to will themselves to lead a chaste life. You should be very proud. The respect you have for women is to be commended. Applauded. Hailed. It is rare.”

  He slowly adjusted his waistcoat, utterly baffled. “Applauded? Hailed? Madame, I am admitting that I enjoy pain and that I want a woman to enjoy it with me. How the hell is that to be commended?”

  She held up a hand. “You are looking at yourself through the eyes of society, Lord Brayton. Not through your own eyes. Society’s definition of what is and is not acceptable is a guideline, and oftentimes, is an overly strict guideline that prevents us from respecting what we know to be true.”

  Leaning in, she delicately tapped his shoulder. “I was worried this was going to be complicated, but it is rather obvious this is merely about teaching yourself to be comfortable with your tendencies. You need to accept them and safely apply them. Nothing more. Once I assist you to fully embrace what you have long denied, I foresee nothing but rainbows in the sky.”

  He stared at her. There had to be something wrong her. Maybe the French Revolution made her bloodthirsty. “You plan to help me embrace it? Are you…mad? I’m trying to get rid of it. I don’t think you understand the severity of the situation. I don’t see rainbows when I look at Miss Webster. I see crops.”

  She smiled. “I am well aware of that. Unfortunately, I am no magician. I cannot erase your tendencies and neither can
you. It would be too much aggravation to try to dig out something that has always been attached to your heart since childhood. It would murder everything you are and have come to be. Pain and pleasure are the two things that remind us we are connected to our bodies. Give yourself permission to think of yourself as being so overly connected and that is why you take pleasure in both. The more attainable method of approaching this is not to murder everything you are but to live with what you are. Which means…you must share your fantasies with Miss Webster and explore them.”

  He choked. “Explore my— Share my— She would run.”

  “Then let her run. For that is how you will know she is not the one. Honesty is the first step to intimacy, Lord Brayton. If what you share with this woman is real, she will do her best to understand and embrace not only you but your fantasies. And when and if she does, you will learn how to negotiate your fantasies against hers. You will negotiate what sort of pain you want and let her negotiate what sort of pleasure she wants.”

  He paused. “I can do that?”

  She laughed. “Mais oui. When in bed, there are no limits as to what defines pleasure as long as both sides agree.”

  “I…Truly? So you mean as long as she agrees to what we’re doing, we can…”

  “Yes. As long as she agrees. There is nothing wrong with what you desire as long as she understands and accepts your desire.”

  He straightened. “Well, how the hell do I get her to do that? What do I have to do? What do I have to do to get her to—”

  “Calm yourself, Lord Brayton. Calm. That is not up to you. That is up to her.”

  He swiped his face. “Then this is where it ends. Because she will think there is something wrong with me.”

  “No. There is nothing wrong with you. ’Tis very important you understand that. There is nothing wrong with you or what you want from Miss Webster.”

  A wave of apprehension gripped him. “That is a lie.”

  She glared. “I never lie.” She reached up and flicked his ear. “Are you not listening? There is nothing wrong with you or what you want from Miss Webster.”