It must have been her chest, and Mr. Markham must have saved it. Not only saved it, but stored it under his bed, as if he didn’t want anyone to find it. And the box gleamed and shone; it wasn’t dusty. It was dragged out frequently then, dragged out and its contents lovingly viewed and cataloged. My heart squeezed at this unexpected devotion he showed his first wife.
“I’m growing impatient,” he said darkly.
I turned away from the bed—and its tragic box—and brought the dress over to him, painfully aware of how tight my nipples were, how heavy my breasts felt as I crawled.
He sat still, as still and as composed as if he were at a formal dinner, his elbow braced on the arm of the chair and his head braced against his fingers as he watched me. But at formal dinners, men didn’t sit with their trousers open, their rigid dicks standing at attention, pre-cum glistening at the top. But even as it throbbed, even as I saw Mr. Markham’s pulse thrumming in his neck, he made no move to touch himself. He only watched, with hunger, as I presented my old dress to him.
“Spread your legs, Ivy,” he said.
I did, feeling the thick hand-knotted rug slide against my knees, feeling the cool air kissing the wetness along my center. The ache inside of me tripled, and then tripled again as Mr. Markham impatiently kicked my knees further apart. His cock pulsed, but still he refrained from touching it. I watched as a small droplet of pre-cum oozed down the silky underside of his dick, wanting nothing more than to lick it off, to lick him until he finally, finally, finally lost control.
“Not yet, wildcat,” he said, guessing at the look on my face. But I couldn’t look away from that part of him. It was so magnificent, so beautiful, and all I could feel was the emptiness in my cunt where it should be, stroking and rubbing me from the inside out. I wetted my lips and leaned forward and then my jaw was caught in his fingers, not bruisingly hard, but hard enough that a shiver of possession shuddered through me.
“I said, not yet.”
I tore my gaze away from his cock and met his eyes. They were as they always were—coolness warring with passion, pain warring with pleasure. Torture and guilt and shame, underscored by desires that he would never be able to deny himself.
Those eyes searched mine, asking questions and demanding answers.
Can I take from you?
Yes. Please, God, yes.
Satisfied, he let go of my jaw. “Are you wet?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Show me. Touch yourself.”
Without hesitation, I ran my fingers over my clit, sucking in my breath as I did. I was already so aroused, so swollen, that I knew it would only take a moment’s work to bring myself to climax. I pressed my fingers against it once more, circling and circling as hard and as fast as I could, my core already beginning to clench.
Mr. Markham caught my wrist in his hand. “No,” he said sternly. “This is not for you.”
My lips parted in surprise. He had, of course, denied me pleasure often in the past, but now that we were to be married, surely those obstacles that had held him back before were removed?
I should be upset, I realized. I should be furious. But God, that stern voice, that command. That implication that I was only here to be used, to be an instrument to bring him satisfaction.
It made me more aroused than ever. I trembled with the need for release, my nipples painfully peaked, my breath now shallow and panting.
“Put your fingers inside,” Mr. Markham said slowly, deliberately, as if talking to a servant. “Put them all the way in.”
I complied, unable to stop the small whimper that escaped me.
“Now pull them out.”
I moaned now, missing even the paltry stimulation of those two fingers.
“Hold them up so I can see.” He examined my fingers in the muted light, turning them this way and that, acting oblivious to the way I was spreading my legs even farther, trying to grind myself against my heel, the floor, anything. He sucked my fingers into his mouth, licking and voracious, and the sensation of his tongue flicking across my fingertips was enough to drive me mad.
He removed them from his mouth, but kept them pressed against his lips. “In my heaven, Ivy,” he said, “there is no food to eat, but only your pussy. When I taste you, I know that I’ve tasted salvation. Now place your hands on my knees. You are not allowed to touch yourself under any circumstances.”
“Please,” I croaked. “Mr. Markham, please.”
“Shh. Quiet. Watch.”
He took the dress and wrapped the soft fabric around himself. “This is where your tits were, Ivy. Where they were rubbing against the dress. Do you know that the night you came here, after we spoke, I came to this very room, to this very chair, and pulled out my cock? It was already hard—it had been hard from the moment I held you
r wrist in my hand and felt the delicate skin there. I could feel your pulse, your very lifeblood, so close to the surface as I held you.” His hand moved slowly up and down his shaft, rubbing the cotton against himself. The wide crest of his crown appeared and disappeared, and damn how I wanted it inside me.
