Page 11 of The Education of Ivy Leavold
He lifted me off himself, groaning as he did, and then I was put on my knees. “Believe me, wildcat, I would like nothing more. But you deserve the best. And the best takes time.” He wove his hands through my hair. “Now lick me until I come.”
He didn’t let me orgasm during our ride, but I was able to bear it better, knowing that this exercise between us was something deeper than the parlor games his friends played. I felt it in my marrow, our connection, as we jostled and rolled our way to York, and I knew that I would never see my hunger for him in the same way. This all-consuming passion we felt for each other was almost spiritual, almost holy, and it went far beyond the mechanical needs and rote fumblings of other men and women. Over and over again, he told me how much he loved me, how much his mind craved my mind, how he loved to hear me talk and how he loved to watch me roam outside like a forest sprite. He made me spread my legs and knelt before me, kissing me with fluttering, light kisses until I squirmed in torture, and told me he couldn’t live without me, that we would never spend a night apart so long as we both lived.
I was panting and flushed as the medieval buildings of York began to cut crepuscular shadows through the windows, and by the time we reached our hotel, I was grateful for the oncoming night, which hid my tousled hair and shallow breathing.
The porter brought in our trunks while Mr. Markham arranged for our rooms and for a girl to attend to me, which I protested, but he insisted. “My future wife would have a lady’s maid. And truthfully, I should have seen to it the moment you arrived at Markham Hall. I’m not used to thinking about other people’s needs. But I will take special care to tend to yours.”
And then he flashed a grin, wide and wolfish, and I realized he was very much referencing the need that raged low in my belly.
I put my hand on his arm, feeling shaky and desperate. “How long until we are in our rooms?” I asked. “I can’t be in public like this.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”
“Because—” My voice was carelessly loud and the porter glanced over at me. “Because,” I said again, much lower, “all I can think about is coming. And I’m beginning not to care how or where that happens. I could right now, do you understand? Right here in this hotel lobby.”
He smiled again, but this time he bit his lip in a way that made even more heat surge within me, like he was trying to stop himself from taking me right there and then.
“Julian?”
I turned, seeing a tall man with a striking face and even more striking blue eyes. Carved cheekbones, curved lips, smile lines etched around his eyes and mouth. He’d cut his dark hair short in the week since I’d seen him and he was in expensive evening wear rather than the more casual clothes I’d seen on him before, but I’d still recognize Silas Cecil-Coke anywhere.
“Silas,” Mr. Markham said, extending a hand, stepping out of our intense exchange as smoothly as a person steps from a hansom cab. Silas ignored the proffered hand and gave Mr. Markham a back-clapping hug instead. I saw Mr. Markham tense a little—he was not the kind of personality that invited such brotherly embraces—but his expression was easy enough as the man pulled back. “I thought you were in London with the others.”
Silas gave a one-shouldered shrug. “My elder brother managed to produce another one of those squishy pink things to add to the pile already at Coke Manor. I came up to give a day of the requisiteoohsandahsto the latest usurper standing between me and the bulk of my inheritance.” And then the inevitable grin emerged, bright and sunny. “Damned cute usurper, if I may say so. A little man this time. They named him Silas, after me.” I could tell, despite his deprecation, that he was actually quite the adoring uncle.
“But enough about me. What are you doing in York, you devil? We couldn’t pry you out of Markham Hall last week and now here you are gallivanting about town without us.”
Mr. Markham took my hand. The gesture wasn’t about power or teaching or anything other than the simple desire to show someone close to him that we were linked, together. “I’ve made an offer of marriage to Ivy and she’s accepted. We’ve come to make some further arrangements.”
Silas turned toward me, and I knew the signs of our ride here were as apparent as if they’d been written on my face. My rumpled hair and clothes, my parted and swollen lips, my dilated pupils. I was almost frantic with the need to relieve the hours of pent-up tension, and my mind was beginning to stray to shameful places, and I couldn’t help myself from taking in Silas’s physique—more slender than Mr. Markham’s, but still robust enough in the shoulders and arms to suggest an active lifestyle—and then to imagine him fucking me. HimandMr. Markham fucking me at the same time.
Oh God.I had to get upstairs.
Silas took my hand and brushed his lips against the back of my hand, and even this small amount of contact was enough to make my eyes flutter closed. His grip tightened on my fingers. “Miss Leavold,” he said, his voice sonorous and smooth. “Let me offer my congratulations.”
“Thank you,” I said, barely able to utter the words. My mind was slowly shutting down, it seemed, shedding one layer of civilization and etiquette after another.
“We have only just arrived after our journey,” Mr. Markham said, watching Silas’s fingers wrapped around my own.
Silas let go—reluctantly it seemed—and straightened his jacket. Then he smiled, his mouth curving into an upside-down triangle of mirth. “So Julian Markham is taking the yoke once again. You’ll have your hands full with Julian, let me tell you. Coke Manor was only a few miles away from Markham Hall, and the things we got up to as boys, and then at Eton and at Oxford…”
“I’m sure I’ve already seen the worst of him,” I said, mustering a glare at my fiancé. “I’m confident the future can’t contain any worse.”
And then there was a lull, where a flash of clear-thinking sent the boxes in the back of my mind singing and shouting again, where perhaps all three of us were remembering what had actually been claimed of Julian Markham’s worst behavior.
“Let’s dine together,” Silas suggested, smoothing over the pause. “This hotel has a fine restaurant, and their wine cellar is excellent.”
I shot a look at Mr. Markham. No, we could not accept a dinner invitation, not when he had promised me relief tonight, and it was already late—
“Well, we only just arrived and need to change,” Mr. Markham said.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
Mr. Markham met my eyes. “But we’d be happy to join you.”
“Marvelous! I shall procure us a table and a good bottle.”
“Then we shall see you shortly.”
