“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Sorry isn’t enough.” Kiernan’s hands slid down Oliver’s chest, over his pectorals, across his stomach. He stopped before reaching his straining cock.
Oliver groaned when Kiernan fisted him. The raw, desperate sound went straight to my core.
“You’re so hard,” he murmured near his ear. “How long have you been like this? Since breakfast? Since you saw her across the table and started planning what you’d do to her the moment I left?”
“Yes,” Oliver gasped when Kiernan tightened his grip. “Yes, sir.”
“Hmm.” Kiernan stroked him once, twice, three times. Slow and deliberate. “And if I let you come right now? Would you learn anything?”
“No—I don’t—please?—”
Kiernan’s hand stilled. “No.You wouldn’t.” He released him entirely and stepped away. “You’d come, and then you’d forget. You’d do it again the first chance you got.”
Oliver’s erection bobbed toward his stomach again, flushed and leaking.
“So instead, we’re going to do this my way.” Kiernan returned to his chair. “You’re going to stay exactly where you are until I decide differently. It may take all day.”
“But, sir,” I began. “We can’t?—”
“Can’t what?” His dark gaze pinned me in place. “Can’t wait? Can’t control yourselves? That’s the problem, Ophelia. You think your pleasure belongs to you. It doesn’t.”
He returned to his papers.
The next hour was agony. I tried not to watch the clock on the mantle, but I couldn’t stop myself. Periodically, Kiernan would pause his work and attend to us. He’d stroke my hair, then continue down to trace my collarbone, my breasts, the curve of my waist. But never lower, never where I wanted him most. Never where I needed him. Other times, he’d rise and circle Oliver’s chair, trailing his hands across his shoulders, his chest, stroking him until Oliver shook and moaned, then releasing him before he could come.
The pattern was unpredictable. He’d touch me, then Oliver, or only one of us. He’d simply look at us. The weight of his attention alone was enough to make me clench around nothing.
My arousal pulsed through me, coiled tight in my belly, and slicked my thighs. My nerve endings were on fire, screaming for stimulation that never came.
“Ophelia.” Kiernan’s voice cut through the haze, and he pushed his chair away from the desk. “Stand and come here.”
I rose on shaking legs and approached him.
“Bend over. Legs spread.”
When I leaned forward and pressed my palms to the cool oak, Oliver’s breath caught behind me and Kiernan’s chair creaked.
“Look at her, Oliver. See how wet she is.” His finger traced down my spine, over the curve of my arse, and between my cheeks. I trembled. “She’s been dripping for the past hour. Desperate. Aching.” His finger slid through my folds, and I cried out. “All that yearning, and she can’t do anything about it. Can you, pet?”
“No, sir,” I cried.
“That’s right.” He circled my entrance, teasing, then pushed one finger inside. My walls clenched greedily around him. “Your body knows who it belongs to. Even if your mind hasn’t caught up.”
He added a second finger and thrust—slow, steady strokes that built the pressure without providing relief.I rocked into his hand, chasing more, but he’d anticipated me. As soon as I got close, he’d slow down or stop entirely, leaving me gasping and on the edge.
“Please,” I whimpered. “Sir, please?—”
“Not yet.” When he withdrew, I nearly sobbed. “On your knees. Where you were before.”
I sank down, shaking.
“Look at me.” Kiernan lifted his glistening fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean before returning to his work.
The second hour was worse.
Kiernan made several calls—estate business, from what I could gather. He conducted them with perfect composure, remaining calm while Oliver and I suffered in silence.
