“I don’t mind that you have been with others. But I want to erase them from your mind. Is that a normal way to feel?”
He stops, to my dismay.
“No,” I say, the swell of him inside of me tantalizing and wonderful. I do not want him to stop. “It is not. Don’tstop.”
“Then I suppose my feelings for you are not normal. I think of seeing a man you’ve been with on the street and pummeling him with my bare hands.”
I hate that I feel pleased at the words. No man has ever said such a thing to me. He is attractive when he is threatening violence. But I learned that when he fired his gun above the angry mob outside my carriage.
“You are boring me, Alfred. I want you to fuck me. Now is not the time for worrying over other men.”
I flex my pelvic muscles to emphasize the point. He swears.
“Fuck me, Alfred. Make me come again.”
He obeys, dipping in and out of me, creating a wonderful tension. His cock is a perfect fit, not just because of its size, but because of something else. Something ineffable.
When the tension has built and built and I need release, I reach down and touch myself, knowing I need that stimulus so soon after my other orgasm. He groans at the sight.
“I am close, Annabelle. I should withdraw”
“Not yet,” I say. “That is an order.”
He has stopped moving. I touch myself and feel myself stretched by him at the same time. The combination is utterly perfect.
I want to come while he is still inside of me—and I do. I cry out and my sheath clenches over him, as if it is trying to draw the seed from him.
I hope it does.
He exclaims and withdraws suddenly. He spills over my thighs and the hair over my quim, soaking my clit in his warm seed as I come. The unexpected sensation is so intimate and so sensual that I gasp.
“I am sorry,” he says. “I’ve made a terrible mess.”
Damn, he managed to do it. He actually withdrew.
Well, we have time. But it will become a problem if he truly becomes proficient in the art.
“No apologizing,” I say, gritting my teeth. He probably thinks that I truly hate the apologies. And I do in a way, but not because they repulse me.
I reach for the cloth beside my bed and quickly clean myself. I do not feel the need to do so for my own sake, but I can tell the sight of the mess mortifies him. He is still innocent enough to be alarmed by that.
“Come here,” I say, pushing him back on the pillows. “Rest.”
I hadn’t meant to suggest that he should embrace me, but he does anyway. He pulls me to his chest and I rest my head against him. I shouldn’t allow it, but I do.
“Tell me,” I say. “How do you spend your time? At the vicarage?”
I ask the question for something to say, feeling for some reason that we should speak. Talking is intimate, but silence seems, perhaps, even riskier.
“I often try to imagine what you do there. And I cannot fill the picture.”
He gives a soft chuckle.
“Well, the usual things you would expect. Writing sermons. Correspondence. Whenever I can, I read a novel.”
“Your green book.”
“Not just that one. Regular novels. I enjoy them very much.”
