“And now he’s grabbed her hips and pushed himself inside of her.”
Molly’s moans filled the parlor. I could hear the noises of others—heavy breathing, groans, and the sound of skin on skin.
“Everyone has joined in now,” Mr. Markham said softly. I turned towards him.
“Shall we?” I asked.
“No, Miss Leavold.” But his voice was ragged. Losing control.
“Please,” I said. “Please…just a little bit.”
“No.” This time his voice was more forceful. He picked me up once more and carried me out of the room.
“Where are you taking me?” I demanded. He had stirred me once again, right after that first climax, and my body clamored for more. I wasn’t finished yet. I squirmed and kicked to get down, and then I was pinned up against the wall, the wooden paneling cold on my bare back.
“What are you doing?” I breathed, feeling every line of his body through his clothes, feeling his hips pressed against mine.
He didn’t answer, but his lips were on my neck, hot and scorching, and then he reached down and unbuttoned his trousers. He hooked an arm around my leg, raising it up, and then I could feel the hot length of his cock pressing against me, hard and urgent.
I slid my hands through his hair and then pulled his head back so that I could kiss him. The blindfold kept everything in complete darkness—reducing everything to sounds and touch—but that was all I needed, because at that moment, the head of his cock pressed up against my folds, and I thought I would never need any other sensation again. I could live forever with only this feeling—the blindfold silky against my eyes, his dinner jacket soft on my breasts, his wide crown slowly, oh so slowly, pushing in, caressing me, separating me.
“Oh, wildcat,” he moaned, his head buried once again in my shoulder. “Oh, God. You feel so good. Make me stop. Make me stop.” He pushed further in and I gasped.
“Don’t stop,” I begged.
We stayed there for a long moment, me pinned against the wall, his breath against my neck, his cock barely inside of me. I could feel every heartbeat, every pulse, and all I wanted was for him to finish it, to thrust all the way inside, and fuck me against this wall, right where anyone in the house could see.
With a throaty exhalation, he pulled away, his lips leaving my neck, his hips parting from mine.
“No,” he said again, and he finally sounded in control of his voice. “I can’t.”
I had a litany of protestations, of reasons why it was okay and right even, but then I felt the blindfold removed from my face. I looked at him for the first time in an hour, seeing the flush to his cheeks and the brightness to his eyes. He’d buttoned his pants once more, but a rigid outline was still visible. I reached for it but he grabbed my wrist.
“Go to bed,” he said.
“I’m not ready.”
He was breathing hard still, but his voice was steady as his eyes burned into mine. “Shall I wrestle you to bed, then?”
I didn’t answer, because I knew the answer was apparent in my face and eyes and in the way I arched my back to press against him. He let go of me and took a step back.
“Goodnight,” he said, and then he left me, naked and wanting, in the hallway.
I woke early that next day, before the sun, before any of the guests—some of whom were still in the parlor, sleeping in a tangled mess of limbs and silk. My heart pulled remembering last night; it had been both delicious and painful.
I only knew one thing—I had to see Mr. Markham. I had to talk to him, had to touch him. He’d invaded my dreams and my waking mind—a thought would arise, only to be chased away by the memory of his lips on my skin, of his hardness slowly pressing inside of me. It was like a disease, falling in love with him, and it made me apathetic and anxious all at the same time.
I went down to the kitchen to find an early breakfast. Wispel was grumbling around a table, gathering eggs and onions into bowls. “No doubt going to sleep late again, not so much as a hint as to when they’ll want breakfast, and I’m not a magician, I can’t pull a full breakfast out of thin air at a whim.”
Whether she was complaining to me or I had simply arrived in the middle of an ongoing soliloquy, I didn’t know.
“Would it be okay if I had something to take with me for breakfast? I’m thinking of going outdoors to eat.”
Wispel shook her head. “You and the master, both up hours before the others, both wanting separate meals. There’s only one of me, you know, at least until the village girls get here to help with luncheon and supper.”
“Mr. Markham is already awake?” My heart jumped. I might be able to see him, alone and apart from any of the others. “Is he still in the house?”
“He also wanted to be outside. I think he had a letter to post in the village. Couldn’t get his valet to do it, like a normal master, oh no.” And despite her grumbling, Wispel pulled together a bundle of warm bread and hard cheese and two hardboiled eggs.
