“I’m not in a particularly patient mood.” He says it gently, but I can tell he means it.
“You’ve been waiting since before the reception.”
“Longer. I’ve been waiting for this since the moment I saw you.”
The words make my blood race. I give his crown a tentative lick, and Francisco hisses. Maybe he was going to be more patient than he planned, but now he takes my head in both hands and holds me still so he can stroke into my mouth.
It’s a lot. He’s a lot. Too much, perhaps. He fills the available space with his first stroke and stops, his muscles tensed. “Suck,” he commands.
I don’t have any other choice. It’s either that or choke. I struggle with the sheer size of him on my tongue. He tastes clean, and I’ve never known anything to be so soft and so hard at the same time. So thick it makes my lips stretch around him.
Francisco lets me suck him, lets me swirl my tongue around him, until I get a hint of salty precum and he groans. It’s the least restrained sound I’ve heard him make. Fear shivers through me, but it’s not the kind that makes me want to scream and run. It’s the kind that makes me want to lean into whatever this is and ride it out.
Good thing, because he’s not letting go of me.
And I’m not sure I want him to.
Even when he starts fucking my mouth in earnest.
This is a different animal than sucking him while he keeps his hips still. Hot humiliation wraps around me like a second corset. I’m fighting him a little, but I don’t want to—it’s just that he’s hitting the back of my throat, he’s pushing past that point, down so deep that I try to push him away.
It doesn’t work, because he doesn’t want me to get away. He wants me exactly where I am.
His wanting turns my embarrassment back into lust. It is embarrassing, choking on him, gasping for every breath. My makeup has to be a mess. Tears run down my cheeks from the force of his taking. His using. He was using me before, too. Using my pleasure to his own ends. And now he uses my mouth. It makes me unbearably hot.
He thrusts harder into my mouth. This is so demanding. So defiling. I’m in my wedding dress. My expensive, designer lace wedding dress. My husband’s cock fucks mercilessly into my throat. It’s my wedding night. I was a princess an hour ago.
Now I don’t know what I am.
Francisco stops thrusting but he holds me down harder. Pinning me. I couldn’t get away if I tried, and I’m not trying anymore. Just in time for him to come.
Hard. Profusely. I swallow and swallow and swallow because there’s nothing else to do. No other way to stay alive. I swallow down the seed of my husband until my eyes water. Then I push away, panting, holding on to his muscular leg for steadiness.
He lifts me easily—my entire body weight along with the million pounds of lace and pearls and diamonds attached to me—and pulls me into his lap. I’m in some other world, a dark, wispy dreamscape as he rights his clothing and settles me against his shoulder. The hum of the limo and the steady movement over the highway pull me into a shallow sleep, the taste of my husband still on my tongue.
Chapter Six
Francisco
The limo glides to a stop in front of the chateau. The driver appears to open the door, and I reach in to help her stand. She still wears the beautiful white dress. She hasn’t complained about it once. I have the suspicion that if I dragged her across the French countryside in those three-inch heels, she’d only give me that same mild, complacent smile.
That’s what I wanted in a wife. That’s what I demand.
So why do I have the impulse to ask her what she really thinks?
“Shall I carry you over the threshold?” I don’t wait for a response. Her arms reach up to clasp my neck, as if I might drop her. Instead I toss her into my arms. Despite the exuberance of fabric surrounding her, she’s light. I climb the stone steps leading to the wooden doors, which stand open to herald our arrival. When we reach the marble floor, I set her down, lingering with my hands on her waist so she can get her balance.
Her cheeks are pink as she looks back at me. There’s a smile fighting to get through. A real smile, and I realize how badly I want it. Then she schools her expression back to calmness. “That was sweet,” she says.
I nod to the line of people waiting. “My butler. The housekeeper. You can meet with them tomorrow to discuss your requests.”
Her eyes widen. She gives them a small wave. It’s the first sign of uncertainty I’ve seen from her. Apparently Mrs. Bradley did not inform her only daughter that she’d oversee staff. I suppose that comes from living in hotels most of her life. There’s a general manager to handle that. “Hello,” she says.
There are bows. Curtseys. A chorus of, “Hello, Your Grace.”
Her eyebrows raise. “Your Grace?”
“They take after the English customs,” I explain, but I’m too impatient to wait. Strung too tight with lust over waiting through the wedding ceremony and reception. Waiting for the months to go by planning the wedding. Always waiting for her.
I could have approached her at the charity gala. Perhaps invited her out for coffee. Possibly I could have had her in bed that night, but I don’t lose control. I don’t give in to my passions. Everything is regulated, even sex.
A wave of my hand, and Lila appears in front of us. “This is your lady’s maid.”
“Lila St. Charles,” she murmurs, her eyes downcast.
“Pleasure to meet you,” my wife says, her tone polite and kind and completely unsuspecting. She doesn’t know how close she and Lila will become. Lila is one of my very special employees. Her skills extend beyond cleaning and service.
“She’ll assist you with whatever you need,” I say. “And prepare you.”
Blue eyes snap to meet mine. Prepare you. She senses the strangeness of the words. Good. She’ll have to learn quickly, since she came to me with no experience.
A virgin. Christ.
“Come,” I say, taking her elbow and leading her up the grand staircase. Perhaps if I were a better man I would sit her down in my office and explain how this will go. If I were a better man I would give her an option to walk away before we consummate the marriage.
I’m not a better man.
The door to my room stands open. The furniture is dark and stately.
We continue walking. Her rooms are lighter, white with champagne gold accents. A bath has already been drawn in the clawfoot tub. Water steams, swirling with rose petals. A large bed is in the middle of the room with pale blue silk sheets and a canopy. A round antique table sits to the side, surrounded by matching blue-satin chairs. Light streams in from the window, barely blocked by the translucent white fabric covering them.
Lila trails behind us, her hands behind her back. She’s well trained.
My wife is not, but that’s part of the fun. I’ll enjoy training her.
“Lila will service you now,” I tell my wife. “Stand still. Lila, you may undress her.”
It’s a test, of course.
My wife freezes in the well-lit room, her hands by her side. She wants to push Lila away. She wants to demand that I leave. There are a hundred conflicting desires flitting across her beautiful face. This is beyond some inner boundary of hers. Beyond what she imagined our wedding night would be like. She did not think another person would be in the room.