And then he ground my pussy against him, hard and fast, my bud rubbing against him and the head of his cock rubbing against the secret spot deep inside.
His eyes met mine, and his face was uncontrolled—uncivilized even—pure triumph and lust painting his sharp features as he watched me come unraveled. My pussy contracted and then exploded with sensation, vivid release ripping through me, making my back arch so far off the ground that only my shoulders still made contact with road. I writhed against it, trying to ride it out, but I had no control of my body—my hips were still firmly in Mr. Markham’s hands and raised up to his cock as he knelt. He held still as I clenched around him, his eyes fluttering closed. “Ah, fuck. That’s good, Ivy,” he breathed. “You come so good. I can feel it squeezing me.”
And then he drew my hips back and impaled himself in me again, his body staying stationary while he used my sated pussy like the rest of me was inconsequential. Then he abruptly let go, pulling out and fisting his cock, slick and wide and almost purple in its near-climax.
“Show me your cunt,” he ordered and I spread my legs wide. With a muttered fuck, he jerked himself once, twice, violently hard, and a stream of semen shot onto my pussy.
“Now your tits,” he said and his voice was tight with the effort it took to control his orgasm. I hurriedly pulled down my bodice as far as it would go, exposing the tops of my breasts and the barest pink of nipple. Another rough stroke and he marked me there. “Your mouth,” and this was now barely a strangled rasp. I opened wide, and with a long panting breath, he jerked himself to completion, lacing my lips and my neck and my tongue with his ownership.
His cock stayed hard and red, and the lust in his face was barely dimmed as he sat back on his heels and looked at me, skirts above my waist and marked like his property.
“Where do you belong?” he asked.
“Here.”
“Whom do you belong to?”
“You.” And the answer was so easy, so natural, that I couldn’t believe I had fought it these past few days. And his role in Violet’s death—I would worry about that when the time came. For now, all I had to do was revel in his possession of me and my possession of him in return.
He rose from the road, and without bothering to tuck his still-erect dick back into his pants, picked me up and carried me over to Raven, who had been grazing patiently all this time. He climbed into the saddle, then easily lifted me in front of him. I stroked his exposed member as he turned Raven toward home.
“The servants will see,” I said as we rode back into the courtyard.
“I don’t care. I want them to know how hard you make me. Just as when they hear your screams tonight, they’ll know how satisfied I make you.”
True to his word, he dismounted and helped me down into his arms and carried me inside, his cock buried in my skirts and my skirts still tangled with my petticoats.
“About punishing me more tonight…did you mean what you said, in the road?” I asked as we bypassed the stairwell and walked toward the library.
Julian looked at me and then leaned his head down to speak in my ear.
“I meant every fucking word.”
No fire had been lit in the library, as it was midday, but the damp weather seemed to pervade the room, and I shivered as we stepped inside.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
“A little. I’ll be fine.”
He set me down on a damask sofa. “Fine’s not good enough for my wildcat.” He dropped a kiss on my forehead and went to draw up the fire. I watched him as he knelt and laid wood on the andiron, his long legs folded underneath him, his powerful arms straining the fabric of his shirt and jacket.
His motions were smooth and assured as he lit the fire, using newspaper to light the slender kindling sticks. When the logs finally caught, he set down the poker and turned toward me.
“Go get your engagement ring,” he said, “and bring it down.”
I bit my lip, feeling the first ripple of apprehension mingle with my anticipation. I felt boneless and relaxed and eager for more, but the engagement ring reminded me that Mr. Markham wasn’t finished fulfilling my request to break me. I had fissured his usual control and composure, and I didn’t know what the coming hours would bring, save for him penetrating me in that forbidden place. And even as the thought made my sex pulse with want, it terrified me, this new boundary Mr. Markham was breaching.
I shivered again, not from cold this time, and left the library, straightening my dress as I went up the stairs in case I encountered anybody as I did. I didn’t, although I heard the voices of some maids as they tended to a bedchamber down the hall. I took my ring and returned to the library, where Mr. Markham sat on the sofa awaiting me. He had one arm flung along the back of the sofa and the other lazily stroking his cock, his eyes glued to me as soon as I entered.
“Bring the ring here,” he said, and I obeyed, dropping the ring into his outstretched palm. “Now go lock the door. We are not to be interrupted.”
I realized my hands were shaking as I turned the ornate key in the lock. Was I excited or was I scared?
And given what I had realized about myself—and about us—did it matter which?
I turned and faced him, my fiancé and master, pressing my back against the door. Blood and warmth and want pooled in my core as I watched him watching me. His hand moved slowly over his shaft, which was thick and rigid, and his other hand held the ring, which sparkled in the silver light coming in through the tall windows. He was so magnificent, with his male organ so prominent and demanding, with his long legs and sun-browned hands and square jaw.
“Come over here.”
