I could only look at him, my lips parted, and then his hand stole over my knee under the table, pulling slowly at my dress. Fabric collected in my lap and my legs felt dangerously exposed to the world, even though I knew the floor-length tablecloth hid everything from view, including Silas’ hand, which now slid against my inner thigh. I held my breath, wanting him to go farther but also unsure of Mr. Markham’s reaction.
Mr. Markham continued to touch the back of my neck, playing with the small curls at my nape, watching the drama under the table unfold. “Spread your legs for Silas,” he said, and I did. I spread them as wide as I could, suddenly desperate for Silas, desperate for him to use his fingers, tongue, cock, anything so long as it ended in me climaxing.
His fingers skated past the edge of my stocking and then they were dancing across my center, over and over again. “So wet,” Silas said quietly. “So swollen.” And one finger parted the petals of my pussy, just barely, just enough that he could lift his finger to his mouth and taste me.
“How does she taste?” Mr. Markham asked.
Silas smiled. “Perfect.” His finger returned, this time delving further in, and I pushed myself against it, wanting him to stop teasing and actually touch me.
“How long did you deny her, Julian?”
“Only since this morning.”
“She’s so responsive,” Silas said wonderingly, watching my face as he ran his thumb over my clit. I was actively rocking against his hand now, my hands gripping the table to keep my upper body stable, so that our tableau betrayed nothing to our fellow diners.
“You have no idea,” Mr. Markham said. “You should see her in bed.”
“I would very much like to,” he said. I could now clearly see the hard ridge straining his trousers, a ridge which he was casually rubbing with his other hand. The sight of it was unbearably erotic; Mr. Markham was right. There was something so powerful in seeing how I affected other men, in seeing how badly they wanted me and feeling Mr. Markham’s possessive touch on me all the while.
As if responding to my thoughts, Mr. Markham’s arm moved between the back of the booth and my waist, and then his other hand joined Silas’, caressing my cunt with soft strokes. Their fingers moved in between and around each other’s, sometimes wrestling for access to my clit, sometimes sliding into me together.
I looked down and then I knew it was all but over. Black tailcoat sleeves. Starched white cuffs. Glittering silver cufflinks. And those separate masculine hands fucking my cunt with reverent relentlessness.
“I—” It came out as a breathy moan, and dimly I remembered that I should be quiet, I should be still, but there was a thumb circling my clit and a finger sliding knuckle-deep into my ass, and then nothing else could possibly exist.
“You what?” Mr. Markham asked.
“I’m going to come,” I managed, trying to make it sound like a warning, but failing because the neediness in my voice betrayed me.
“That’s the idea, darling,” Silas said. “If it wouldn’t have us arrested, I’d pull you onto this table and fuck you as you did.”
“No fucking, Silas,” Mr. Markham said.
“Fine,” his friend sighed. “Then I suppose I would have to watch as Markham fucked you. A shame. You have such a deliciously tight pussy, Miss Leavold. I would love to feel it hot and quivering around my cock.”
It was too much. The sight of them working me—half in tandem, half in competition—their faces casual and placid as they brought me off under the table, the sweet pressure in all the right places…not to mention the entire day hitherto this, of being teased and denied so many times…my hips were rocking even harder now as I tried to ride their hands. My fingers were white from gripping the table edge, and I could feel my breasts swell painfully under my corset. It was coming, that initial wave that would drive me to frenzy, and drive me to frenzy it did, cinching every already tense muscle into a knot of raw physical lust.
“Harder,” I moaned, my head falling back. “Deeper. More, please, I need more.” I didn’t care how loud I was or how obvious my pleasure was anymore. I only needed those fingers to keep doing what they were doing, and then another finger slid into my ass and the circling against my clit redoubled, and then there it was, the peak, the height, and I cried out, my womb knotting and then exploding, sending white lights dancing around the edges of my vision, sending convulsions tearing through my body. They came and came and came, as the two gentleman in dinner jackets buried their fingers in my pussy right there in the restaurant, and I heard Silas mutter, “Christ,” as my channel kept squeezing his fingers, the waves cresting and crashing and cresting again.
“Oh,” I breathed, “oh,” and the convulsions slowly turned into quiet little spasms spaced far apart, until I was slumped against Mr. Markham, feeling drained and weak.
I heard Mr. Markham’s voice rumble through his chest, and then the waiter’s voice, and then Silas’.
“She’s had a fit. The heat, I think, and the exhaustion of the journey. We must see her to her rooms.”
“Of course, sir. Shall I send for the physician?”
“Not yet, but have the staff stay alert for our word,” Silas said, completely seriously. “She may revive yet, but I won’t take any chances.”
Relief swept through me as I heard the table being dragged away—Mr. Markham quickly tugging down my skirt before it did—and then as I felt myself being lifted into his arms, like I really had fainted. I heard the other diners murmuring around us as we walked out, but I kept my eyes closed and limbs limp. Not hard, considering I barely had the energy to move.
“Did you see the looks on their faces?” Silas asked, laughing, after we’d been out of the dining room two or three minutes. “That man in the table across from us—I thought he was going to have a fit of his own!”
“You may open your eyes now, Ivy,” Mr. Markham said.
I obeyed. We were going up the stairs and his face was close to mine as he carried me. His eyes were soft, loving, and his dark hair was burnished into something lighter in the bright lamplight of the hotel. He looked like a man from another time, a highwayman or a lost prince, with the brilliant glass-green eyes and high cheekbones and a mouth that looked like it wanted nothing more than to devour me.
I closed my eyes again. “I can’t believe I did that,” I said, waiting for the embarrassment to flood through me. It didn’t.
