Page 44 of Brutal Serpent

Numbly, I reached for it, feeling my husband’s precum wet on my hands.

“Open it,” he groaned, and I knew he was close.

I opened the purse and held it in front of him.

Base to tip, my hands stretched to cover as much of his cock as I could. His legs tensed further, the tight bands of muscles of his thighs making me feel flushed and heated.

Then his head fell back as he released, filling the silken bag with jets of his strong, milky cum.

Shaking, I released my breath, watching with some dismay as the cum filled up my dusky pink purse, the delicate lace swamped under his flood of his release.

Suddenly I felt a burning rage and I went to snap the purse shut on his cock, but he was always watching—the sharp, clever eyes of my husband---and he wrenched my hand away.

“Naughty puss,” he said, his voice rough.

The congregation moved into the next verse of “How Firm a Foundation.”

“Lick it off your fingers,” my husband ordered, jerking the purse away and putting it back on my lap.

Though most of the cum had gotten in the bag, some of his release still stuck between my fingers and glistened on my thumb.

I risked one glance over at the Viscount, and his eyes blazed at me. His chest was heaving, and I didn’t want to test him.

My head dropped and I tried to inconspicuously suck my sticky fingers. St. Erth tucked his cock back in his pants as I heard Mr. Elton say, “And now turn to the book of common prayer and let us bow our heads for the final benediction, thanking the Lord for the many lessons we have learned today. . .”

There was a sudden rustling silence, and the sharp pop of my thumb as I sucked my husband’s cum off it ricocheted through the church, making me blush in confusion, and cram my hands under my gown.

I was definitely going to hell.

CHAPTER 23

St. Erth

After Sunday services, we met my London friends Lord Sheringham and Mr. Westruther walking along the streets of Rosewood Village. I had totally forgotten that I had offered to house them for a weekend of ptarmigan shooting. They joined us for a cold lunch over at the vicarage, Mrs. Elton insisting we come back for a proper hot dinner soon.

Catherine nodded her head and said all that was most proper, praising the graciousness of the dining room and the cuts of the meat.

I watched her talk, the way a curl of her auburn hair hung artfully over her neck. It was lovely the way her hair was arranged. It was perfectly arranged for me to rip her long locks out of their pins, send them flying, wrap the strands around my fist and yank, pulling her closer to me, onto my lap, under my body, on her knees.

How had I ever thought she was a little unimpressive dab of a thing?

She was a fucking sorceress, a witch, because I burned for myowngoddamn wife all day long.

Her white and rose gown was molded perfectly to her body, the swells of her breasts ripe and enticing, the dress sweeping down her curves.

Even visiting in the sitting room made me ache with need for her.

I couldn’t wait until her belly was swollen, round with my baby. I wanted that evidence that I had claimed Catherine, that she wasminein every way possible.

Everyone she talked to, every person she looked at made me burn with jealousy. When she wrinkled her nose up at a joke, the tiny freckles there crinkling adorably, I wanted to kill the person who made her laugh. When her skin pinked when someone looked at her, I was mad with jealousy.

Those blushes weremineonly.

Catherine was mine. I took her because I could and I fucked her because I could. And because no one was strong enough to stop me.

The sight of Catherine’s little purse, filled with my cum, nestled on her lap, made my cock twitch. Every time her thigh or arm brushed by mine, I burned with lust for her.

Since it was customary for the gentlemen to retire to a different room after a meal, Mr. Elton pointed down the hallway.

---