Page 80 of The Assassin and the Libertine
“We could go back to your place,” I suggested.
The look he gave me was a cross between intense longing and sheer frustration. I pulled his face down to mine for a passionate kiss, reigniting the fire he’d stoked in the carriage.
“Eh, laisse faire,”he grunted, pushing me back on the kitchen table. He jumped up and rolled atop me, pinning me down beneath his lithe, muscular body.
“Étienne!” I laughed. “Please. I often eat at this table!”
“Oui, chérie!And so shall I.” He tugged my skirts and chemise up to my waist and slid his cool hands up my thighs. Any thoughts of protestation died as he set his tongue to me, lapping at my sex until he had me writhing. My need for him was almost blinding. I threaded my hands through his thick, dark locks to keep him where I needed him, and he rewarded me by darting his tongue across the apex of my pleasure. Desire built in my body like the slow crescendo of an operatic symphony, and when he slid his fingers inside me, the cymbals crashed, and I sang my final aria. He nipped gently at my thigh and drank from me, as was our custom, which sent me down another valley of pleasure. When he was done, he licked the small wound closed and rolled over to lay next to me.
“Delicious,” he said. His fangs had retracted again. “I’ll never tire of that."
“I should hope not,” I said with a faint smile.
“You haven’t had dinner this evening, have you?” he asked, worry creasing his brow. “You look awfully pale.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Perhaps a little hungry.”
Étienne jumped off the table. “Say no more, Duchesse. Allow me to further satisfy you.”
“I’m sure there’s some leftover roast from the midday meal,” I said. “Or perhaps some bread and cheese.”
Étienne went to the pantry and returned with some of the day’s leftovers, as well as an armload of other ingredients.
“Cream, sugar, eggs, vanilla, the oranges for theréveillondessert table…what are you about, Étienne?” I asked.
He winked at me, took off his coat, and rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Sit and eat your meal. I’ll make you dessert.”
I tucked into the roast and cheese and watched him whisk his ingredients together over the stove. When he was done, he poured the mixture into two small dishes and took them to the kitchen door that led to the back garden. He stuck the two bowls of sweetened cream into the snow and came back inside. I raised a curious brow at him, but he merely smiled and cut into one of the oranges.
“Mon Dieu!These oranges are red!” he said upon seeing the crimson fruit.
“They’re a new variety imported from Sicily,” I said. “They’re called blood oranges.”
“Non. Vraiment?”He licked the juice from his fingers, spurring another wave of desire in me.
“Yes,” I said, coming over to taste the fruit. “I thought you might like them.”
“They are good,” he said. “But not as delicious as you. Somehow, you always seem to taste of orange blossom and vanilla. That’s why I’m making you this dessert; it’s a treat inspired by you.”
I finished my meal, and we sat in front of the kitchen hearth in companionable silence. The fire crackled and popped, and I brought out two glasses of brandy for us to enjoy. After a while, Étienne went out to the snow and brought the custards back in. I watched with fascination as he topped them with orange slices, sprinkled sugar over them, and held them under a red-hot pan plucked from the fire. The sugar melted and burned to a lovely caramel color.
“Where did you learn how to make this?” I asked.
“When I was a boy—before I turned—my family cook was renowned for herpâtisseries.I had such a sweet tooth when I was young! She made the most delicious desserts for me, but this one was always my favorite.Crème brûlée, she called it. Of course, I had to add my own twist just for you,ma petite orange,”he grinned.
He slid the dish toward me. I picked up a spoon.
“Wait,” he whispered. “This is the best part.”
He tapped the delicate sugar glaze on the top, cracking it and dipping his spoon in the orange-scented custard. He held it to my lips and my mouth watered—the fragrance of warm vanilla, tart orange, and creamy sweetness was too much to resist. He placed the spoonful on my tongue and I nearly swooned.
“It’s unbelievable,” I gasped. I reached for my own dish, but Étienne stopped me.
“It ismytreat, Duchesse,” he said. He dipped a finger in the dessert and held it up to my lips. I sucked it off and he stifled a growl. His fangs lengthened and his eyes flashed with that fire again. I smiled knowingly at him as he began to unbutton his waistcoat and then his breeches. I couldn’t unlace my stays fast enough.
It was some time before we finished dessert.
The following morning,I woke to find myself tucked cozily in my own bed. Étienne must have brought me upstairs before returning to his château for his daytime rest. I yawned and rang for a bath. I was still covered in remnants of last night’scrème brûlée à l’orange.While I was in the bath, I mulled over the list of names The Order had given me. I knew everyone on the list—not intimately, of course, but well enough. Of all the names, only a few hadn’t been invited to my Christmas Eve party, and I called for Eve to send out invitations to them immediately.
