The Wife #3
I didn’t sneak away; instead, my hand—traitorous, acting without permission—slid between my thighs.
The silk of my dressing gown was slick against my fingers, my core throbbing with a heat that had nothing to do with shame.
I pressed the base of my palm against my clitoris, the pressure sending a jolt through me.
Robert had shown me how much I liked pressure this way, and it seemed odd to experience it by myself.
My fingers curled, rubbing the fabric against my wetness, and I bit my lip to stifle a whimper.
Bramstock’s eyes flicked to me.
I froze.
He’d seen me?
The dark gaze locked onto mine, steady and unhurried, as if he had known I was there all along. There was no shock in his expression, no guilt. Just a smug, knowing look, as if this were perfectly ordinary—as if wives often stood in doorways watching their husbands being fucked by their valets.
My face burned. I should have been horrified. I was horrified.
But my fingers didn’t stop moving, stroking my wetness through the silk.
Bramstock’s rhythm didn’t falter. Robert was still lost in his own pleasure, unaware of my presence, his cock growing stiff again. The valet’s dark eyes held mine, his lips curling just slightly at the corners, as if amused by my predicament.
And then, holding my gaze, he changed his stroke.
A long, slow withdrawal—so slow I watched the whole glistening length of him emerge from my husband’s body—a pause, and a slower drive home. Robert keened. Bramstock’s eyes never left mine.
He did it again.
Displaying. There was no other word for it: he was presenting the act to its audience, unhurried as a jeweler laying out stones, and when he shifted his grip and pressed Robert’s leg up higher—opening the view, arranging my husband for my benefit—everything below my navel clenched.
He drew a sound out of Robert next, a high, cracked moan, produced as a musician produces a note, and glanced at me while it hung in the air.
The message could not have been plainer if he’d spoken it across the room. You see what I have of him, milady. You see what he gives me.
My fingers had gone still against the silk.
He noticed—of course he noticed! And his hips slowed—slowed nearly to stopping, his cock seated deep in my oblivious husband—and he waited, watching me, one brow lifting by a fraction.
I did not understand at first.
Until I moved my fingers.
And he resumed his movements, his unhurried fucking of my husband.
Oh Heavens.
Bramstock was taking his pace from me.
I tested it, scandalized at my own daring even as I did—slowing my hand and watching his rhythm gentle to match, quickening and being rewarded with strokes that made Robert sob. It was true. It was real.
My husband’s valet was conducting me from across the room, over my husband’s writhing body, without one word spoken—and I, Countess of Marchon, mistress of this house and everyone in it, stood in a doorway in my dressing gown keeping time like a hired musician.
I pressed harder against the silk and let him set the tempo.
I couldn’t look away.
His hands were rough on Robert’s legs, his grip possessive. The way he moved—confident, unapologetic—sent another pulse of heat through me. I had never seen a man so sure of himself, so utterly in command.
Robert groaned again, his body tightening around Bramstock’s cock.
The valet’s jaw clenched, his thrusts growing sharper, more deliberate.
I could see the moment I thought he might find release—the way his muscles tensed, the way his breath hitched—and I found myself leaning forward, my own fingers working faster between my legs.
Then—
A soft thud, and I gasped.
The book!
A Harlot’s Guide to the Forbidden and Delightful Arts slipped from under my arm, landing on the floor with a muffled noise. Bramstock’s eyes snapped to it, then back to me.
Robert didn’t notice. He was too lost in his own pleasure, his body still rocking with Bramstock’s movements. But the valet had recognized the book, I was certain of it.
And still, he didn’t stop.
His gaze burned into mine, dark and knowing. A challenge. A question.
What are you going to do now, Countess?
A proper lady would be disgusted by the challenge.
I suppose I’d lost my claim to being a proper lady, because I pressed my palm harder against my clitoris, my breath coming in ragged gasps as Bramstock’s cock drove into Robert again and again.
I was a wicked woman.
I was a wife gripping the doorframe, watching her husband being ruined by his valet, my body alight with forbidden desire.
And I couldn’t look away.
Perhaps it was the way Bramstock seemed in control of the situation. Perhaps because of the way he was dominating my husband’s arse, holding Robert’s legs up and open…
Either way, I felt compelled by his dark gaze; compelled to explore these wicked desires so recently awakened in me.
And as I held his gaze, his expression seemed to change; an invitation. Bramstock’s brow cocked, his head tipped just slightly, indicating Robert, locked in the throes of passion below him…as if inviting me—daring me—to participate.
Breathless, I shook my head, even as I ground my palm harder against my clitoris, chasing that pressure with small circles. I bit down hard on my lower lip to hide my moan…
And Bramstock’s lips twitched knowingly.
Without breaking his pace, he cleared his throat. “Your wife, milord.”
It was all he said, and it was enough.
Robert’s head, which had been thrown back, now turned, his arousal-glazed eyes searching for a moment before finding me in the doorway. I saw the moment he recognized me, understood what I was doing there.
Watching.
I expected condemnation or embarrassment. I expected him to feel the same shame I’d felt.
I did not expect the way, in a blink of an eye, his expression shifted from ecstasy to longing. To hunger.
He dropped his hold on his legs, one hand going to his cock to stroke it in time with Bramstock’s slow thrusts, and the other… The other hand, my naked, defiled husband stretched out to me.
“Louisa,” he rasped, his voice hoarse with need, beckoning me closer.
And I was a dutiful wife, was I not? That’s what I had been raised to do; obey my husband. And although I was still in a confused daze about these new acts and sensations, I had to trust Robert.
As if pulled by an invisible string, I stumbled forward into the room, my foot knocking against something. It wasn’t until Bramstock’s gaze dropped again that I realized it was the book.
A Harlot’s Guide to the Forbidden and Delightful Arts.
The valet’s movements had slowed, then stopped. He stood beside the bed, meeting my eyes over my husband’s body, his cock buried deep inside Robert. Both men glistened with a sheen of sweat, and I could smell the arousal in the air.
My, it was warm, wasn’t it?
I pressed my fingers into my wetness, and wondered why I couldn’t seem to take a full breath.
“Wha—” I began, but Bramstock interrupted me.
“Close the door, milady.”
I swallowed, and reacted instinctively to his order. Without looking away, I reached behind with my free hand and nudged the door shut. When it latched, he dropped his chin in approval, and I was mortified by the way my heart leapt at this unspoken praise.
“Louisa,” Robert groaned again, and instinctively, I stepped toward him, only to be stopped once more by Bramstock.
“The book, milady. Pick up the book.”
In a daze, I did, and when I bent, my fingers finally fell away from my arousal. I clutched the forbidden knowledge to my chest and straightened, uncertainly.
“Come here.” The valet’s tone left no doubt I would obey, so I did. “You’ve read your husband’s favorite book?”
On the word husband, Bramstock rocked his hips, sliding from Robert’s body, and back in again, making him groan as his fingers flexed toward me.
“I-I—” Mind made up, I hurried across the room to take Robert’s hand, then met Bramstock’s eyes defiantly. “I found it tonight. I…” I took a deep breath. “I read it.”
He nodded once, his lips curling just slightly as he rocked his hips again. Robert moaned, his eyes rolling back in his head as he stroked his own cock.
“Good, milady. Then you know that this practice is The Jester’s Delight.”
My husband’s hand spasmed around mine, and I dropped my gaze to his body. His spend was spread across his bare stomach, and his hand pumped his cock as if he were ready to spill again. My core throbbed at the sight, and I pressed my thighs together.
“Robert?” I whispered, and my only answer was another groan.
Why wouldn’t he look at me?
“The Jester’s Delight, milady,” Bramstock crooned again, sliding his cock into Robert’s stretched hole. “You read about it?”
My free hand shook as I held up A Harlot’s Guide. “I-I did.”
“It’s an equalizing position. It can be shared between two men or a man and a woman.” The valet’s tone was bland, as if he were discussing the weather. “Has the earl ever breached your arsehole?”
My gaze slammed upward to his once more. “No!”
His lips twitched again. “A pity. Well, we needn’t start tonight.”
What?
My breath caught as my eyes widened, and A Harlot’s Guide slid from my hold for the second time, to bounce against the mattress and hit the ground.
None of us looked down.
“Remove your gown, Countess.”
The command was soft. Silky.
I shuddered, glancing down at my husband, whose eyes were still closed.
“Yes, Louisa,” he moaned, fisting his cock as his valet violated his arse. “Join us.”
He was my husband, and I was a dutiful wife.
In a daze, I untangled my hand from his and reached for the ties of my robe. Robert didn’t once look at me, but Bramstock…
The man’s dark eyes swept over me, and I saw a flash of approval, of hunger in them, and for the first time all evening, I felt…
powerful. This man was a servant, one I’d ignored for months.
But tonight, seeing that he appreciated my body, that he wanted me to participate in this debauchery, made me feel desirable.