Page 13 of The Education of Ivy Leavold
“Just to make sure you’re still ready for the final part of our lesson,” he’d said, and then he’d stoked me to further flame, sucking and licking, his strong hands parting the cheeks of my ass to give him better access. He’d stopped at the very moment of no return, as if he knew my body better than I did, and stood.
“Skirts down, Miss Leavold. It’s time for supper.”
And what else could I do? I lowered the silks, feeling like his whore, and hating how much I loved it. As we walked, I could still feel the memory of his tongue between my legs. It was agony.
“I’ve no doubt that Silas would like to play with you tonight,” Mr. Markham said as we walked down. “He could barely tear his eyes away from you in the lobby.”
“Oh,” I said, and it was an oh ofyes please, please, please, and another memory pushed through my mind, the feeling of Silas’s erection in my hands, of how long and hot and stiff it had been.
Mr. Markham stopped before we reached the dining room and took a stray tendril of my hair between his fingers. “He is invited to help me please you. But,” and here he stopped and faced me entirely, “you have the final say on Silas. I want him to touch you and sample you because it gets me hard knowing how much you arouse other men and that they’ll never be able to fuck you as I do. I think he would make you feel good—he is very skilled. But you are my own, my own wildcat, and if you only want me to touch you, I understand.”
I flushed with the small thread of shame that strung through me, but I was almost beyond shame at this point, and so I admitted, “I would like him to touch me.” A shuddering breath, and then, “Julian, right now I wanteveryoneto touch me. The things I’m thinking about right now—”
“I know, wildcat. And it delights me to know that I have made you like this. And,” he gave me a sudden kiss, his tongue moving against mine, stroking deep into my mouth, “whenever you call me Julian, I get hard. Feel.”
I did, the briefest of movements, since we were, after all, in a busy hotel in one of the largest cities in England. He was indeed hard again, hard as steel. “Ah,” he hissed as my hand brushed by him. “Squeeze it. Squeeze it like you hate me.”
I did, loving how powerful I felt at that moment, making him as inflamed as I was. He sucked in a breath.
“I love you,” he said and then he took me roughly by the elbow and guided me into the dining room, where Silas—and I hoped my release—awaited.
Silas had secured us a private booth near the back of the restaurant, a rich leather affair scooped out of the wall and separated from the other diners by red curtains, which were currently tied back. Mr. Markham gestured for me to slide in first and then he followed, which left me sandwiched between the two men. The warmth from their hips and thighs suffused my skin through my dress, and I couldn’t help the shudder that passed through me when Silas turned to speak and his arm brushed against my own. I kept my eyes down, afraid to meet Silas’ or Mr. Markham’s gaze, afraid that the slightest stimulation would send me whirling out of control.
Glasses of wine were set before us, the waiter came to inform us of our dinner choices—Mr. Markham ordered for me—and I stared at the tablecloth throughout it all, vaguely knowing that it wouldn’t be proper for me to be panting and squirming at the table, but also knowing that I was beyond caring.
Mr. Markham’s hand whispered along the back of my neck. “Ivy has been a very obedient girl today,” he murmured. “Veryobedient.”
“Is that so?” Silas asked, and I could tell by the tenor of his voice that he immediately took Mr. Markham’s meaning.
“Tell him, wildcat. Tell him about your day.”
I could not. Words were obscure, foggy things that seemed unimportant, and my hands and legs were trembling; the same tremors were vibrating through my chest and making it impossible to breathe or think normally. All I could think of was unfastening Mr. Markham’s pants—or Silas’s, I was starting not to care about the particulars—and then of mounting one of them, right here in the booth.
Silas laughed. “It must have been quite a day, Miss Leavold. You seem speechless. And I can see the flush creeping up your neck now, as if you were burning up inside. Shall I check and see?”
I could only look at him, my lips parted, and then his hand stole over my knee under the table, pulling slowly at my dress. Fabric collected in my lap and my legs felt dangerously exposed to the world, even though I knew the floor-length tablecloth hid everything from view, including Silas’ hand, which now slid against my inner thigh. I held my breath, wanting him to go farther but also unsure of Mr. Markham’s reaction.
Mr. Markham continued to touch the back of my neck, playing with the small curls at my nape, watching the drama under the table unfold. “Spread your legs for Silas,” he said, and I did. I spread them as wide as I could, suddenly desperate for Silas, desperate for him to use his fingers, tongue, cock, anything so long as it ended in me climaxing.
His fingers skated past the edge of my stocking and then they were dancing across my center, over and over again. “So wet,” Silas said quietly. “So swollen.” And one finger parted the petals of my pussy, just barely, just enough that he could lift his finger to his mouth and taste me.
“How does she taste?” Mr. Markham asked.
Silas smiled. “Perfect.” His finger returned, this time delving further in, and I pushed myself against it, wanting him to stop teasing and actually touch me.
“How long did you deny her, Julian?”
“Only since this morning.”
“She’s so responsive,” Silas said wonderingly, watching my face as he ran his thumb over my clit. I was actively rocking against his hand now, my hands gripping the table to keep my upper body stable, so that our tableau betrayed nothing to our fellow diners.
“You have no idea,” Mr. Markham said. “You should see her in bed.”
“I would very much like to,” he said. I could now clearly see the hard ridge straining his trousers, a ridge which he was casually rubbing with his other hand. The sight of it was unbearably erotic; Mr. Markham was right. There was something so powerful in seeing how I affected other men, in seeing how badly they wanted me and feeling Mr. Markham’s possessive touch on me all the while.
As if responding to my thoughts, Mr. Markham’s arm moved between the back of the booth and my waist, and then his other hand joined Silas’, caressing my cunt with soft strokes. Their fingers moved in between and around each other’s, sometimes wrestling for access to my clit, sometimes sliding into me together.
I looked down and then I knew it was all but over. Black tailcoat sleeves. Starched white cuffs. Glittering silver cufflinks. And those separate masculine hands fucking my cunt with reverent relentlessness.
