Chapter 14
Annabelle
On Sunday evening, long after he would be done with his Church duties, I send for him.
Of course, my servants can hardly be trusted to be discreet, which makes the matter of getting him into my bedchamber one of delicacy. After he defended me, it would not be fair to ruin him.
Indeed, I have begun to think that his public ruin is not necessary. I can enjoy the man and then dismiss him—but leave him to find a post elsewhere. He needn’t be publicly disgraced.
So I give all of my house the evening off. Half are now in the tavern and the other half in the cottages with their families.
Therefore, I am practically alone in the house when Alfred is shown into the drawing room by the only servant that I kept back, the footman-in-training, a boy of twelve who won’t suspect nor care about my relationship with the vicar.
“Good evening, Miss de Lacey,” Alfred says once the boy leaves.
“I told you to call me Annabelle. And I expect you to obey me.”
He is wearing his usual long coat and trousers. His curling hair and green eyes stand out vividly against his dark clothes and the background of the somber drawing room.
He gives a small smile.
“Good evening, Annabelle.”
He should not be smiling. I am about to ravage him and he looks at me like I am his sweetheart.
I cannot bear it.
I stand. “Good evening, Alfred. Come with me.”
He raises his eyebrows, but he does not question me.
I lead him out of the drawing room and towards the stairs. It is dark and the empty hallways are dim and shadowy. I draw him up two flights and then into my bedchamber.
An oil lamp and candles illuminate the space space. It is grand, of course, like everything else at the Abbey, but it carries almost no personal significance to me. It has a few books, my robe, and my clothes in the bureau. It is not the chamber I used as a girl. There, I never go.
He turns towards me.
“I know that you have no choice but to be here, Mr. Saintsbury—”
“Alfred,” he says softly. “You know I like when you use my name.”
Warmth runs through me. I hate myself for it.
“I also know you have never done this before,” I continue, ignoring his entreaty. “I will be gentle with you. You must tell me if it becomes too much.”
He frowns in response.
“It is not my flesh I worry for.”
“Still. I do not want to hurt you.”
“I do have one request.”
My eyes lock on his green ones. I have no idea what he could want, especially if he is worried about his soul.
“What is it?”
“A kiss,” he says quietly. “You’ve never kissed me. No one ever has, in fact. And it would be strange to me to bed you without having done that first.”
My very soul—if I can even be said to have one anymore—freezes inside me. I hadn’t thought about kissing. I usually don’t. It isn’t my favorite act. Too sentimental.
I could deny him, but I already know that I won’t.
Somehow, it feels impossible to do so.
“Is that how they do it in your green book? Kissing always comes first?”
“No,” he frowns. “Well, sometimes. I wish I hadn’t told you about the book.”
“Don’t be so sensitive.”
“You torment me about it.”
“You needn’t feel self-conscious,” I say. “I have a whole drawer of erotic books. I even touch myself when I read them.”
His eyes go wide.
“It is strange,” I say, wanting to leave the topic of the book behind, “that some woman hasn’t taken it upon herself to kiss you.”
“Women don’t assail vicars with kisses.”
“You’re so innocent,” I say, wondering at the miracle of him, of how he could be so untouched.
I walk towards him and put my fingers on his waistcoat.
He stiffens underneath my touch.
“You mock me.”
“No, no. I don’t. I like it.”
“You like it?”
“Yes,” I say, knowing that I am losing my senses, my grip on the situation already. But the dim light makes me heedless.
“Annabelle,” he says. “I want you to kiss me.”
I look up at him. The moment expands.
“Please.”
I can deny him no longer. I lean in and kiss him tenderly, just brushing my lips across his own.
He emits a small sound of satisfaction. Then I let my tongue skirt his bottom lip. He brings his hands to my waist, pulling me towards him.
“Is that all right?” he says, his breath already a bit ragged. “Holding you like this?”
“Yes,” I say, annoyed that the kiss has been broken and returning my lips to his mouth.
I kiss him again, bringing my tongue back to his bottom lip and then tentatively touching it to his.
He groans again and his cock is hard against my thigh.
I keep kissing him and he pulls me closer, his cock growing harder and more insistent.
I can’t abide the fabric between us any longer. Without breaking the kiss, I push off his coat and then begin to expertly unbutton his waistcoat. Once I have sent that and his watch to the floor, I undo his cravat with the same practiced movements.
“You have the proficiency of a valet,” he says.
“Perhaps I missed my calling. Raise your arms.”
Quickly, I have his white lawn shirt off and he stands half bare before me.
I move my hands over the planes of his chest. He is powerfully built, much more so than necessary for a vicar. His chest and shoulders are wider than fashion, surely.
“I know I am brutish,” he says, clearly uncomfortable under my gaze.
“There is nothing wrong with you.”
“I can’t believe it is you saying such things to me.”
“Believe it,” I answer brusquely, not liking the feelings that threaten at his sweetness. I turn round so that my back faces him. “You must undo me.”
He unlaces me with trembling fingers.
I shirk off my dress, happy that I neglected to wear a crinoline. I slide my petticoats over my hips, leaving only my corset and drawers. I wore no shift between my corset and my skin—I like the way I look without the extra fabric.
He swallows at the sight of me. I hoped he would look as he does just now. His cheeks are flushed and his lips parted.
“You’re beautiful,” he says.
A hot mixture of shame and anger and pleasure runs through me. I don’t deserve such praise. But I’ll enjoy it anyway.
“You can touch me—if you would like.”
He brings his hands to my waist, touching the stiff material of my corset.
“It’s pretty. But I’d enjoy it better off you.”
“Then take it off.”
He turns me with his hands and undoes the laces of the corset. It falls to my feet.
I have been bare to him before. I was completely naked on that dining chair. But somehow this moment feels so much more intimate.
“Can I—can I touch you now?”
“Yes,” I say, annoyed and aroused in equal measure.
With surprising firmness, he cups one of my breasts, which like its twin is large and heavy. I don’t like my breasts. I have always wished they were smaller.
“God, you’re too perfect,” he says. “I could spend just from touching you like this, Annabelle.”
“Sit down on the bed,” I say, again brusquer than I feel.
He obeys and I kneel, removing his boots. Then with his trousers still on, I straddle him.
He palms my breasts again and I rock against him, savoring the sweet press of his hard cock through my drawers. He squeezes my breasts tightly, sending pleasure and a little pain radiating through me. I grow very wet between my legs.
I rock back and forth on him and he moans, reaching his hands around to my arse and steadying me.
God, he is a natural. A man meant for pleasure. For coupling.
“If you rock against me any more, I will spend,” he whispers.
“Then spend,” I say. “We have all night. And you are beholden to nothing but my wishes.”
We don’t exactly have all night of course. He cannot stay at the Abbey until morning. Even though I dismissed all the servants, someone would notice. But he can stay for a few hours at least. And I don’t doubt his ability to spend multiple times. He has years of orgasms to make up for.
“Do you want me to spend in my trousers for you?”
“Yes,” I gasp. “I like how much you want me. How responsive you are to me.”
I rock against him again and again. I can feel how hard his cock is. He is really quite large. Timidity and a large cock. To me, nothing could be more perfect.
I had planned to bed him with efficiency. But I’ve lost control of the situation completely.
“I can feel…Oh God, I can feel how wet you are.”
“All for you.”
“Dear Lord.”
“Come for me, Alfred.”
“I will—I am—” he stutters and then cries out, stilling me completely with his hands. He jerks beneath me, and I know he is spilling.
He pants under me, catching his breath.
“What you must think of me,” he says. I hear the shame hitch his voice.
“Don’t be silly,” I say, climbing off of him. “It is what I instructed you to do. And you can’t disobey me. Take off your wet clothes and then come here.”
He does what I asked as I stretch out on the coverlet. The room is warm because of the fire in the grate and I admire his bare body in the low light. He is still half hard and the sight of his cock makes my mouth water.
“Can I—can I please you?” he asks once he is completely unclothed.
I nod. To my surprise, he climbs onto the bed and reaches for my drawers, peeling them off of me.
And then his mouth is on my core. His touch is still unpracticed, but he seems more intent on exploring than driving me straight to orgasm. Which paradoxically arouses me all the more. He lazily tongues my clit and has me squirming beneath him.
“Do you like that?” he says when I arch under his hands.
“Yes,” I say, irritation lacing my tone once more. But he does not react to the annoyance, he merely returns to tasting me.
I should not be harsh with him. There is no point. Not when I will deal with him harshly in time. But I can’t help it. He makes me feel so soft. His vulnerability makes me feel vulnerable. It is maddening.
“You’re very sweet,” he says musingly. “I could taste you like this for hours. I’ve heard many things about carnal acts over the years. But no one mentioned how sweet a woman could taste. Perhaps you taste exceptionally good.”
He returns his mouth to me and then fills me with two of his fingers.
The truth is before last week with Alfred, it had been some time since a man had done this particular act to me. Above five years if my calculations are correct.
“I want to make you come.”
“You will,” I gasp. “Don’t stop.”
Thank Christ, he puts his mouth back on me then and begins sucking and licking with renewed fervor. When he finds a particularly sweet spot, I grab his arms and bear down.
“There. Don’t stop. Please.”
The please is rather lowering, but I can’t help it.
A moment later, I break apart, unable to keep from keening with pleasure, one of my hands threading through his hair.
“Was that good?” he says, the warm innocence of the question sending an arrow through a region suspiciously close to my heart.