Chapter 10 #2
He takes me like a man going to war for the most precious treasure he will ever own.
My vision goes entirely dark except for his face, his bared teeth, his violent gaze.
Everything is rock-hard muscle and surging sinew, heat so intense that we’re both sweating from the blaze of it.
His hands leave my thighs and smack down against the table.
I grip his shoulders and drive my nails mercilessly into the muscle, curling forward while he fucks me so that I can meet his beautiful glare with my own.
I want to command him to never torture me like that again, but at the same time, the delay took me to unimaginable heights of need.
What I’m feeling now is like the roar of an army in my blood, the floodgates open between my legs, gushing my shameless desire for this man.
His invasion is ruthless, monstrous, and yet my whole being greets his aggression with equal force.
I’m arching my spine while he thrusts, urging him deeper.
He gathers me closer, uses me and the table for leverage, reaches a frenzied speed that scrapes the air from my lungs and leaves them dry and open, dying for the orgasm.
The pulverizing friction against my cunt achieves the final conquest. The tower inside me reaches its highest point, and then it collapses, an avalanche of ecstasy that leaves me utterly destroyed.
I can barely snatch enough breath to scream.
They’re short screams, sharp as arrows, and in the descending hail of them, Beresford comes inside me, releasing a battered groan, like a warrior who has finally won.
“Yes,” I gasp out, kissing his shoulder where my fingernails cut into his skin. “Yes, give me everything. I want everything that you are.”
There is no contraceptive incense, but tomorrow morning I can take the herbs my mother packed in my trunk. They’ll prevent me from conceiving with this beautiful man until I’m ready to carry his babies.
“Would they have blue hair?” I whisper.
“What?” He shifts back so he can look at me better.
“Our babies, when we have them.”
“Babies?”
“Yes. I assume you want children. Most men do.” Though as I sit here, newly married and freshly fucked, it occurs to me that we never discussed it.
We didn’t discuss a lot of things.
“I’m not sure I can reproduce,” he replies. “Is that important to you?”
I gaze at him, not bothering to conceal my shock. “Well… yes. I was hoping we would eventually have a family. Fill this place with little blue-haired children. What makes you think you’re infertile? You never mentioned that before. You only talked about the incense and how it prevents conception.”
He pulls out of me hastily, and his cum spills onto the table. We both stare at my swollen, gaping pussy, creamy with his release, and at the white pool on the dark wooden surface.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he says.
“Don’t change the subject, Beresford. Why can’t you have children?”
He hikes up his trousers and buttons them. A few damp spots seep through, since he didn’t wipe himself off first, but he doesn’t seem to care. “It’s complicated.”
“Part of your past?”
“Yes.”
I’m not supposed to ask about his past. I’m supposed to accept his secrets, as he accepts mine. But this one involves me. It changes the vision I had, the picture of our future together.
“Maybe we could visit a physician,” I venture. “See if there’s anything that can be done.”
“Leave it alone, Sybil. Please.”
The ache in his voice stirs my sympathy. “I will… for now.” I jump down from the table, knowing that his cum is on my wedding dress, exactly where it should be. “Will you show me the rest of the house?”
He brightens, grateful that I’m letting it go, though there’s a sorrowful torment in his eyes.
I don’t want an argument to sour our first night together in our home, but neither do I plan to give up the subject entirely. We’ll be circling back to it another day. Maybe I’ll speak to my mother first and get her advice on how to approach the matter.
For now, I need to reassure him.
I take his arm and kiss the curve of his bicep. “I would have married you either way, you know. Whatever my future looks like, I want you in it.”
He looks down at me, his eyes searching mine. “You do love me,” he murmurs, his voice tinged with wonder.
“Of course I do, silly man.”
“It’s just that…” He hesitates and clears his throat, as if he wants to be careful what he says next. “I knew things about love, and I thought I understood it, but I’m realizing that I didn’t fully grasp what it meant until now.”
I stroke his sinewy forearm as we walk back into the front hall.
“My mother says that married people either become more and more in love with each other, or move farther and farther away from each other. She said one takes more work than the other. And you certainly put in good work back there.” I jerk my head toward the dining room.
My praise earns me a grin from my husband, and inwardly I congratulate myself for driving the shadows out of his eyes.
We explore the mansion together, navigating long hallways rich with heavy crimson wallpaper and dark wood floors, trudging up staircases of pale stone with blood-red carpet, poking our heads into paneled nooks and cozy crevices.
One of my favorites is a pillared room tiled in black and white squares, with an octagonal pool set into the floor and a glass dome overhead to let in natural light. Steam rises from the water, and there are marble benches just beneath the surface where people can sit, relax, and enjoy the heat.
Another room contains a magnificent piano, set up near two-story arched windows and accessorized with a beautifully engraved bench.
The legs of the piano are carved so that it looks as if it’s upheld by tree branches.
Threads of real gold twine along the piano’s legs and decorate its top.
When Beresford tells me that it’s mine, one of the wedding surprises he bought for me, I squeal with delight.
The house’s library is beautiful, with the same extravagant two-story ceilings as the rest of the first floor, but it is poorly stocked.
Most of the shelves are empty, and the others contain books about business and finance.
I have trouble imagining Beresford reading those tomes.
In fact, they look quite dusty, as if they haven’t been touched in a long time.
“Are these for your business?” I ask.
“They used to be. I don’t need them now.”
“Then why keep them?”
He looks surprised by the question, and after a moment’s contemplation, he says, “Sentiment, I suppose. But we can buy other books—as many as you like.”
“Books are so expensive, though.”
“They contain both knowledge and entertainment, and they can be enjoyed over and over—qualities which, in my mind, make them among the most noble and useful of investments. I shall buy you cartloads of them.”
“I like the way you think, husband.”
Next we investigate the kitchen. “We are responsible for our own breakfast,” he explains.
“The servants come up to the house around noon each day to do the chores and prepare lunch. Mrs. Nanterre cooks dinner here for us as well. Should you ever wish to cook anything yourself, you can tell Mrs. Nanterre that you won’t need her services that evening.
If you’re missing any ingredients, she can order them, if given enough time, or she may have what you need in the kitchen of the servants’ house.
When you’re done cooking, you can leave the cleanup for the maids, if you like. ”
“I would probably take care of it myself.” I run my fingertips along the polished surfaces of the tables, counters, and cabinets. “This place is beautiful.”
“I got you this.” He opens a cupboard and takes out a silver coffee press, along with a bag of coffee beans from a southern territory that grows the most flavorful varieties. My family has never been able to afford such coffee.
The gift of the beans and the coffee press earns Beresford a kiss, but he’s grinning the whole time so he can’t do it properly, and we both end up laughing.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go upstairs. I want you to see our room. There’s another surprise there.”
“I have a gift for you, too. It’s among my things. I put it in a box labeled ‘Do not open,’ so hopefully you didn’t break that rule and spoil the surprise.”
“I’m not nearly as curious as you are,” he retorts. “Besides, the maids did most of the work placing your belongings. I’m sure they put it somewhere safe. If you can’t find it, we’ll ask them about it tomorrow.”
“It’s nothing so marvelous as a piano or fine coffee,” I warn him. “The only money I had was from you, and it felt odd to give you something you paid for, so… I made it.”
“I can’t wait to see it. Come here.” He picks me up and practically runs up the stairs with me in his arms. I’m laughing, clinging to his neck as he carries me down the hallway.
“This is the wing we use, on the north side,” he says. “The south wing suffered some water damage, and nothing has been updated. It’s all dust and cobwebs. No need to venture there.” He sets me down and opens a door with a flourish. “Welcome, my lady, to our room.”
The bedroom is enormous. The western wall is a massive arched window, stretching from floor to ceiling and divided into sections by delicate, ornate ironwork.
A long cushion runs along the base of the window, with a few pillows thrown onto it.
A dent in one of the pillows tells me that Beresford likes to recline there.