Page 14 of The Education of Ivy Leavold
“I—” It came out as a breathy moan, and dimly I remembered that I should be quiet, I should be still, but there was a thumb circling my clit and a finger sliding knuckle-deep into my ass, and then nothing else could possibly exist.
“You what?” Mr. Markham asked.
“I’m going to come,” I managed, trying to make it sound like a warning, but failing because the neediness in my voice betrayed me.
“That’s the idea, darling,” Silas said. “If it wouldn’t have us arrested, I’d pull you onto this table and fuck you as you did.”
“No fucking, Silas,” Mr. Markham said.
“Fine,” his friend sighed. “Then I suppose I would have to watch as Markham fucked you. A shame. You have such a deliciously tight pussy, Miss Leavold. I would love to feel it hot and quivering around my cock.”
It was too much. The sight of them working me—half in tandem, half in competition—their faces casual and placid as they brought me off under the table, the sweet pressure in all the right places…not to mention the entire day hitherto this, of being teased and denied so many times…my hips were rocking even harder now as I tried to ride their hands. My fingers were white from gripping the table edge, and I could feel my breasts swell painfully under my corset. It was coming, that initial wave that would drive me to frenzy, and drive me to frenzy it did, cinching every already tense muscle into a knot of raw physical lust.
“Harder,” I moaned, my head falling back. “Deeper. More, please, I need more.” I didn’t care how loud I was or how obvious my pleasure was anymore. I only needed those fingers to keep doing what they were doing, and then another finger slid into my ass and the circling against my clit redoubled, and then there it was, the peak, the height, and I cried out, my womb knotting and then exploding, sending white lights dancing around the edges of my vision, sending convulsions tearing through my body. They came and came and came, as the two gentleman in dinner jackets buried their fingers in my pussy right there in the restaurant, and I heard Silas mutter, “Christ,” as my channel kept squeezing his fingers, the waves cresting and crashing and cresting again.
“Oh,” I breathed, “oh,” and the convulsions slowly turned into quiet little spasms spaced far apart, until I was slumped against Mr. Markham, feeling drained and weak.
I heard Mr. Markham’s voice rumble through his chest, and then the waiter’s voice, and then Silas’.
“She’s had a fit. The heat, I think, and the exhaustion of the journey. We must see her to her rooms.”
“Of course, sir. Shall I send for the physician?”
“Not yet, but have the staff stay alert for our word,” Silas said, completely seriously. “She may revive yet, but I won’t take any chances.”
Relief swept through me as I heard the table being dragged away—Mr. Markham quickly tugging down my skirt before it did—and then as I felt myself being lifted into his arms, like I really had fainted. I heard the other diners murmuring around us as we walked out, but I kept my eyes closed and limbs limp. Not hard, considering I barely had the energy to move.
“Did you see the looks on their faces?” Silas asked, laughing, after we’d been out of the dining room two or three minutes. “That man in the table across from us—I thought he was going to have a fit of his own!”
“You may open your eyes now, Ivy,” Mr. Markham said.
I obeyed. We were going up the stairs and his face was close to mine as he carried me. His eyes were soft, loving, and his dark hair was burnished into something lighter in the bright lamplight of the hotel. He looked like a man from another time, a highwayman or a lost prince, with the brilliant glass-green eyes and high cheekbones and a mouth that looked like it wanted nothing more than to devour me.
I closed my eyes again. “I can’t believe I did that,” I said, waiting for the embarrassment to flood through me. It didn’t.
“It was beautiful,” Mr. Markham said. “You were beautiful.”
“Every man in that restaurant was adjusting himself as we walked out, and I think even some of the women were fanning themselves,” Silas added. “The dull ones will buy the story of a fit, but any person who’s been properly fucked before will know exactly what they were looking at. And they will love it.”
A door opened. We were finally to our room. “Am I invited in?” Silas asked.
Mr. Markham glanced down at me. “Do you need to sleep? Or do you want more?”
I would always want more. When it came to Mr. Markham, I would alwaysneedmore.
“I don’t need to sleep,” I whispered, and Silas stepped in and closed the door.
Mr. Markham eased me into a chair, then went to ensure that the door was locked. Despite the fierce totality of the climax I’d just had, the fire low in my belly slowly rekindled as I witnessed those two men shrugging off their jackets and unknotting their cravats as they walked toward my chair. Mr. Markham knelt before me, his shirt now open at the throat, showing his rapidly thrumming pulse.
“You are so beautiful,” he said, and he gently tugged off my silk heels, kissing each foot as it was freed. “You learned very well today. You learned to trust me with your desire, no matter how far I pushed. It’s time for your reward. What would you like?”
I looked down at him as he peered up at me through dark eyelashes, his high forehead tilted back in supplication. He was so virile, somale, and seeing him kneeling in front of me sent as much desire spiking through my body as seeing him dominate me. It reminded me that he was more vulnerable than I was, that he was ceding something powerful and precious to me by making me his wife. He may tease me for a few hours out of the day, but his soul was mine to have for the rest of our years.
Perhaps he saw this realization in my eyes, because he laid his head against my knee in a gesture of humility and submission. I stroked through his hair, the thick, dark waves of it, and after a few moments, I used a finger to raise his face up, past my own and to the ceiling.
The long, corded arch of his throat was exposed, and I bent down and kissed it, feeling his restraint and repressed strength as I turned my kiss into a firm, sharp bite. He trembled and his hands twitched around my feet, but he remained still and passive for me, even as the unconscious shifting of his hips told me that his arousal was becoming unbearable. I held my teeth there for several seconds, loving the feel of his wild pulse, the smell of sun and greenery that always clung to him.
I pulled away with one last flick of my tongue dancing across his Adam’s apple, and sat up again, looking down at him like a queen might look down upon a subject.
