He set the slippers aside but remained at her feet, his head bowed, the nape of his neck vulnerable.
When several seconds passed and he did not move, Camille said, “What is it, Arno?”
He shook his head, then bowed lower and kissed the tops of her feet, more sensually than Kaspar had done, warm damp pressure that sent tingles up her legs. She reached down and laid her palm on the crown of Arno’s head. His skin was hot, his stubble like a cat’s tongue and so pleasant to touch that she rubbed her hand over all of it that she could reach, ending with a tug at his ear. She sat back on her elbows. “Both of you, join me.”
“If I may, Your Grace?” Kaspar asked. He indicated his weapons. She nodded, and he divested himself of his harness, laying his throwing knife on her night table and his swords on the carpet next to her bed. Arno did the same.
Her two guards did not completely disrobe; they never had done so in her sight, and she had not liked to demand that of them. Kaspar kept his loose trousers, and Arno his long drawers. She wasn’t sure if their modesty was meant to protect them from her gaze or to protect her from having to see that they were not whole men. She thought of telling them that it did not matter, but then another reason occurred to her; perhaps they meant to reassure her of their intent. What they did was for her and not for them.
Kaspar untied her belt, pushed her robe from her shoulders, and lifted her in his arms, something he had never done before. He cradled her against his bare chest while Arno marshaled pillows into a nest, all without speaking. She wanted to turn into him—it had been years since she’d been held like this—but could not quite bring herself to do it and reveal her need. Just then, Kaspar’s hand cupped the back of her head and pressed her face into his shoulder. She closed her eyes. His thumb rubbed the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair. “A moment longer,” he murmured.
His voice was lighter than a whole man’s but comforting all the same. What made him less than whole? The loss of his stones? She did not have a man’s stones, either. And in many ways, Kaspar was a better man than her husband, though such a thing could never be spoken. She wondered if either eunuch truly cared for her. If not, their pretense was infinitely better than whatever the duke felt.
Arno took her from Kaspar’s arms and laid her on the pillows. She sank into the pile of velvet and satin, so soft that she would have difficulty if she tried to struggle out, but she did not want to struggle. Her head lolled as Arno began to massage one of her legs, Kaspar the other, beginning at her toes and working up her foot to her calf. They both had considerable skill. Perhaps—probably—they did this for each other. Whom else did they have?
Her mind drifted, seeking refuge and rest in pure sensation. When her guards’ hands reached her knees, Arno continued upward, his big hands squeezing the taut muscles at the tops of her thighs and sweeping his thumbs over her hip bones.
The bed shifted as Kaspar departed, only to return a few moments later with a ewer and bowl, and a cloth folded over his forearm. Arno slid his hands intimately close and pressed open her lower lips. Camille closed her eyes as Kaspar bathed her in rose water, teasing her tender skin with friction from the cloth and trickles of water. She shifted restlessly against Arno’s hands, then tensed when the next pressure against her came from Kaspar’s tongue. At first flinching at the intensity, she soon twisted her hips, seeking more. “Use your finger, please,” she said. Kaspar’s finger nudged at her opening and she swallowed a cry.
Arno bent close and licked the shell of her ear. “What is your desire, Your Grace?” he asked. “Command me.”
“My breasts,” she said. “Suckle my breasts.”
Arno teased her nipples at first with light flicks of his tongue, but soon, in response to her arching back, pinched one between his lips and pulled, rolling her other nipple between his fingertips. Each squeeze stabbed her belly, pleasure sharp as that of Kaspar’s thick, calloused finger rubbing inside of her. She panted against the knots twisting her insides. “More,” she said.
Arno palmed her breasts and squeezed. She balanced on a web of tension. Kaspar could not reach deeply enough to cut her free. She gasped for air and pushed into his hand, but could not come.
“Arno,” she said. “In the drawer. By the bed. The ivory carving.”
Kaspar looked up. She gestured for him to stop what he was doing. He lifted his head but did not remove his fingers from her quim. His eyes had gone dark, and his forehead was sheened with sweat. She could see her own fluids shining around his lips. He said, “I have used such carvings before, Your Grace. Will you allow me to demonstrate for Arno?”
Camille breathed, forcing her heart to slow its gallop. Slowly, her desperation receded. “You will work together,” she said.
Kaspar bowed, his forehead touching her knee. “I am yours to command.”
The duke had given her the ivory cock in a fit of scorn. She had never used it, from anger at its source and from not wanting to be seen by her maids. Now, it was a further weapon against her husband, providing for her what he did not.
Kaspar took the carving from its drawer and extracted it from its layers of linen wrappings. It looked larger than she remembered, even cradled in Kaspar’s giant hands. “Arno,” she said. “Fetch the oil in the red bottle.”
Arno knew to look in the carved cabinet where her maids kept her bath and massage oils. He then went to the fire and poured heated water from the copper kettle into a bowl, to warm the oil. He carried bowl and bottle to her, and she removed its stopper, a spiral of red glass twisted with blue. “Lay the stopper on the linen,” she said. In the meantime, Kaspar warmed the ivory cock in the water, as well.
“Arno, perhaps you could apply the oil to me, inside and out,” she said. “Kaspar, then show us how you have seen one of these used. Arno will pay close attention, and perhaps take a turn if he finds himself intrigued.”
“And you, Your Grace?” Kaspar asked, with the barest hint of humor.
“I hope to be otherwise occupied,” she said.
Kaspar said, “If you will permit me, Your Grace?” He climbed onto the bed and knelt beside her. He laid the ivory cock on the coverlet and pressed her shoulders, encouraging her to lie back in her nest of pillows. “I will hold the bottle for now,” he said. Arno gave the oil to him and slid onto the bed. He placed his hands on her knees, pressing them apart so he could slide closer. Camille could hear his rapid breathing. She looked up into his face and saw his eyes were wide and dark.
He was afraid, she realized. He was not thinking of what he was doing now, but of what would become of him once she and Kaspar and Sylvie had escaped. He needed encouragement. She signaled Kaspar with her eyes.
Kaspar used his free hand to gently rub Arno’s bare shoulder. He leaned over and kissed Arno’s cheekbone. “Stroke her as you would stroke the petals of a flower.”
Arno said, his hands still cupping her knees, “Would you like that, Your Grace?”
“Yes,” she said. She let her knees fall open another fraction. “You may pour the oil as you wish.”
Kaspar tipped the bottle over her belly. It trickled onto her abdomen and down like the touch of fingers, trickling into the creases between her legs and slicking her mound.
“Now his hands,” she said. Arno cupped his hands as if to receive an offering, and Kaspar bathed his palms in oil.
“Gently,” Kaspar said.
Camille wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but the thought evaporated as Arno laid his hands on her, one hand cupping her mound and the other pressing into her lower belly with a tender pressure like two bodies joined.
She was already swollen from their earlier attentions; Arno’s finger nudged between her lower lips, and her breath caught. “Two fingers,” she said. “Spread the oil deeply within.”
Arno obeyed, his breathing rough but his fingers gentle. Closing her eyes made the sensation