Chapter 7 #3
In for a penny, in for a pound.
“And miss the show?” said Frances, raising one eyebrow. “I believe this could be quite educational for a novice like myself. It’s very cozy in here. Should I remove my gown?”
“No,” he snapped. “I mean…that is not necessary. Let’s greet Lady Warenne, then have breakfast.”
When they approached the countess, she beamed and set down her pastry, before giving them a friendly wave. “Good morning, Dash! Madame Jones! How are you both?”
Frances smiled, trying not to stare at the long cock Lady Warenne was idly playing with.
It continued to annoy that Dashford had not yet let her examine his shaft up close.
Or take it in her mouth. Cocks were fascinating in the way they grew and hardened and spurted seed so forcefully; surely a mistress should have intimate knowledge of every inch.
“Good morning, my lady. Last night was wonderful. But I would be happier if Dash let me suck his cock. I’ve been so diligent with the practice phallus you gave me; I believe I could do quite well. ”
Her husband made a choking sound. “The what?”
She twirled a lock of red hair, just managing to suppress a giggle. “Practice phallus. How can one expect to learn without the correct tools?”
Juliette’s grin widened. “You are my best student, cherie. If Dash will not oblige you, I have many, many gentlemen with cocks of all sizes who will happily fuck your mouth.”
“They will not,” Dashford snarled.
Frances exchanged a glance with the countess, whose eyes were positively gleaming at his outrage.
“Forgive me, my lady,” she said placidly, “it seems my master has refused permission. Give our regards to Warenne when he has finished his play. Dash, if you do not feed me at once, I shall discard all my clothing and cartwheel along the dining table.”
“Bon appetit,” trilled Juliette, as she turned her gentleman table over, straddled him, and sank down onto his shaft. “Ooooooh.”
Although Dashford was firmly tugging her away toward the buffet, Frances couldn’t help watching the countess brace one hand on her lover’s chest as she ruthlessly rode him. A lady on top? How very interesting. It was astonishing what could be learned in the space of a few days.
“What do you like to eat?” asked Dashford, picking up a plate.
Frances perused the buffet, her mouth watering at the selection.
Toasted bread and butter with a variety of preserves, what looked like a hearty porridge with raisins and burnt sugar, coddled eggs, thinly sliced ham, tomato halves sprinkled with herbs, fried potato, even some strips of rare beef and mushrooms in a cream sauce. “I should probably just have—”
“My question was what you liked to eat.”
A feeling of warmth rushed through to the tips of her toes.
Choice. Yes, at this house party, all the ladies present had the power to choose, and it was quite, quite splendid.
“I am very hungry so would like coddled eggs, ham, fried potato, and toasted bread with raspberry preserves. Oh, and chocolate to drink,” Frances finished breathlessly.
Dashford didn’t so much as blink, merely filled plates for them both, and carried their breakfast to a small vacant table. A footman poured tea for Dashford and chocolate for her, then they were alone.
For several minutes they ate the delicious food in surprisingly companionable silence, until her husband set his fork down. “How are you…finding the house party?”
Frances almost answered with a pithy reply, but hesitated at the sight of Dashford’s fingers drumming on the table, something he never did.
Her answer might actually be important.
She set her own fork down and dabbed at her mouth with a starched napkin. “There is nowhere else I’d rather be. I had high hopes on my arrival, but they have already been exceeded. Although this is all very new, I find I am…comfortable. And eager for more carnal experiences.”
“You are?” Dashford leaned forward, his gaze intent. “But on the library desk, you said don’t…uh, never mind.”
Frances stilled, her mind swirling. He’d actually broken character! But his words were confusing, too. She’d said don’t stop…Oh God. What if the second word hadn’t passed her lips? Or he hadn’t heard it? No wonder Dashford had halted so abruptly!
“I must ask forgiveness, then, for in my head I said “don’t stop,” Frances began slowly, so there would be no further misunderstanding.
“I cannot return to a society marriage. I want this. Intimate breakfasts. Intimate baths and tender care. Conversations of substance. To be provocative until I’m punished; my husband restraining me until I’m helpless, making me beg and making me scream with pleasure. ”
He nodded gravely, his handsome face difficult to read. “Thank you for your honesty. I truly appreciate such candor. Have you eaten enough? We should go and get ready for the sleigh ride.”
Frances looked away, wanting to hurl a plate in frustration. So, so close, yet so far once again. She could hardly be plainer, could she?
What did Dashford truly want?