“Yes,” Mary said, looking at her daughter, with a smile. “But you had no plan to meet him. You flew without a single thought to planning—just like I would have done. But he followed you.” She turned to Trem. “And supported your decision.”
“Mary,” Trem said, and he could feel his cheeks reddening. “I was sure that you believed my story.”
“Not for a second,” Mary said. “But only because I had a sense that this one,” she said, smiling at Henrietta, “is just like I was.”
*
That night, on their ride back to the inn in the carriage, Trem and Henrietta laughed at themselves for how confident they had been that Mary believed their tale.
“I think she might be the first woman who has ever questioned you when you use that voice.” Henrietta giggled.
“What voice?”
“You know,” Henrietta said, “the voice. The one you use when you want a woman to admire you.”
“This voice?” he said, dropping his tone into the one he thought of as “charming.”
“Yes!” she said with a laugh. “You know it.”
“I promise to use it on no one but you going forward,” he said, drawing her to him and kissing her.
“No! I don’t want you to promise that. I want you to use the magic voice to get me all the things in this life that I want.”
“And what would those things be? Is marrying a viscount not enough?”
“Hardly,” she said, her voice infused with faux harshness. “In fact, I have many desires that you have yet to satisfy.”
“Oh, is that so?” His blood heated at her taunting words. Her hand snaked over his breeches to his cock, which was already semi-erect. She rubbed him until, within a minute, he was fully hard.
“Yes,” she said, sliding to the floor of the carriage. He felt his breath start to come rapidly.
“Henrietta,” he said—he sounded like he was objecting, he was aware, but in truth he was overwhelmed.
She undid the falls of his breeches—a skill with which she had become much more adept in the last week. He sprung free, his cock already beginning to weep.
“Hmm,” she said, thoughtfully, as if considering a very deep subject. “I think that this is what I want at present.”
Henrietta took him into her mouth. A choking sound emitted from his own throat at the first contact—her mouth felt like wet silk, her tongue teasing him slowly.
She looked up at him.
“Don’t think I have forgotten the other day—with the pearls.”
“What?” he said, bewildered, his thoughts heavy through his haze of pleasure.
“How you tortured me,” she said, leaning down for another suck, but one specifically designed to tempt him closer to the edge without actually sending him over it.
He groaned in response, unable to articulate any thoughts.
She kept on in that vein, licking and sucking, bringing him to the brink again and again but not letting him go over it. He was ashamed to admit it—but he struggled to go deeper in her mouth so that he could come off.
This effort only earned him more punishment.
“You’re very naughty,” Henrietta said, pulling away. “If you try to do that again, I won’t let you spend at all.”
He merely moaned in response to that—he had been rendered an inarticulate mess by this woman.
She kept at it and the sounds that he made became increasingly desperate. He was beyond caring that the coachman could hear him (undoubtedly he could—and any discomfort he experienced he deserved for having shot him) and lost only to the intricacies of Henrietta’s tongue.
