What if the warm light of day had exposed how fragile our promises last night were? What if she was struggling for a way to tell me that she couldn’t possibly stay with me?
She looked up, tears clinging to her long eyelashes. And that’s when I saw my unfinished, unsent letter in her lap, turned to the last page.
My face burned with shame. “I never meant for you to see that,” I mumbled, reaching for the papers.
She held them fast, tears continuing to fall. “Silas, you never told me…so many of the things in here…”
I burned even more, ashamed to have my unfiltered thoughts and feelings exposed with no warning, and also not a little frightened that she was angry with me. I said things in that letter that I would have never spoken out loud; it was a letter composed entirely out of my own need for catharsis, not a missive expounding sentimentally on my love. There were sections where I railed against her, sections where I railed against myself, long sections where I detailed precisely all the things I wanted to do to her body. Lust and anger and grief and wonder twisted together in its scribbled paragraphs, layers of emotion that even I—the author—wouldn’t be able to precisely pick apart.
But Molly didn’t stand up and slap me. She didn’t demand to leave this instant. Instead, she rested her head against my hip, tears still streaming quietly down her face.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “It was—I was never going to send it. But I had to write it.”
Her hand slid around the back of my leg as she hugged my body closer. “I’m not angry, Silas. I’m sad that I hurt you and I’m sad that you’ve hurt me and most of all, I’m sad that you didn’t say all of this to me last year.”
I stroked her hair. “You’re not angry with me?”
“No. Far from it. I’m amazed. You love me so much. I could feel it in every word of the letter, even the irate ones.”
“I love you,” I said savagely. “I love that you’re mine.”
She nodded against my hip, nuzzling her face in the place where my thigh met my groin, and despite the marathon fucking of last night, despite the completely inappropriate context, my cock stirred to life, thickening and lengthening in my trousers.
I meant to say sorry again, but the word died on my lips as Molly rubbed her tear-stained cheek against my erection.
Shit.
That shouldn’t turn me on. That was wrong.
But I knew by now that the man I was with her was wrong in all senses of the word, and that fighting it was pointless.
“Take it out,” I said.
She eagerly complied with my order, frantic hands parting the front of my pants and drawing out my cock, already full-hard. And then she did something that made my toes curl against the tiled floor of the villa: she reached one slim hand even deeper into my trousers and cupped my balls.
“Holy fuck,” I whispered as she tugged my pants down farther and then started licking at my balls, sucking and nibbling and then pulling them into her mouth one at a time, the hot suction practically making my eyes roll back in my head. Her tongue swirled and darted, until she had worked her way to the base of my cock.
I dug my fingers into her hair. “Open up,” I commanded hoarsely, and she did, parting her mouth and looking up at me with a look that was obedient and yet not at the same time.
The moment my crown touched her lips, I lost all semblance of control, holding her head as I roughly slid the rest of the way in, only stopping once I hit the back of her throat. As I drew my erection back out, she dragged the flat of her tongue against the sensitive underside, making me groan.
“Fuck, Molly. Just. Fuck.”
I pushed back in again, pushing a little farther this time and forcing her throat to open to me. I could feel her nose against my stomach, and it was possibly the most erotic thing I’d ever felt. I pulled out and then began fucking her mouth in earnest now, loving the feel of her plush lips and that naughty tongue, her involuntary noises, and yes, even loving the occasionally graze of her
teeth.
“I love fucking your mouth, doll. You look so pretty like this. My pretty girl.”
She moaned around me, and I lost it. I yanked her head back and fisted my cock, my hand flying hard and rough over my shaft.
“My. Pretty. Girl,” I grunted, and then it came, the warm lashes of seed across her perfect face, and I grunted more obscenities though it all, thinking about her filthy mouth, about how I was going to make her suck my balls every morning right before I fucked her perfect little ass.
The thing about Molly was that even standing with my hand in her hair and my cock in my hand and her face covered with my seed, I still didn’t feel sated. Not in the least.
Sending up a quiet prayer of thanks for Bertha and the servants for being around to care for the children, I scooped my woman into my arms and carried her to the bed, flipping her skirts up to her waist the moment I dropped her there and burying my face between those slender, freckled legs.
Six Weeks Later
