Nell considered his words for several seconds. She rather thought that she disliked the comtesse intensely and that she didn’t want to be at all like her—and then she thought, What does Cécile matter? She’s long gone. What mattered was Mordecai Black, who’d shown her his virile member and who’d said that he didn’t mind if she watched him deal with its ache—and she did want to watch, most desperately. She hesitated, and bit her lip, and said, “Are you certain you wouldn’t mind?”
“I’m certain.”
“I would mind,” Nell confessed. “If it were me.”
“Of course you would,” Black said. “You’ve never done it before, let alone with an audience. But I’ve done it many hundreds of times, and, ah . . . an audience can make it more piquant.” His blush deepened, as if this admission was something to be em
