“No,” and his face was almost cruel as he pulled himself out. “No, you may not touch me. Put your hands behind your back.”
I was starting to cry again. I felt raw, flayed open with desire, and I hated it. Except I didn’t. Part of me trusted Mr. Markham, trusted that this was something that would feel all the more stunning for the work it took to get there. Part of me lapped up the suffering and the misery, because it was the man I loved giving it to me, and because I knew it was torment for him too, to not to make love to me, to not to give me what I wanted.
And I had asked for all of this, after all.
He fisted his cock and began to rub himself. It was hard and fast—not the leisurely way he’d done it this morning. It was as if this truly were a punishment for me, something to be doled out, not something to be enjoyed. “When we go downstairs to dine,” he said, his face and voice betraying nothing of his activity, “I expect you to be completely obedient. No matter what I ask you to do. Understood?”
I nodded, mute with want, unable to tear my eyes away from the erotic sight of Mr. Markham pleasuring himself, of the way his longer fingers circled the thick, veined shaft, almost vicious-looking and brutal in their grip.
“If you trust me, if you behave, then our lesson in needing can end and I will reward you.” He saw which way my gaze tended. “Is this what you want, Ivy?” he jerked his head toward his erection. “Is this what you want inside of you?”
“God, yes,” I cried. “I don’t care if you want to fuck me in front of all the guests at this hotel, just take me already!”
His mouth twitched, and his dick pulsed, and then he grabbed the skirt of my dress, finishing with four or five long pulls, his seed jetting onto the claret silk.
Another dress ruined, I thought, but I couldn’t bring myself to care about the fabric just then. I only cared that I had been marked once again, claimed, and that while the draped folds of the skirt would mostly hide the stain, I would still know it was there for anyone to see if they wanted.
“I’ll be in you later tonight,” he promised. “And it won’t be quick.” He calmly readjusted himself and his clothing, and like that, it was as if nothing had happened. “Fix your hair,” he said. “We’re already late.”
Ten minutes later, and we were walking arm in arm down the main staircase. Right before we had left my room, he had me spread my legs and brace my hands on the vanity table. My skirt and petticoat were hiked up to my waist, and then he was kneeling behind me, parting my folds with his tongue.
“Just to make sure you’re still ready for the final part of our lesson,” he’d said, and then he’d stoked me to further flame, sucking and licking, his strong hands parting the cheeks of my ass to give him better access. He’d stopped at the very moment of no return, as if he knew my body better than I did, and stood.
“Skirts down, Miss Leavold. It’s time for supper.”
And what else could I
do? I lowered the silks, feeling like his whore, and hating how much I loved it. As we walked, I could still feel the memory of his tongue between my legs. It was agony.
“I’ve no doubt that Silas would like to play with you tonight,” Mr. Markham said as we walked down. “He could barely tear his eyes away from you in the lobby.”
“Oh,” I said, and it was an oh of yes please, please, please, and another memory pushed through my mind, the feeling of Silas’s erection in my hands, of how long and hot and stiff it had been.
Mr. Markham stopped before we reached the dining room and took a stray tendril of my hair between his fingers. “He is invited to help me please you. But,” and here he stopped and faced me entirely, “you have the final say on Silas. I want him to touch you and sample you because it gets me hard knowing how much you arouse other men and that they’ll never be able to fuck you as I do. I think he would make you feel good—he is very skilled. But you are my own, my own wildcat, and if you only want me to touch you, I understand.”
I flushed with the small thread of shame that strung through me, but I was almost beyond shame at this point, and so I admitted, “I would like him to touch me.” A shuddering breath, and then, “Julian, right now I want everyone to touch me. The things I’m thinking about right now—”
“I know, wildcat. And it delights me to know that I have made you like this. And,” he gave me a sudden kiss, his tongue moving against mine, stroking deep into my mouth, “whenever you call me Julian, I get hard. Feel.”
I did, the briefest of movements, since we were, after all, in a busy hotel in one of the largest cities in England. He was indeed hard again, hard as steel. “Ah,” he hissed as my hand brushed by him. “Squeeze it. Squeeze it like you hate me.”
I did, loving how powerful I felt at that moment, making him as inflamed as I was. He sucked in a breath.
“I love you,” he said and then he took me roughly by the elbow and guided me into the dining room, where Silas—and I hoped my release—awaited.
Silas had secured us a private booth near the back of the restaurant, a rich leather affair scooped out of the wall and separated from the other diners by red curtains, which were currently tied back. Mr. Markham gestured for me to slide in first and then he followed, which left me sandwiched between the two men. The warmth from their hips and thighs suffused my skin through my dress, and I couldn’t help the shudder that passed through me when Silas turned to speak and his arm brushed against my own. I kept my eyes down, afraid to meet Silas’ or Mr. Markham’s gaze, afraid that the slightest stimulation would send me whirling out of control.
Glasses of wine were set before us, the waiter came to inform us of our dinner choices—Mr. Markham ordered for me—and I stared at the tablecloth throughout it all, vaguely knowing that it wouldn’t be proper for me to be panting and squirming at the table, but also knowing that I was beyond caring.
Mr. Markham’s hand whispered along the back of my neck. “Ivy has been a very obedient girl today,” he murmured. “Very obedient.”
“Is that so?” Silas asked, and I could tell by the tenor of his voice that he immediately took Mr. Markham’s meaning.
“Tell him, wildcat. Tell him about your day.”
I could not. Words were obscure, foggy things that seemed unimportant, and my hands and legs were trembling; the same tremors were vibrating through my chest and making it impossible to breathe or think normally. All I could think of was unfastening Mr. Markham’s pants—or Silas’s, I was starting not to care about the particulars—and then of mounting one of them, right here in the booth.
Silas laughed. “It must have been quite a day, Miss Leavold. You seem speechless. And I can see the flush creeping up your neck now, as if you were burning up inside. Shall I check and see?”
