“Oliver. There’s a chair by the fireplace. Bring it here. Position it facing Ophelia.”
Oliver retrieved the wingback chair and placed it where Kiernan had indicated—directly in front of me.
“Sit. Hands on the armrests. Keep them there.”
Oliver’s fingers gripped the leather hard enough for his knuckles to go white.
“Good boy.” Kiernan raised a brow when Oliver visibly bristled, then returned to his work. His hand remained woven in my hair, alternating between pulling and stroking. “Now. Since you seem incapable of controlling yourselves, I’m going to help you learn.”
The scratch of his pen resumed.
My heart raced, and my skin prickled with awareness. Oliver sat across from me, rigid and straining. Neither of us spoke. Neither of us moved.
Time stretched. Five minutes. Then ten. Kiernan worked through his stack of papers with maddening focus while I grew increasingly aware of the brush of air acrossmy peaked nipples, the ache building at my core, and the slow pulse of need that intensified as the minutes passed.
A bead of moisture gathered at the tip of Oliver’s hardness.
“Don’t even think about it,” Kiernan said without looking up. “If either of you comes without permission, the consequences will far exceed what you experienced last night.”
I squeezed my thighs together. The small motion drew his attention.
“Spread your legs.”
I obeyed. The position opened me completely—to the air, to Oliver, to Kiernan’s peripheral vision. Wetness gathered, threatening to drip onto my thighs.
“Better.” His hand tightened in my hair, tilting my head until I was looking up at him. “You’re drenched, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“From what? Are you thinking about what you and Oliver were about to do?”
“No, sir.” I swallowed. “From waiting. From being here. From you.”
Satisfaction flickered in his eyes, and he half smiled.
“Good girl.” He released me and returned to his work. “Oliver. Describe what you see.”
“Sir?” Oliver sounded hoarse.
“You heard me. Tell me what you see when you look at her.”
Oliver’s erection pulsed toward his stomach as he studied me.
“She’s…she’s beautiful. Her skin is flushed. Her nipples are hard.” He swallowed. “She’s drenched.”
“Go on.”
“She’s breathing fast. Her fists are clenched. She’s trying to remain still, but she can’t stop herself.” His register dropped lower. “She wants to be touched.”
“And you?” Kiernan asked. “What do you want?”
“To touch her. To touch myself. I want—” His eyes flicked to Kiernan, then away. “I need you to tell me what to do.”
“That’s the first honest thing you’ve said all morning.”
Kiernan set his pen down and rose from the chair. He circled around the desk, passing me without a glance, and stopped behind Oliver’s chair.
“You touched her without permission. You were going to make her come without my knowledge.” When he grazed Oliver’s bare shoulders, he flinched at the contact,then melted into it. “That tells me two things. One, you don’t respect my authority. Two, you can’t control yourself around her.”
