Page 26 of The Education of Ivy Leavold
His motions were smooth and assured as he lit the fire, using newspaper to light the slender kindling sticks. When the logs finally caught, he set down the poker and turned toward me.
“Go get your engagement ring,” he said, “and bring it down.”
I bit my lip, feeling the first ripple of apprehension mingle with my anticipation. I felt boneless and relaxed and eager for more, but the engagement ring reminded me that Mr. Markham wasn’t finished fulfilling my request to break me. I had fissured his usual control and composure, and I didn’t know what the coming hours would bring, save for him penetrating me in that forbidden place. And even as the thought made my sex pulse with want, it terrified me, this new boundary Mr. Markham was breaching.
I shivered again, not from cold this time, and left the library, straightening my dress as I went up the stairs in case I encountered anybody as I did. I didn’t, although I heard the voices of some maids as they tended to a bedchamber down the hall. I took my ring and returned to the library, where Mr. Markham sat on the sofa awaiting me. He had one arm flung along the back of the sofa and the other lazily stroking his cock, his eyes glued to me as soon as I entered.
“Bring the ring here,” he said, and I obeyed, dropping the ring into his outstretched palm. “Now go lock the door. We are not to be interrupted.”
I realized my hands were shaking as I turned the ornate key in the lock. Was I excited or was I scared?
And given what I had realized about myself—and about us—did it matter which?
I turned and faced him, my fiancé and master, pressing my back against the door. Blood and warmth and want pooled in my core as I watched him watching me. His hand moved slowly over his shaft, which was thick and rigid, and his other hand held the ring, which sparkled in the silver light coming in through the tall windows. He was so magnificent, with his male organ so prominent and demanding, with his long legs and sun-browned hands and square jaw.
“Come over here.”
I did, but I moved slowly, warily. The sex on the road had been stark and raw, an encounter that had soothed something inside of me, his fucking an alchemy that transmuted my days-long torment into a bliss I could’ve never imagined. But I was still nervous about being punished further. I didn’t naturally crave pain or gravitate toward it, anymore than I craved any other illness or injury. I knew Mr. Markham would take care of me, even as he claimed every inch of my body as his own. I knew that everything he did, he ultimately did for me.
But still my steps were slow.
Bluebell, I reminded myself.Bluebell bluebell bluebell.
He watched me with amusement as I came before him and stood in between his parted legs. “Undress,” he said as I shifted my weight.
He had seen me naked so many times before, but somehow this time was different. Perhaps it was knowing what was coming, knowing that I was still being punished. Perhaps it was the look in Mr. Markham’s eyes—stern and arrogant all at once. Or maybe it was the ring that he spun casually in his fingers, the symbol of our promise—the symbol of my decision to stay, despite everything.
I unbuttoned my dress clumsily, shucking it and my petticoat—both liberally sprinkled with mud and leaves from our interlude in the road—and then pulled off my stays and chemise. Off came my boots, and when I reached for my garters, Mr. Markham reached up and stopped me. “Allow me,” he said and leaned forward. I felt his warm breath on the inside of my thigh as he took the fabric gently between his teeth and tugged it down over my knee. He did the same on the other side, and I couldn’t suppress a shudder as he pressed his lips to the sensitive skin on the side of my knee, his mouth hot and soft even through the silk. He leaned back and very deliberately set the ring on the end table, the diamond pointing toward the fire and sending prisms arcing across the thick leather spines of the books.
I stared at it now as he used both hands to ease my stockings down my calves, taking each foot onto his lap as he peeled the silk away, kissing my ankle, and then setting it gently back on the floor.
“You are so beautiful,” he murmured, tracing a long finger from my foot all the way up to my womanhood. “And you are made for fucking.”
I smiled slightly, recalling him speaking those same words on the night we’d first lain together. He slid his hands around the backs of my thighs and up to the curve of my ass, pulling me closer to his face. The sofa was low enough that his nose brushed against my pubic bone, and then he nuzzled his face into me, seeking my heat with his lips and tongue. The moment he tasted me, he made a noise of pleasure in the back of his throat, as if I were a feast he’d been starving for. As if my taste were the single most delicious and perfect thing he’d ever known.
He held me tight against his face, not letting me move, even as my nipples peaked and my clitoris swelled and my hips began jerking of their own accord. He laved and sucked me, sucking on my bud until it felt about to burst, like ripe fruit, licking at my folds until I felt wild with the need for more.
I arched my back and laced my fingers through his hair, tugging on it in sharp yanks I couldn’t control. I rubbed myself against his face shamelessly, all thoughts falling away except for the need to climax, the need to drive his tongue deeper and faster into me. His stubble burned and scratched at the inside of my thighs, a luscious contrast to the soft silky hair twined around my fingers, and as I pictured the chafed red skin of my inner thighs, the way I would look marked and used after he was finished with me, I felt my climax rush in.
“I’m going to come,” I panted, grinding my pussy against his face. “I’m going to—”
He wrapped his hands around my hips and pulled me firmly away from his face. My orgasm hovered like a mirage, shimmering waves that were just out of reach. I cried out, my body fighting to get closer to him, struggling against his iron grip. He looked up at me, his beryl eyes unforgiving.
Unyielding.
“No, Miss Leavold. No orgasm for you just yet, I’m afraid.”
I must have looked incredulous or defiant or both, because his expression changed into something rougher, more implacable.
“Youaregoing to be a good girl while you take your punishment, correct?”
I dug my fingernails into his hands, trying to pry them off my hips. “Not if you’re going to be like this,” I said, my voice protesting and plaintive. I knew I had no power here. I knew that Iwantedto have no power here. But resisting felt so natural, as natural as submitting when Julian’s will finally overcame my own. I dug deeper, no plan except to release his hold on me and maybe bring myself off with my own hand.
He didn’t wince, even though I knew I had broken the skin in a few places. Rather, he let go of my hips and seized my hands in a fierce one-handed grip, tight enough that I had no hope of struggling free, but not quite tight enough to bruise. I tried pulling backwards, leaning my body weight into the effort, while he used his other hand to unknot his tie and slide the fabric from his neck. Once I realized what he had planned, I pulled harder and harder, squirming and twisting to get away, but it was no use. In a matter of seconds, my wrists were bound with silk, and he was standing before me, eyes burning with anger and his member still very erect, the wide tip flaring with unabashed need.
“You are quite the wayward pupil today,” he said, unamused. He laced one hand in my hair, dislodging the pinned braids and twists that I had hastily thrown up this morning, and then dragged me over to the table like a cat by the scruff of the neck. He bent me over the table, pressing my face against the cool, glossy wood.
“You consented to be my student, did you not?” he asked.
