“They would have found such a reaction to heartbreak unbelievable. They would have not let me rest. It wouldn’t have been in their power. And it would have been unbearable to me. Maybe now, with John and Trem—they love their wives very much. They might understand now. But, back then, it would not have been possible. Even John. He loved Catherine for a long while, but he still bedded other women.”
She nodded.
“You must think less of me. For the fact itself—and my unwillingness to own it.”
“Of course not,” she said, her voice soft, “I am a bit stunned. It seems that I will never stop being mistaken about you.”
“Do you still—I would understand if—”
Her gaze stopped his words.
“Of course, I still want you. Just as much as I did before.”
“It’s been so long,” he said, figuring that there was no use holding back now, after he had told her everything, “I am afraid that—I am afraid that I will spend very quickly. I will disappoint you. I am sure of it.”
“Impossible,” she said, shaking her head, but the word did not make him feel better. He knew how possible it was. He had to fight back his spend when he had brought her to ecstasy just now before the mirror. If she touched him, never mind if he were inside of her, he knew how it would be. It had been too long without a woman. No, he corrected himself. Too long without her.
“But,” she continued, “If you are concerned, I can think of an easy remedy.”
He raised his eyebrows in response. Her hand returned to his groin, where he was still hard for her.
“If you let me please you before we tup, then you won’t have to worry about spending once we do. We have all night in this room. I want to have you, but there is no reason that that need be the act we commit together first. Or second, in this case.”
Her hand reached his cock and she began to stroke him. Almost immediately, a little bit of his seed wet her fingers and, expertly, she used that moisture to tease him. His breath shallowed, coming faster.
“Will you let me?”
Under the sensation of Olivia’s fingers, he was powerless. She stroked him again and he let out an incoherent moan.
That, apparently, was all the response she needed.
Turning to face her, he watched as she continued to stroke him, moving his hands to her breasts as she did so. He luxuriated in the feel of his hands on her smooth skin, the heavy, sensual weight of her breasts in his palms, all while she tantalized him.
God,he thought,if he were to die here, it would be enough.
Montaigne could feel his spend coming and as he grew aware of it, of the sweet release that she was about to instigate in him, she moved downwards, pressing against his bollocks before bring her fingers back up to his member. He let out yet another cry at the unexpected pressure. He closed his eyes at the intensity of the feeling.
But then her fingers were gone. His eyes flew open.
“Shh. Don’t worry.”
And then she was sliding downward. He couldn’t believe it, somehow, even though, given all that had transpired between them in the past few weeks, it was hardly shocking. And, yet, Olivia, with her mouth level with his cock, would never not thrill him.
“Olivia,” he rasped.
“I know.”
He felt her lips close around him and then the wet silk of her tongue. He jerked back at the pure sensation, his cock so sensitive from the frenzy she had already brought him to with her fingers. Seemingly aware of his state, she sucked him gently, hardly moving her mouth, her ministrations soft.
Gentle though her movements might be, they still rendered him incoherent. He lost all control of himself. He heard himself moan. He was so reduced—he could not contain himself.
When he thought that he could not bear the softness any longer and his body began to yearn for more, she quickened her pace, giving him exactly what he craved. Once more, he felt his spend begin to build, its intensity presaged by an exquisite tension in the base of his spine and the top of his skull.
“Fuck,” he swore, needing an outlet, “Olivia. Fuck.”
She hummed approval at his words and the vibrations of her mouth sent him into a renewed frenzy. His hand clutched at the bed sheet, the futile gesture of a man absolutely ruined by pleasure.
“Olivia,” he managed to gasp, finding relief only in her name, in the sureness of her nearness. It seemed, in this moment, his only assurance that the pleasure would not kill him, that he would not expire from wanting her.
