Chapter 40
Annabelle
“Iwant to be in London. By the end of the week,” I announce to my new husband over supper.
While I appreciated the Ludlows’ visit this afternoon and adore my old friends, I feel very finished with Trescott for the time being.
The place is closing in on me. Alfred and I cannot stay cloistered in the Abbey forever. And I dread encountering critics of our union in town. I want the anonymity of London. The freedom of the city and my counting house.
In truth, aside from the Ludlows, Alfred is the only comfort of the place to me at present and he can bed me just as well in London as he can in Dorset.
In fact, Trescott is making me a bit ill.
This morning I actually felt queasy. While the feeling has worn off as the day progressed, I still feel not quite like myself, as if I am diminishing the longer I remain in this memory-haunted place.
Of course, I am very aware that it may not just be Trescott that is making me feel this way.
I may have achieved my initial objective in bedding Alfred.
In fact, I suspect that I have.
I calculated this morning and realized that my courses are two weeks late.
I should feel the usual thrill that accompanies a success.
But now a child has become so much more complicated.
And, for some reason I cannot explain, I feel a prick of conscience when I imagine never telling Alfred of my initial intentions with him.
The deception I will have to employ, while not elaborate, does not sit well with me.
I will have to feign surprise at the pregnancy—and the prospect only makes me feel sicker than I do already.
In truth, in life, unless it involves Alfred de Lacey, nee Saintsbury, I am seldom surprised.
For some reason, this entire conundrum makes me only yearn for London more.
“Very well,” Alfred says after a brief pause. “I am prepared to leave whenever it pleases you.”
“In a few days’ time then, we shall away,” I say. “I will tell the servants to ready everything and to prepare for an extended absence. You should consider what you want to bring to London and what of your possessions can stay here at Trescott.”
My husband nods, not seeming particularly concerned about the task. It is true that besides his books and a few good items of clothing, my husband has not much to his name.
“Do you consider, wife, that here in this very room is where you first bedded me?”
I smile at that. “I have not bedded you here at all, husband.”
“Perhaps it is a matter of semantic debate. I still see the act as bedding even if it did not involve cock and quim.”
“Well, perhaps we should settle the matter,” I say. His eyes glow from his own wine—which I allow him now. I laugh at the memory of how I deprived him of wine on that first morning together. It was absurd of me, really, but I suppose I did it to punish him for already having such an effect on me.
“You would like me to take you right here, would you, wife?”
“I will make no protest,” I say, flashing him a grin over my wine glass.
That is encouragement enough. He stands and throws his serviette on his plate. The large table separates us and he closes the space quickly.
“Stand,” he commands.
The days when he needed instruction appear to be behind us. At least in some instances. Anticipation pools in my belly. What will he do to me? I truly have no idea.
He begins undressing me, stripping me of my gown and then my petticoats. I stand only in my stockings and corset—I did not bother with a shift or drawers.
He kisses me softly, exploring my mouth as tenderly as if it were the only plunder he planned. I melt into him, savoring the soft treatment, idly wondering what he will do next.
He reaches down between my legs and begins to stroke. I give a little exhale at this incursion. He has learned so well how to please me since our first time together. Soon, he has me shivering and panting.
“Come for me,” he says brusquely in my ear.
“I thought you were going to bed me properly, sir?”
He does not pause his touching. He continues stroking in and out of my channel.
“I have plans for you,” he says. “Do not think. Do not protest. Trust me.”
His fingers are concentrated on my clit, bringing me to the brink.
“Come for me, Annabelle,” he repeats.
It is not difficult to obey.
I break, crying out and burying my face into his shoulder. The cold air of the dining room causes gooseflesh to rise even as my skin is hot and overcome from his touch.
“Very good,” Alfred says with a smile, letting me clutch him. “Now I want you to lie on the table.”
He gestures towards the broad expanse of table covered only by a cloth. I lie horizontally across the table as he indicated—the table is so wide that only my feet hang off of it.
I assume he will fuck me, but to my surprise he kneels down and pulls me to the edge.
In a moment, his mouth is on my core, and he is teasing me softly towards continued arousal. I am still sensitive from my last orgasm, but his mouth works so gently that I experience no discomfort. And very soon, I am vibrating with pleasure once more. He eases two fingers inside of me and I moan.
He wants, I know, to wring another orgasm from me. And he will. I respond to him so readily and he has learnt my body so well. Part of me even wants to resist him, to prove that I can withstand this onslaught of generosity, but I can’t will myself to move away.
And I can resist no longer. His mouth is heaven. He angles me off the table perfectly, his strong hands around my arse, so that he can access every inch of me that he wants.
I come, shuddering, my hands gripping his hair, and my cries ringing out in the room.
He stands, looking down at me.
“Turn over,” he says. “Now.”
For a moment, I am confused. What does he mean?
When I don’t move immediately, he places his hands on my hips and guides me. And then I realize. He is not done with me yet.
I almost let out a whimper. I am not sure how much more I can take. The two orgasms have exhausted me. For some reason, they felt like exertions of emotion—and I feel so close to him that it gives me a sense of heightened danger. I feel a softness, an openness, to him that distresses me.
But then I hear him undo the placket of his trousers and his large, heavy cock is at my entrance. He has me bent over the table, my feet on the ground. I am completely splayed and open before him.
My core throbs anew at the thought, at his large hands gripping my thighs. I prop myself up on my arms to give him better purchase.
“Is this—” he says, “May I—”
“Yes,” I snap. I want it. Damn him, but I want him this way.
He enters me slowly, as if he knows that I fear his entrance, his tenderness, might break me. He fills me up inch by inch, creating pressure and firmness where there was emptiness.
“Fuck, Annabelle,” he swears from behind me. “You are so beautiful. So perfect.”
One hand grasps my left arse cheek, kneading the flesh there.
He withdraws and then fucks me shallowly, letting only the head of his cock dip in and out of my entrance. I circle another orgasm, crying out, and then fly over the edge. I convulse around his cock.
“Yes, fuck, Annabelle,” Alfred says. “Jesus Christ, you’re incredible. You come for me so beautifully.”
I groan at his words. He pumps in and out of me then, tilting my hips and arse into various angles.
“Do you want my seed?” he asks. “Shall I fill you with myself?”
“Yes,” I gasp. “I want all of you.”
I had not thought it possible that I would come again. But as Alfred nears his own orgasm, his movements growing more ferocious, wilder, another climax builds.
I don’t think I can handle it.
“No,” I moan,
He stills instantly.
“Annabelle, what is wrong?”
The lack of movement is horrible. My quim pulses, needing the stimulation that he was giving me.
“Nothing,” I pant. “Please. Continue.”
“Am I hurting you? Annabelle, please.”
He withdraws and turns me so that I am facing him.
“I have been too rough.”
“No, that’s not it—please, Alfred, continue. I want it.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He stands there, his eyes boring into me, his cock absurdly erect.
“You haven’t hurt me. Please. I need—”
My core is in a strange state of agitation. Despite three orgasms, he tantalized me anew with his cock, and it is actually uncomfortable to be in such a state of arousal with no relief.
“Why did you say no?”
I huff in frustration. Must he know everything about me? Will he always insist?
“I will not continue until you tell me. And I believe you. I won’t hurt you, Annabelle.”
“I didn’t think I would have another orgasm,” I say. “So when I felt myself tightening around you, I was merely surprised.”
“I don’t understand.”
I am frustrated. My core burns. A look at his cock has me hot and unsatiated all over. I need it—him.
“Every time you make me come, Alfred,” I say, irritation lacing my voice, “I feel—I feel things for you. You affect me. It’s not only when you make me—orgasm. Though I feel it particularly acutely then. I said no—because I didn’t want to—feel more. But I need it. Physically.”
Now he is smiling.
“You feel things for me?”
“Don’t,” I warn darkly.
He holds up his hands, a grin on his face. He will use this knowledge against me, surely—he will probably never stop giving me orgasms now. And unfortunately I am always hungry for his touch.
“You needn’t say another word, my darling,” he says. And I am thankful—he isn’t going to make me wait. “Lie back down.”
I obey and he winds his arms around my legs. He eases inside of me and begins to thrust in and out in an unhurried manner. I moan. I can feel my eyes rolling back into my head. The sensation is that exquisite.
“How is that, my love?” he murmurs—but his face tells me that he already knows the answer.
“Very—very good.”
“Are you going to come for me again, Mrs. de Lacey?”
I close my eyes, letting the pleasure build up within me.
And then his fingers brush against my clit, swollen and sensitive once more.
I open my eyes.
I come then, this last orgasm somehow deeper and more intense than the already exquisite ones that came before.
This time, however, I am able to savor Alfred as he watches me. He looks so gratified to see me wracked with pleasure. He swells even more.
“Are you going to give me all of your seed, Mr. de Lacey?” I tease once I catch my breath. “Are you going to get me with child?”
“Fuck, yes,” he says, bucking into me, his fingertips digging into my upper thighs.
“Then do it,” I say. “Make me yours.”
I have no idea where the words come from. I want him to come. And, I suppose, I want to feel like he is mine.
“You are mine,” he growls.
“Then prove it.”
He lifts me for better purchase and then pumps in and out of me wildly, the brusque movements so primal they thrill me.
And then he gives a shout and I realize he has found his spend. He convulses, groaning, and swears aloud, almost incoherently.
I cannot quite keep my eyes open. We are still joined, he is still coming down from his spend, but my eyelids feel leaden. I feel completely emptied, completely at peace, completely relaxed. The only moment that exists is this one with Alfred. It is my past, and my present, and my future.
Then Alfred swoops me up in his arms. I try to object—I am not a small woman and he might harm himself carrying me—but he shushes me.
If I was less tired, I may have truly stopped him, but I feel nearly drugged, as if the four orgasms he gave me were an opiate.
So I let him carry me out of the dining room, up the stairs, and into my—our—bedchamber.
He lays me on the bed there and I fall instantly asleep.
The last thing I remember are my husband’s arms closing around me.