The Wedding of Molly O'Flaherty (12 page)

A place to be safe and cared for. A place to be unconditionally worshipped. A place to be her nakedest, rawest self.

Corset and chemise divested, she stood in only her stockings and heeled boots. “Bend over and brace your hands on the arms of the chair.”

With only the barest hesitation, she did as I asked.

“Worried someone will see you?” I asked as I unfastened my pants. I didn’t bother to undress myself any further, simply freeing my cock and fisting it as Molly bent at the waist and spread her legs.

Shit. If there was a more gorgeous sight than a redhead bent over and presenting her pussy for me, then I didn’t know what it was.

“I’m not worried,” came her voice. “If you want me to be seen, then I will be. If you don’t want me to be seen, then you’ll make sure it doesn’t happen. I trust you.”

Those words dug into me in the best sort of way, and I closed my eyes, pressing the flat of my palm against her spine. “Good,” I rasped. “It’s good that you trust me.”

Opening my eyes, I let go of my erection to cup her cunt. It was hot. So hot, and…

“So wet,” I managed, my erection now a thing of needy, insistent stone. I was so hard it hurt, so hard for
her
and that tight cunt, and it had been so long. And it was
her fault
that it had been so long. Angry lust, bitter arousal, took hold of me. “Have you been wet all this time, Molly?”

“Since you took my hand in the courtyard. Please, Silas.” She pressed back into my hand, seeking friction. “God, please touch me.”

My hand cracked against one smooth ass cheek. “That’s not how this works, buttercup. I use you, not the other way around. I’m so fucking angry with you right now, and I’m going to punish you until I’m satisfied you’ve learned your lesson.”

I could tell by the way she shuddered and her cunt grew hotter and more swollen that this idea aroused her immensely. Of course, we both knew, deep down, that my growling orders and dark assertions were coupled with the certain knowledge that I would make sure she had just as much pleasure (if not more) than me. That was the topsy-turvy beauty of dominance and submission, something Castor and Julian had tried to explain to me several times but I’d never really understood.

Until now.

Until tonight, with the woman I loved panting and whimpering as I used both hands to spread her cheeks apart, exposing that glistening cunt and tight, pink asshole. I leaned over to give both several hot, messy open-mouthed kisses, and then I stood again, slapping her ass for good measure and smiling wickedly at the yelp she gave.

I placed the flared tip of my cock against her entrance and left it there, loving the way it looked, my cock slowly pressing inside. I reached over to the table and found a small silver ewer containing the oil meant to be eaten with the herbed bread I’d brought out for Molly’s dinner. She gasped as I drizzled it down her ass and onto her pussy, making my shaft slippery and slick in the process.

And then I thrust home, driving her up onto her toes. I followed her, stepping closer and forcing her to bend down at an even steeper angle, fucking her mercilessly. “Does it hurt?” I asked her. “I want it to hurt. Like you fucking hurt me. I will break your body like you broke my heart.”

She groaned at that, wriggling her ass back into me.

The oil made everything impossibly slick and slippery, and it took no effort to drag my thick cock out of her tight pussy and then ram it in again. Which I did repeatedly.

“Yeah,” I grunted, wrapping one hand tightly around her hip as the other stole down to the small pleated entrance that I really wanted. “That’s so fucking good, Molly.”

I pressed the pad of my finger against the firm, thin skin of her asshole and the oil made it so that it just slipped right inside. She gasped again, and I never stopped stroking myself with her pussy, I simply slid a second finger in her ass and then teased and prodded and thrust until her ashamed gasps gave way to something needier. More primal.

“I’m going to fuck your ass now, and you’re going to come when I do. The servants might see.” I reached for the ewer once again, slathering her ass and my dick in even more oil. “They might be watching right now, especially the men who stay at the edges of the property. They work the lavender fields. They’re young men, strong men. Maybe I’ll let them have a turn with you, hmm? Maybe we’ll just leave you here covered in oil, and force you to come over and over again, on cock after cock, until you can’t stand any more. Sluts do that, Molly. Would you like to be a good little slut tonight?”

“Oh God,” she whispered, trembling. “Oh God.”

I pulled out of her cunt and pulled my fingers out of her ass. And then my crown was right there, pressed against that spot that haunted my fucking dreams, and then she opened to me, oh so slowly, squeezing the head of my cock until I thought it couldn’t possibly be squeezed any more, until I thought I would come that very instant, and then I was in.

“So fucking good,” I muttered as my dick slowly disappeared between her cheeks. “Needed this. God, I needed this. Going to come so hard.” It was so difficult to think coherently when my entire shaft was being clenched by her luscious ass.

“It’s so big,” she whimpered as I worked my way up to the hilt. “Hurts.”

“It doesn’t hurt me,” I said, knowing it was cruel. But despite my harsh words, I was already gentling her legs and her lower back right now, dropping one hand around to find her clit and rubbing it gently, so that her moans of discomfort slowly shifted into something more amorphous. The kind of discomfort that felt so strangely good that you didn’t want it to stop.

And I wouldn’t have a problem with never stopping. Her ass was the hottest, slickest fist, it was the tightest, dirtiest channel, and my balls were so tight and heavy with the need to come inside of her. I reached up and laced one hand into her hair, yanking her head sharply up and forcing her to arch her back and curve upwards. And my other hand found her nipples—hard little furls—and I pinched them each in turn.

“I fucking love your tits,” I told her. “And your ass. I fucking love having you bent over and humiliated for me.” She shuddered again and I knew she was seconds from coming. I dropped my hand and spanked her clit several times in rapid succession, and with something between a sob and a shriek, she came, her ass gripping me even tighter than before.

“Yeah, that’s it,” I muttered, looking down to watch my cock move in and out of her ass. “Make me come, Molly.”

Her thigh muscles were seizing and fluttering against my legs and her hands were clenched around the chair and her cries echoed off the portico floor. And then she reached back and found my hand, squeezing it tight as a second orgasm chased her first, wracking her body and tugging hard on my cock like nothing I’d ever felt before.

But it was the clasped hands, like she needed me to anchor her pleasure, like she needed reassurance that I was here with her to keep her safe and loved while she fell over the edge—that’s what clawed up from the base of my spine, an undeniable and primal need to mate, to fuck, to shove my cock deep in her ass and shoot hot jets of cum inside of her darkest, dirtiest place.

I fucked her as it ravaged up through my balls, fucking her so hard that she fell forward and I fell with her, mostly breaking her fall, but still sinking my cock deep into her ass as we both landed on the ground, her on her stomach and me on top.

“Here it comes,” I growled. “That’s it—
fuck
, that’s it—”

I drove mercilessly down into her ass as the first pulse of cum shot into her, down and down and down and she was coming again, but all I felt was her tight entrance and the heat of my semen and the delicious, plump globes of her ass pressing against my groin as I fucked and fucked and fucked, like a brute that couldn’t get enough.

It was impossible to get enough.

I finally, finally stilled, sweat dripping from my face, my body reeling from the aftershocks of the best climax I’d ever had. Braced up on my hands, I dipped my head low to hers. “I love you,” I said quietly. “Are you okay?”

She tilted her face up to me and gave me a smile so rare and so sunny that I was instantly hard again. I flipped her over and started kissing her, fucking her ass once more—slowly and sweetly now—as I played with her clit and her pussy, and we were both once again lost to each other under the stars.

That night, there were baths and more fucking and more kissing and then more fucking again, and when I woke up late the next morning, my dick hurt in all the best ways. I rolled over to find Molly and bury my face in her cinnamon-scented neck, but she wasn’t there.

Blinking and yawning, I sat up, for a moment entertaining the unfounded panic that she’d left abruptly last night after I’d fallen asleep, or that—worse—it had all been some sort of grief-induced hallucination.

But no. When my room finally came into view, I saw Molly in a fresh dress of ivory linen sitting at my desk, framed in a honey-gold square of autumn sunlight. Tears tracked down her face as she stared into her lap, and I was up out of bed in a second, my heart pounding with fear.

“Darling, what’s wrong?” I asked, not stopping to pull on anything other than the loose unbuttoned trousers I’d fallen asleep in.

What if the warm light of day had exposed how fragile our promises last night were? What if she was struggling for a way to tell me that she couldn’t possibly stay with me?

She looked up, tears clinging to her long eyelashes. And that’s when I saw my unfinished, unsent letter in her lap, turned to the last page.

My face burned with shame. “I never meant for you to see that,” I mumbled, reaching for the papers.

She held them fast, tears continuing to fall. “Silas, you never told me…so many of the things in here…”

I burned even more, ashamed to have my unfiltered thoughts and feelings exposed with no warning, and also not a little frightened that she was angry with me. I said things in that letter that I would have never spoken out loud; it was a letter composed entirely out of my own need for catharsis, not a missive expounding sentimentally on my love. There were sections where I railed against her, sections where I railed against myself, long sections where I detailed precisely all the things I wanted to do to her body. Lust and anger and grief and wonder twisted together in its scribbled paragraphs, layers of emotion that even I—the author—wouldn’t be able to precisely pick apart.

But Molly didn’t stand up and slap me. She didn’t demand to leave this instant. Instead, she rested her head against my hip, tears still streaming quietly down her face.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “It was—I was never going to send it. But I had to write it.”

Her hand slid around the back of my leg as she hugged my body closer. “I’m not angry, Silas. I’m sad that I hurt you and I’m sad that you’ve hurt me and most of all, I’m sad that you didn’t say all of this to me last year.”

I stroked her hair. “You’re not angry with me?”

“No. Far from it. I’m amazed. You love me so much. I could feel it in every word of the letter, even the irate ones.”

“I love you,” I said savagely. “I love that you’re mine.”

She nodded against my hip, nuzzling her face in the place where my thigh met my groin, and despite the marathon fucking of last night, despite the completely inappropriate context, my cock stirred to life, thickening and lengthening in my trousers.

I meant to say
sorry
again, but the word died on my lips as Molly rubbed her tear-stained cheek against my erection.

Shit.

That shouldn’t turn me on. That was
wrong
.

But I knew by now that the man I was with her was wrong in all senses of the word, and that fighting it was pointless.

“Take it out,” I said.

She eagerly complied with my order, frantic hands parting the front of my pants and drawing out my cock, already full-hard. And then she did something that made my toes curl against the tiled floor of the villa: she reached one slim hand even deeper into my trousers and cupped my balls.

“Holy fuck,” I whispered as she tugged my pants down farther and then started licking at my balls, sucking and nibbling and then pulling them into her mouth one at a time, the hot suction practically making my eyes roll back in my head. Her tongue swirled and darted, until she had worked her way to the base of my cock.

I dug my fingers into her hair. “Open up,” I commanded hoarsely, and she did, parting her mouth and looking up at me with a look that was obedient and yet not at the same time.

The moment my crown touched her lips, I lost all semblance of control, holding her head as I roughly slid the rest of the way in, only stopping once I hit the back of her throat. As I drew my erection back out, she dragged the flat of her tongue against the sensitive underside, making me groan.

“
Fuck
, Molly. Just.
Fuck
.”

I pushed back in again, pushing a little farther this time and forcing her throat to open to me. I could feel her nose against my stomach, and it was possibly the most erotic thing I’d ever felt. I pulled out and then began fucking her mouth in earnest now, loving the feel of her plush lips and that naughty tongue, her involuntary noises, and yes, even loving the occasionally graze of her teeth.

“I love fucking your mouth, doll. You look so pretty like this. My pretty girl.”

She moaned around me, and I lost it. I yanked her head back and fisted my cock, my hand flying hard and rough over my shaft.

“My. Pretty. Girl,” I grunted, and then it came, the warm lashes of seed across her perfect face, and I grunted more obscenities though it all, thinking about her filthy mouth, about how I was going to make her suck my balls every morning right before I fucked her perfect little ass.

The thing about Molly was that even standing with my hand in her hair and my cock in my hand and her face covered with my seed, I still didn’t feel sated. Not in the least.

Sending up a quiet prayer of thanks for Bertha and the servants for being around to care for the children, I scooped my woman into my arms and carried her to the bed, flipping her skirts up to her waist the moment I dropped her there and burying my face between those slender, freckled legs.

Six Weeks Later

For London, it was the best November day we could have hoped for. The sheets of cold rain had abated, leaving a high and clear sky. A little anemic and a little cold perhaps, but there was enough warmth on Earth here below to make up for it.

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about hair,” Ivy murmured, stepping back from me. She was already in her light blue attendant’s dress, and across the hall, playing dolls in the library, Aurora and Jane were in their snowy muslins, ready to sprinkle a path down the church aisle with flower petals.

I turned and twisted in my seat to get a better glimpse of my hair. Despite Ivy’s demurral, she’d done a beautiful job, the curls coiling and weaving in and out of a delicate up-do that exposed the lines of my neck and shoulders.

I stood and faced her. “Thank you.”

She gave me one of her inscrutable dark-eyed looks, one of those looks that reminded me of a deer in a forest. “You’re welcome.”

I nodded. We were growing closer, Ivy and me, perhaps a natural consequence of loving two best friends. And, I had to admit, Ivy had been an invaluable resource when we’d returned to England last month, and I’d found myself a new mother to five children.
And soon a sixth
, I thought to myself. But I didn’t betray this thought outwardly; even Silas didn’t know. I was saving the news as a wedding present. How funny that when he’d first come back to London, he’d asked me to give him a child, and now here we were, about to be married with one burrowed secretly inside my womb. It thrilled me and terrified me all at once, but so did most of the emotional frontiers Silas pulled me over.

Ivy surprised me by pulling me into a hug. Her arms slid around the hollows of my waist, and she pressed herself against me. This was the most physical contact we’d had since that night more than a year ago at Markham Hall, where we’d stripped her naked on the floor of the parlor and introduced her to our version of Blindman’s Bluff.

And then I flushed a little, because Ivy probably didn’t know how frequently she and Julian figured into the fantasies Silas and I whispered to each other as we fucked. I stepped back, a little, my face feeling hot, and she regarded me with interest.

“Is everything okay?” she asked.

“Perfectly fine,” I assured her. “Never better.”

With my hair finished and my gown—a thing of pale gold with a draped silk skirt and a long train—securely buttoned, the cathedral veil was the last thing left. We pinned it to my hair, and then tasked Jane with carrying the back of it as we walked to the carriage, so that it wouldn’t drag on the ground.

True to my word, I had indeed forced Silas into the papist faith. At least, forced in the sense that we paid a French priest a handsome sum of money to baptize Silas without the time and delay of his undergoing a formal catechism. And so it was to a Catholic church we went, exiting the carriage in a cloud of silk and lace and muslin.

The ceremony was nothing more than a blur. I remember seeing Ivy and Julian at the front, Julian’s hand comfortingly on Silas’s shoulder. I remember Jane and Aurora and their petals. I even remember the priest’s sonorous baritone as he recited the ritual Latin that bound Silas and me together.

But mostly I remembered Silas, the stained glass painting his face with jeweled light, his eyes bright with happy tears as he affirmed his vows to me, and the way he bit his lip to keep from crying when I affirmed my vows to him.

I remembered the way his hands felt in mine, warm and solid even through both pairs of our gloves, and the way his lips crashed against mine after he lifted my veil, firm and possessive and also curving into a smile against my mouth, because it was Silas and he was happy and so of course he was smiling.

And then there were the congratulations and the bells and the rice thrown, and then it was just me and Silas in the carriage, rolling back to his townhouse. The children would stay with Ivy and Julian and Bertha here in London while Silas and I went to Brighton for a handful of days for our honeymoon. Even Brighton would be dreary at this time of year, but I didn’t plan on spending much time exploring the scenery.

“Come here, Mary Margaret,” Silas commanded, patting his lap, and I made my way across the carriage to straddle him, piles of silk and tulle bunched around us. His gloved hands found my legs under all the fabric and swept up the length of my stockings. “My wife,” he murmured, his hands wandering higher.

Only a thin layer of linen and the fabric of his trousers separated me from his quickly growing erection. I made a mmm noise in my chest, feeling how thick and how hard he was underneath me, feeling his hands finally grip my ass and lift me up. I pulled at his trousers as he ripped at my drawers, and then I felt the wide crest of his crown as it sought entrance, as I sank down and it slowly, deliciously, split me in two.

“My wife,” he said again, wonderingly this time, as I took him all the way in. I started grinding down against him, silk rustling all around us, his gloved fingers still gripping my ass.

“I have something to tell you,” I said, still working myself against him.

“Anything,” he breathed, his eyes glazed and sex-bright. “Tell me anything.”

“You remember the night of the engagement ball?”