“Do you know what would make it even more satisfying?” I murmur. “Go ahead; play with yourself the way you did earlier. Rub your fingers on your pretty cunt. Spread it open for me. Slip a finger—or better yet two fingers—inside.”
She swallows, but doesn’t miss a beat. “And after I do that, should I lick those fingers and taste what you have tasted? Perhaps give my nipples a twist, too? Would that cause you to ejaculate all over my bed?”
I almost do. I can’t keep quiet anymore; my grunts echo harshly against the walls of the room. I yank my cock hard, then harder.
“You want to fall upon me, don’t you?” Her voice is low and seductive. She licks her lips deliberately. “You want to fuck me like a stallion in heat. And you want to come in me. You are dying to pump me full of seed and see it dribble down my thighs.”
With a growl, I climb onto the bed. Her eyes are brilliant with both calculation and arousal. “Can’t wait any more, can you?”
“No.” I grind out the syllable.
Now she closes her eyes: She is thinking of someone else—or wants me to believe that she is doing so. I’d half expected just that, but still it hits me like a fist. I draw a couple of heavy breaths, then move forward to straddle her, but not in the correct place for penetration.
Though her eyes remain closed, confusion flickers across her face.
“I am not going to fuck you, not this time,” I tell her. “So you might as well open your eyes.”
She does—and regards me with suspicion.
I stare at her. “Tell me who you were going to imagine me as.”
She only pants, but does not speak.
“Tell me. Tell me everything you imagine—his build, his weight, the expression on his face.”
She remains mulishly silent, her eyes fastened to my hand, still gripped hard onto my cock.
“You weren’t thinking of anyone, were you?” I demand, propelled by an intuition I cannot explain. “You only had eyes for me. And even when you closed your eyes, it was still me you saw.”
She stares back at me but does not deny my words. Then she yanks on her restraint; her breasts bob, the nipples pink and erect. And it all becomes too much for me. My scrotum pulls taut. I shudder. Ropes of my seed arc across the air and fall upon her chest.
Her breath bellows, as if she’s run a footrace.
I hang my head a moment, half-dazed by the force of my orgasm. Then, as she looks on, panting and scandalized, I rub my seed into the skin of her breasts. Her lips quiver as I coat her nipples, making them slick—and even harder.
“I’ll order you another bath.” I get off the bed and pick up my clothes. “Tonight I will bring the blindfold back. And you can let your imagination run free.”
Chapter Three
WHEN I WALK PAST THE bath an hour later, I hear the sound of water.
Part of me thinks she must be scrubbing her skin raw to get rid of any remnants of our not-quite-lovemaking. A different part of me fantasizes that underneath the innocent prettiness of all the floating flowers, she is frantically touching herself.
Perhaps neither is true. Perhaps both.
Hope is not just a chronic condition. In my case, it may very well be an incurable one.
I wallow in Grisham’s company for a short while, before Mr. Donaldson, my gamekeeper, comes to take him for a round in the woods. I would have preferred to keep Grisham to myself, but Mr. Donaldson has a handsome bitch Grisham is wild about. Far be it from me to keep him away from his beloved.
I try to read some of the correspondence that requires my attention—a task no man should bother with while on his honeymoon. But all I can think about is her.
Have I made any headway with her at all?
I open a locked drawer in my desk and take out a photograph of hers that I’d pilfered from her brother’s estate. He and I are close friends, and he would most likely have given the photograph to me, had I but asked. But I conceal my love for her the way others would a case of leprosy. Or worse, syphilis.
The photograph had been taken years before and shows her at her favorite pastime, reading. It is impossible to make out the title of the open book in her hands, but I have decided long ago that it is Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, her favorite for its delightfully imaginative absurdity.
In the photograph she wears a light-colored frock. I know the dress. She hasn’t worn it in years but I remember it well, made of apple-green chiffon for summer, with puffed sleeves that narrow dramatically at the elbow.
I love the pinned-up braid of her hair in the picture. I love the tilt of her neck. I love her fierce concentration. I love…
I sigh. I love everything about her, including her talent for breaking my heart. In fact, I realize belatedly, it is one of the reasons I admire her. She does not accept the mocking, smirking, antagonistic version of me, because that me is nowhere near good enough for her.
Indeed, why would she want a man who always presents as if she is beneath him? Why would a wife grow to love a husband if the only interest in her he professes is one for her hard nipples and hot cunt?
What do I do then?