I walk through the foyer, passing between columns into a vast front hall two stories high. To my right are carpeted stairsflanked by ornate railings, leading to the upper hallways. As I move forward and look up, I notice an interior balcony directly above me, a lofty place from which the owners of the house can overlook those who enter. Ambient light suffuses the room from windows somewhere above, probably along the balcony.
The wall in front of me bears several beautiful paintings, interspersed with unlit sconces. Not a single painting features a person, though—they’re all still life pieces or landscapes.
Slowly I move forward, overcome by the sheer scope and luxury of the place. I knew Beresford lived in a mansion, but this looks more like a palace, with its glossy marble floors, fancy console tables, and gilded vases full of autumn flowers.
I drift to the left and peek through an archway into a darkened room. Despite the shadows, I can make out a dining table that could probably seat two dozen people, with heavy chairs arranged along it. Another doorway leads into an empty hall next to the dining room. Mirrored walls and a low dais at one end tell me that it’s a ballroom.
These adjoining spaces would be perfect for dinner parties, even if they couldn’t accommodate as many people as the barn or the greenhouse. Why hasn’t Beresford used them?
Returning to the middle of the entry hall, I sit down in one of a few chairs set along the wall and remove my wedding shoes. On impulse, I slip off my panties too. For lack of a better place, I tuck them into one of my shoes.
The marble feels refreshingly cold against the soles of my feet as I cross the room again, this time heading for the staircase. But as my foot lifts to take the first step, Beresford breezes in through the front door, bringing the crisp fall air with him.
He looks so handsome, so happy, and so alive that my disquiet about the house vanishes instantly. He gives me the broadest of grins, his blue eyes twinkling in the merry way that I love.
“Wife,” he says.
I purse my lips. “Am I your wife? I don’t really feel like it yet. I think I need some tangible confirmation. Something conclusive to make it real.”
“Is that so?” Heat intensifies in his gaze, and he stalks toward me. “Some sort of ritual, perhaps?”
I tap my finger against my lips with feigned thoughtfulness. “A ritual, yes. But what kind of ritual could possibly convince me that we are married?”
Beresford’s expression is thoroughly feral now. Something about the glint of his teeth and the ferocity in his eyes sparks a primal twinge of terror in my chest… an animalistic instinct, warning me that I’ve wandered willingly into the lair of a predator who sees me as nothing more than a meal.
The instinct is foolish, of course. Beresford is just a man—a powerful one, but kind. He loves me. We are partners. This is my house, too.
I repeat those facts to myself as he draws closer, as he plants one hand on the banister.
When he reaches for me, I sidestep, dart around him, and flee across the marble floor, barefoot. My ankle pulses with faint pain. I reach the door of the shadowed dining room and whirl back to see Beresford leaping after me. He’s so much faster than I expected—he’s already here, thick fingers grasping my waist, lifting me so I can’t run from him anymore.
A gasp tears from my throat as he carries me into the darkness of the dining room. He kicks one of the heavy chairs out of his way, sits me on the edge of the table, and knocks an unlit candlestick aside so he can push me flat on my back.
I’m breathless, lust sizzling in my veins. I’m warm and wet and ready. Even when he scares me, I crave him.
Beresford seizes the top of my dress and pulls it down. In my prone position, I’m already spilling partway out of my corset cups, and he nudges one breast out until he can bathe the nipple with his tongue.
“I’m going to take your little cunt on this table, wife.” It’s a statement, not a request for permission. I toy with the idea of telling him no, just to see what he would do. He’d stop, I’m almost sure of it. But I can’t bear the thought of his silken tongue leaving my breast, or his hands abandoning my body. He’s pushing up my skirts, finding me bare, groaning as his fingers encounter my wetness.
“Beresford,” I whisper.
“Hm?” He’s kissing my breastbone, cupping my pussy.
“Take your coat and shirt off.”
He obeys hastily, flinging both garments away. Even in the gloom, I can distinguish each bulging abdominal, each full pectoral, his thick collarbones, the arches of his great shoulders.
“I fucking love your arms,” I tell him.
He yanks me forward so my rear is in line with the edge of the table and places my legs on either side of his hips. Taking out his cock, he holds it with one hand and tests my wetness with his thumb.
“Not enough yet,” he declares, and drops to his knees.
The first sweep of his tongue makes my whole world tilt. I feel as if I’m spinning, sliding, falling off the glossy expanse of the table into oblivion. His tongue is soft against my pussy lips, wet and warm, yet it’s demanding as it lashes into my slit. His beard titillates every exposed bit of my skin, from my asshole to my inner thighs to my clit.
“Fuck,” I whimper. I reach for him, and he seizes my wrists, pinning them against my thighs while he devours pussy like it’s his favorite thing. “Please come in.”
“Not yet,” he snarls, and goes right back to sucking on the most tender bits of me.
