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different and yet so the same. You have the same parts, but not the same. Legs. Feet. Buttocks.” She placed a hand upon his ass and squeezed. “You are not soft—but you are smooth. I suppose skin is skin.”
    Not soft. If she’d been looking at his front she certainly would have known the truth of that statement. And given that she saw only his backside, he’d forgive her comment about “the same parts.”
    He felt her pull back, felt the flow of air between them. “Why …?” He let his question trail off.
    “I want to see you.” She shuffled farther back along the floor. “You are so tall, your legs so long. And your shape—I thought you were attractive within your clothing, but without it you truly are perfection.”
    He laughed, hard and deep. Perfection. God, he hoped not. He’d never wanted to be perfect. He had to admit, however, that he didn’t mind her thinking he was—not that she had much to compare him with. Perhaps there really was something to innocence. For the first time, the thought of a well-bred wife did not fill him with fear.
    “Why do you laugh?” she asked. “Did I say something humorous?”
    “A man is not used to being described in such a way. Next you will be telling me I am beautiful again.”
    “But, you are.” She scurried forward, and he felt her hand run up his inner thigh. “You are all fine lines and hard muscle. What is not beautiful about that?”
    How could a man answer that? “Again I will say, a man does not normally hear such things expressed. Men give the compliments. They do not receive them.”
    “Then they should.” Her hand was approaching the top of his thigh, and he had to reach down and stop it.
    She paused, but did not retreat. She was beginning to learn, to trust.
    He said with care, “What I said before about not wanting it over too fast. It still holds true. The top of a man’s thigh, the space between his upper legs is very sensitive. He can only be touched there so much before … before it is too much.”
    “Before he comes?”
    “Well, yes. You know about coming?”
    “Madame Rouge explained. It is when a man releases his seed.”
    “Yes, I suppose that is fair, although perhaps there is a bit more to it.”
    “I don’t quite understand.”
    Should he show her, or would that be too much?
    Too much, he thought. That would have to wait. “You will just have to trust for now.”
    She did not answer, but she pulled her hands free and ran them back down his legs, examining textures and surfaces. He felt her lean forward, warm breath and curiosity. Her lips hit him just below his ass, first a kiss and then a taste.
    He grabbed his prick, squeezing hard at the base, working to hold back his release.
    Perhaps he should just show her, let her know what it was all about?
    Pressing tighter, he held back. No. It was not time. He was in control.
    He would remain in control.
    “Can I see your front again?”
    Damnation. She truly was going to kill him.
    “Are you done with the back? With my ass?” He used the word deliberately, trying to push back against the growing intimacy.
    “Your ass. I like that word,” she said, and he could hear delight in her voice.
    Bloody hell. Would she never act as expected?
    “Yes, I am done with your—with looking at—your ass … at least for now. I would like to see your front, to see your … penis.” She spoke the last word with care.
    He pulled in a deep breath, filling his lungs to capacity. “You do realize that once you are done with your examination it will be my turn. You will not get to look again.”
    She moved back, her hands leaving him, but still he felt her gaze upon him, caressing him, memorizing him. Once again he understood her actions without being able to see the expression upon her face.
    “Will you let me touch you again later—touch your ass? I do believe I will always remember what you look like, but I would rather like to touch you more.”
    “I think that can be