"Marquis? Are you awake?"

The voice was hushed and hurried, rousing the Marquis' curiosity. In the quickened pace of the voice, he detected Madelaine's sweet accented lilt and he was drawn to it like a cat to prey. His lips pulled into a sly smile. "Who dares rouse the Marquis' senses at such an ungodly hour?" he rasped deliberately. There was no indication of the giggle he'd hoped to incite.

"This is no time for banter, Marquis - I've news of Doctor Royer-Collard and it's not good," Madelaine hissed through the crack of his door.

Madelaine glanced at the empty sweep of the corridor, her heart hammering in her chest. Footsteps echoed distantly, fueling her fear, and she fumbled for her key, almost dropping it against the cold stone before slipping it into the hole. She turned it and spilled into the Marquis' quarters, closing the door behind her. De Sade looked at her with an amused smile from his recliner. "Stop it!" she berated. "This is serious!"

He spread his hands in an innocent flourish. "I'm merely admiring the view," he commented. "You did, after all, forget to dress," he smirked.

Madelaine looked down and squealed, crossing her arms tightly against her chest. She was indeed only wearing a flimsy nightgown.

"All for me?" the Marquis resumed, his hand falling against his thigh, rubbing the fabric of his trousers. "I'm touched."

"I hurried here as soon as I heard ..." she stuttered, glaring at him murderously as she primly ambled toward where the Marquis hung his overcoat. She wrapped it over her shoulders and tried to calm her shivering. "Doctor Royer-Collard is scheduling your torture tomorrow. The calming chair ..." she murmured. "Nothing but a barbaric instrument to quench your skills, Marquis."

The Marquis waved his hand. "Fear not, my coquette, and be assured that none of the good doctor's techniques, advanced or otherwise, will help quench *my* desires." His chin lowered and his eyes scintillated with dark mercury as he patted his lap. "Now come here and let me tame that anxiety from you."

"I hardly think this is time for-"

"Madelaine. For all you know, my lips will be silenced for eternity tomorrow. My fingers ripped at the bones ... my body bled of the ink I've so recently lacked." His head tilted, the spill of his withered wig falling in curls at his shoulder. "Do you not owe me one last night of pleasure?" His eyes brightened. "Wouldn't that be ever so romantic?"

"Romantic?" she spat. "What do you know of romance?"

"Enough to capture your greedy curiosity, pet. Enough to lure you in my room night after night, pleading with each breath for more, more, more ..." he whispered sensually. Madelaine realised the Marquis had left the couch and was crawling the small distance between them. "Isn't that what you crave?" He paused long enough to grab a wayward splinter left from the rough handling of his furniture. He slipped it in his mouth, as a tailor might hold a needle, and stopped at her bare feet. He kissed the top of her toes, a cackle in his throat. "Don't deny it," he murmured, cradling her ankles as he slipped his hands up her calves, admiring her young flesh, his eyes closing in orgasmic delight as he traced her curves.

Madelaine held the overcoat tightly about herself, squeezing her eyes shut at the sensations that threatened her reason. She squirmed when the Marquis lifted the skirts of her nightgown. She sighed when he lavished her thighs with his lips and tongue.

"Pleasure, Marquis? What sort of pleasure?" she gasped.

"I've surpassed the orgies of my youth," the Marquis groaned softly, rising to slip her nightgown over her head, pulling the overcoat off and baring her completely to him. "I've a more delicious pleasure in store for you, coquette. Lie down," he instructed seductively, curling his palm around the small of her back. "On the cold stone ... spread your legs ... lie still ... you'll be my finest work, my pet," he whispered, his hand combing her hair back.

"Work, Marquis?" Madelaine breathed, her naked breasts rising and falling with her excitement.

"Oh yess ..." he hissed, taking the splinter and impaling it deeply in a vein in his forearm. "It'll be long work ..." he winced. "Long ... hard work," he murmured, bending over her. He touched the wet splinter on her throat and scraped it down, enjoying the way she moved under him, adoring the clean line of his dark blood it left behind. "You'll be a masterpiece," he grinned, turning the line into a cursive.

And long into the night the Marquis wrote, from the tip of Madelaine's fingers, over the curves of her thighs, down her quivering abdomen, within a parted thigh ... and his hands roamed over her flesh, sensitizing her body, inciting a pleasure in her far greater than any sexual mechanics could ever achieve.

It was not love, but it was the closest the Marquis would ever approach the elusive sentiment for another being other than himself.