Page 20 of The Education of Ivy Leavold
And I was afraid of him.
“Why are you asking me about Arabella?” he asked, and he resumed stroking my legs, this time under my dress.
How could I tell him about my vast array of insecurities and fears? How could I confess that I was afraid that he would grow bored of me? That he might betray me, abandon me, or kill me? No. It was too ridiculous to voice out loud, as was the feeling that if I could claim his past, I could somehow claim a safe future for us.
We met gazes and his face grew serious. “Answer me, Ivy.”
“I just wanted to know more about Arabella,” I evaded. “You’ve talked of Violet, but never of her…”
A calloused hand was sliding up my thigh now. “It was fifteen years ago. I loved her, but memories fade with time, and I’ve had years to grow accustomed to the idea of her death.” My skirts were pulled up unceremoniously, exposing the thin drawers I wore. “And, Ivy, you are lying to me.”
“I—I am not lying—”
A loud smack reverberated through the meadow and I processed the noise before I processed the heat flaming on my flank. I gasped and looked at him. His dark brows had drawn together and his eyes were stern.
“Lie again and I’m taking you over my knee. Do you understand?”
I nodded, feeling the burn of his smack turn into molten sensation. For some reason, the idea of being taken over his knee seemed almost appealing.
My drawers were pulled off, and then my legs spread so that I was bare and open to his grim and determined face. Without warning, he jabbed two fingers inside of me, rough and probing, pinning my hips to the ground with his other hand. I writhed against the sudden invasion; I wasn’t ready for it and I wasn’t ready to answer his questions, no matter what methods he used to leverage the answers out of me.
“Why. Did. You. Ask,” he said, punctuating each word with a thrust of his fingers.
I cried out, trying to squirm, but I didn’t know if I was squirming away from him or toward him, because the rough pain had turnedoh so quicklyinto pleasure and suddenly I didn’t want him to stop, not ever.
“You’re wet now,” he observed. “Does it arouse you to make me angry? To lie? To have me punish you?”
I moaned, because he had found that perfect spot inside that turned me at once tense and melting.
“It does. Such a bad girl. So filthy to find pleasure in such things.” And then he took his fingers—slick with my own want—and slid one into my ass. I whimpered as he added a second and then used his other hand to caress my clit with feather-light touches.
“Please,” I said raggedly. “I need to be fucked.”
“Filthy,” he repeated. He didn’t move, just kept stoking that dark fire with his fingers and watching me writhe with a rigid, almost disciplinary, expression on his chiseled face. “Tell me why you asked, Ivy, or I swear to God, I will never let you come again.”
“I…I was scared,” I managed.
“Scared of what?”
I didn’t answer for a moment. Even in the haze of pleasure, I realized that I was close to revealing something irrevocable, and that doing so carried a whole host of consequences—wounding him emotionally was but one. It didn’t seem wise to alert the predator that I’d caught his scent; if I confessed that I was worried for my safety, would that alone seal my fate?
He pinched my clitoris and twisted, a bright, sharp tweak that elicited a noise I’d never heard from myself. “Scared of what?” he demanded.
“Of you,” I whispered finally, tears spilling out of the corners of my eyes. “I’m scared of you.”
Time seemed to freeze then. His mouth parted with surprise and his eyes widened. That wound I’d been afraid of creating—it was there, an almost visible slash across his chest. I regretted it all then, not just confessing to my fears, but to having them in the first place and maybe to even coming to Markham Hall at all. Then his eyes narrowed and his mouth pressed into a thin line.
“On your knees,” he ordered.
I clambered to obey, tears still falling, desperate to make that brief look of pain a distant memory, desperate to show him how much Ididlove him, despite everything else.
“So you believe all the gossip then?” he breathed, standing up and walking around me. “That I’m in the habit of killing my wives? And you thought you’d make sure that, at the very least, I didn’t killoneof them?”
I knew there was no point in lying now. I nodded, miserable with crying and also with the pulsing, unsated want between my legs. He came around behind me and laid his hands on my shoulders.
“Are you afraid now?” he asked. “We are alone, after all, I could kill you right here in this pasture and nobody would know.” The jagged sarcasm in his words couldn’t hide the bleakness in his voice. My heart split at that bleakness, wanted to heal it, cover over the parts of him that I had blighted with my admission.
His hands slid up and wrapped around my neck. I shivered, and there again was the pull of fear and desire, the adrenaline sending fast and painful throbs to my swollen cunt.
