“Please,” she purred. “At least let me make you come.”
Fuck, that was tempting. But no.
“The hour’s up. Pull on your petticoats and dress and go fetch George. I would, but…” I glanced down at my tented trousers. “I don’t want Bessie to get the wrong idea.”
A giggle—pure, wild, unladylike—escape
d from Ivy’s mouth, and I thought my heart would crack open with loving her so much. She was almost back.
Julian made good on his word. He didn’t deprive me of his presence, but after George fell asleep and was placed in his cradle, Julian pulled me into bed and wrapped his strong arms around me, a gesture both loving and utilitarian—I couldn’t move my arms to touch myself or him.
And even though his erection threatened to scorch an outline of itself against my ass, he didn’t grind against me or make any move to seek relief for it. Instead, he buried his face into my neck and fell asleep, his warm, heavy breaths so intimately, wonderfully male, that I found myself smiling as I too drifted off.
But however intimate our sleeping snuggled together was, it was a paltry substitute for what I really needed, and I woke up the next morning to a hand grabbing my wrist. I opened my eyes to see Julian above me, George cooing on his hip.
My husband’s face was stern, and I realized that I had been about to touch myself in my sleep. “Do I need to keep a watch on you at all hours, Mrs. Markham?” he muttered.
I sat up and he let me go. “Sorry,” I murmured, reaching for the baby, who started babbling happily as soon as I took him and began the familiar motions of opening my gown.
Julian himself was only half-dressed, wearing only his trousers, and I guessed that he hadn’t been awake for very long. “What are our plans for today?” I asked, eagerly, hoping they involved the nurse coming early.
He shrugged on his shirt, the muscles of his stomach and chest and shoulders moving in a way that reignited everything in my core. “We will have our hour together at supper time.”
“Not until supper?”
He grinned as he buttoned his shirt. “Are you so impatient?”
“Yes,” I said empathically. “I am. What I am I supposed to do all day until then?”
“You’ll find something, I’m sure.” His face darkened. “Although, I will know if you’ve misbehaved, so bear that in mind, wildcat.”
I shivered.
After the baby was finished nursing, I set him on the floor with his rattle and I approached Julian, who’d already laid out my clothes for the day, and I let him dress me. Today, his fingers were efficient and direct—no lingering, no grazing, no teasing. And somehow, that aroused me even further, the brush of his knuckles on my back as he pulled me into my corset, the brief touch of his palms on my shoulders as he spun me around. The rough tug of his fingers in my hair…
He leaned in to kiss me, and his lips barely touched mine before he pulled away.
I wanted to sob at the unfairness of it all.
The day was miserable. There was no way around it; out of all the miserable days I’d endured in my lifetime, this was in the top ten. George, at least, was as easy as ever, and I finally contented myself with spending the day splashing with him in the shallowest part of the stream, where he could sit in my lap and grab at the water with his dimpled fists and squawk at any birds foolish enough to land near us.
The hours dragged on and on, my thoughts only about Julian, about being bent over the dining room table with his cock in my ass; about his deep, graveled voice in my ear, daring me to say my safe word; about his knee on my back as he laced up my corset.
And then, thank God, it was time to get ready for supper. I took a quick bath and washed my hair, and changed into one of my nicest gowns—a deep scarlet silk that was almost black in places—and a ruby and diamond necklace Julian had given me on the day George was born.
I gave George an extra squeeze as I handed him off to Bessie, and then I practically sprinted to the dining room, where I found…the butler.
I stopped short, breathing fast, as Wilson bowed. “Mr. Markham has requested that you join him on the fourth floor.”
Oh thank God. He hadn’t forgotten or deliberately delayed this very, very necessary interaction. I gave a quick nod to the butler and then hurried up the stairs of the central tower, up to the rarely used fourth floor, which was nothing more than a square stone room hung with tattered tapestries, drafty in the winter and broiling in the summer.
When I arrived, Julian was standing by the window—an ancient thing of wavy, thick glass—the pink and orange light of the sunset coloring him into a vivid chiaroscuro painting. “Mrs. Markham,” he said, turning toward me. “I have something I want to show you.”
He extended his hand and I took it, and we walked over to a tapestry, which he pulled aside to reveal a thick wooden door, a door so old that looked like it belonged inside of a fairy tale castle. He pushed it open, and then we were in a small, narrow stairwell that led straight up, and when we reached the top, he pushed open a trapdoor, and we emerged at the very top of Markham Hall, standing among the crenellations that could be so easily seen from the village and the forest.
“This is amazing,” I breathed, moving over to the parapet to look out over our land.
“You’re amazing,” he said, coming behind me and wrapping his arms around my waist. “And you’re mine.”
