Page 17 of The Awakening of Ivy Leavold
“Yes.”
“I will make a note of that.” And then he did something unexpected—he bent his head down and licked along my seam. The feeling was so soft and sent such an electric jolt through me that I gasped. He impatiently pushed my legs further apart and put his tongue to me again, this time concentrating on my clitoris, alternating between pressure and light flicking motions that stirred me into a frenzy.
“You taste so good,” he said in that growling voice of his. “I could do this all day. Would you like me to?”
I nodded. I wanted his mouth on me always. And yet, as I looked down and saw the stiff outline pressing against the front of his pants, I thought I could also happily trade places and spend my days with my mouth on him. The mere thought made me almost wild with desire. My hips bucked, and I ran my fingers through his hair, tugging as he sucked and nibbled and licked.
“How does it feel, Ivy?” he asked.
“Wonderful,” I managed.
He slid a finger inside of me and I couldn’t control the way I pulled at his hair. If it hurt, he made no mention, but the corners of his mouth turned up, as if my wildness pleased him.
“I’m the first to taste you,” he said. “The first to taste this perfect cunt. And it is so perfect, Ivy. So damn perfect. If I had my way, I would fuck it right now with the whole world able to watch.”
“Please.” I could see us in my mind now, see his hard cock pressing into me, and nothing sounded better. “I want you inside of me.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he said roughly and then he bent his head down again. He sucked and teased at my clitoris while his finger slid in and out, finding just the right spot inside of me to make my toes curl and my core clench. I looked down, seeing the top of his head between my thighs, seeing my skirt around my waist like a whore, and then it was over. Just as quickly as it had built, the tension in my body imploded, starting as a series of contractions at my center and radiating out to every digit, every muscle.
Mr. Markham withdrew his finger, pulled back as if to examine his work, and, after giving my pussy one last look, stood up. I stayed where I was, legs still spread, secret parts of me still exposed, and my eyes fixed on his erection.
I reached for it and Mr. Markham let me, closing his eyes as I ran my fingers along it. With a sigh, his eyes sprang open. “Kneel,” he said. I scrambled to my knees, at this point eager to do anything he asked. Eager for more of this type of play. My body burned for it.
He sat down and began unbuttoning his trousers. “Look at me,” he said.
I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his hands, his long fingers slowly but deliberately working the buttons through the buttonholes. “Look at myface, Miss Leavold.”
I did. He drew out his cock and my eyes drifted back down. “At my face,” he reminded me, not so gently.
I looked into his eyes, trying to focus on the way the rain made them shimmer and dance, and not on the fact that his hand was moving slowly, lazily, up and down his rigid length. I couldn’t help it—my eyes dropped again, drinking in the length and thickness of him, and then his other hand was in my hair, jerking my head back.
His eyes searched mine, all while his hand moved faster. “You tasted so good,” he said, his voice betraying no pleasure or exertion as he worked himself. “So sweet. I could stay with my face between your legs all day. Would you like that?”
I couldn’t nod with his hand pulling so tightly at my hair, so I said, “Yes.”
“You are making it very difficult to be a civilized man,” he said.
“I don’t want you to be civilized,” I whispered. I meant it.
He groaned, letting go of my hair and letting go of himself. “This is wrong. I’m taking advantage of you.”
How could I make him see that he wasn’t? That Iwantedthis? I reached out a hand and circled him with my fingers. He made to brush me away, but I used my other hand to stop him. “Just this once,” I said. “This is twice that you’ve given me something, and I don’t like feeling as if I owe you.”
He looked at me, his jaw set, and then he wrapped his hand around mine and guided me, squeezing my fingers and moving them up and down, up and down, until I could see the pulse pounding in his throat and the muscles tensing in his thighs.
He pulled a handkerchief out of his vest pocket. “Look at my face, wildcat.” I did, amazed at how calm and in control he seemed. “Move your hand.”
As soon as I did, he wrapped his own around his cock, the silk handkerchief in between his hand and his skin, and gave a soft breath. He kept his eyes pinned to mine as he brought himself to climax with two precise strokes. I had never seen anything so contradictorily erotic—there he was in the open, bringing himself to orgasm as I watched, yet his self-possession and coolness as he did was just as arousing.
He tucked the handkerchief back in his vest, buttoned his fly and then stood, offering me a hand. “It appears the rain has let up. Shall we brave going back to the house?”
I stared at him. His posture and his tone gave no indication that he had just ejaculated into a square of silk not thirty seconds ago. Something panged in my chest, a worm of fear that he would forget about this, forget aboutme, and pretend this hadn’t happened.
But what could I do? I was completely dependent on his goodwill for everything. I needed Mr. Markham to survive. More than that—something deep within me—my soul or my self or my true mind—needed Mr. Markham’s presence and affection to thrive. I craved his presence, his company, even if it meant that at this moment, I had to bite back the need to somehow claim him or to mark this moment as special. Instead, I took his hand and let him pull me to my feet. He got to one knee and before I could ask him what he was doing, he was gently rearranging my skirt so that the dress fell evenly to the ground. He stood once more and then we walked in the now temperate drizzle back to the house.
It was the day that the guests were to arrive. A man from town delivered my dresses a few hours after breakfast, and when I pulled them out of their boxes, I was entranced by the brilliantly colored silks and satins. I’d never cared much for clothes—when I had so few, such an obsession seemed pointless—but now I felt as if I could die happy. I’d never owned anything as fine in my life as these.
The boxes also contained new corsets, stockings and other underthings. I stroked the silk stockings, wondering how soft they would feel against my skin. I carefully arranged the dresses in the wardrobe’s tray drawers, and then spent the rest of the day gathering more flowers for the parlor and dining room.
