Page 23 of Honey Cut
She flushes. “At Lyonesse, so many of the people I saw were waxed, so I thought…”
I cup her with one hand, and she’s so soft and wet and hot. My thighs are tight; my testicles are pulled hard to my body, aching, aching.
“Mark will love it,” I say hoarsely.
“How do you know?”
“Because I love it.” I lean in and kiss the swell of her pubic bone and then her clit itself. I don’t know how Mark could have left her like this, so slippery and inflamed. It was cruel of him, but then again, when isn’t he cruel?
I moan when I get my first good taste of her. Honey and salt and heaven, and I find her hips with my hands to pull her tight to my mouth, to angle her more, her skirt falling over me until she grabs it and holds it up, her head falling back.
“Fuck,” she whispers, and that word in her rich-girl voice is almost as delicious as her pussy. I’m licking along her petals and into the tight secret they keep inside, and she parts her thighs to ride my mouth.
To think I’d never done this until the yacht, that I hadn’t known until I was twenty-nine the scent and taste and silk of this—but then, of course, I hadn’t met Isolde until then. Perhaps no other cunt is like this; maybe I’m ruined forever.
The sickness inside me, the blossomed obsession, doesn’t mind.
She’s grinding her clit against my tongue, fast and hard, fucking my mouth almost like Mark would, and then I seek out the little bundle and suck. She gasps, hunching over me, still trying to fuck, and my chin is wet and my erection is pushing against my suit trousers. In the middle of it all, our eyes meet.
The world falls away, it’s gone, it’s gone. The planner and Drobny—gone. The wedding gown hanging somewhere nearby, her engagement ring—gone. There is only us, only my open mouth and her wet hole and the slick noises of her using me like she has a right to me. Like a medieval lady using one of her knights while her lord husband is away.
I find a stocking-clad thigh and search out the nerve buried under the muscle—a small push will give her the flare of pain I know she’s secretly craving. Her hips buck the minute I press my thumb into her flesh, her ensuing exhale broken and stuttering, and then I feel the sex-tight muscles shudder and give way. I shove my fingers inside her as I keep my mouth on her clit and give a broken breath of my own when I feel her channel flutter and squeeze around them.
God, if only it were my cock,my bare cock, and I could fill her up until I was dripping right back out of her…
Her body shudders wetly and then, eventually, relaxes around my fingers.
We are still for a moment, and then I withdraw my hand, suck my fingers clean, and pull her thong back up around her hips. She trembles a little as I settle the fabric between her legs and lightly sand my fingertips over where it rests on her hips, her sides jerking a little. She’s ticklish after she comes sometimes.
I muster the strength to stand, to step back as she reaches for me, for the stiff rod beneath my clothes. “We can’t,” I say, even though my entire body is in tumult. “We’ve been in here too long as it is.”
Her chest is flushed under her blouse, and her pulse is still hectic, but I see more of the Isolde I know in her face now, like she’s coming back to herself, to the bladed elegance that normally edges her demeanor.
“You’re right,” she admits in a murmur. She looks away and takes a breath—not deep but controlled. Steadying. “We shouldn’t have done that.”
It is the truth, and still it hurts. Almost as much as it hurts knowing that she doesn’t love me. But Mark doesn’t love me either, I guess, so I should be used to it.
She smooths her hair and her clothes, and I scrub at my face with the back of my tie before buttoning my suit jacket again.
When I hand her the bottle of water and tell her to drink it, she hesitates. Even though she’s clawed back something of her composure now that she’s come, there’s something troubled in the set of her jaw, in the unconscious lift of her eyebrow.
After a moment, I ask, “Is everything okay?”
“I suppose it should be,” she answers. Her voice is pitched low, so it’s hard to tell, but I think I hear uncertainty laced through her words. “Tristan…was Mark married before? Someone named Eliot, maybe?”
I stare at her. Of all the random things she could say…but then again, haven’t I wondered this exact thing? Haven’t I also wanted some kind of insight into the dark fog of Mark’s past?
“Well,” I start slowly, “Sedge said no when I asked, but Mark keeps two rings in his bedside table, and they look…they look like wedding rings. And at Morois House?—”
“Morois House?”
“A family place in Cornwall, buried in the woods. He goes there every year, and there’s a picture of a man who looks like he’s wearing the same watch that Mark wears now.”
Isolde’s forehead creases faintly. “But he’s never spoken of this Eliot to you?”
I shake my head. “Everything I’ve found has been by accident.” Or snooping. “Has he spoken of it to you?”
“No. I overheard him talking to Melody at the engagement party. I think Eliot died. A while ago.” She unscrews the water bottle, staring at the floor. “But why wouldn’tSedgeknow? Why wouldn’t there be records of the marriage?”
