The Education of Ivy Leavold

by Sierra Simone

  “What’s wrong?” Julian murmured. “Your face—it has gone distant just now.”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” I whispered, even though I knew that wasn’t quite true. But I wasn’t sure what, exactly, was wrong. Save for a feeling. A glimmer of intuition.

  He brushed the backs of his fingers across my cheek. “You’ve gone somewhere in your mind, Ivy. Come back to me.”

  I took a deep breath and did as he asked, refocusing my thoughts on him and him alone. He lowered his lips to mine and I softened into him, letting his breath entwine with my own, molding my curves as tightly as I could against the lean lines of his body.

  He pulled back. “You were such a good pet last night,” he said, his concerned murmur slowly changing back to his usual commanding tone. “You let me fuck you so hard. And you liked it, didn’t you? You liked it when I took your ass. You came so beautifully, wildcat. I could feel every squeeze and flutter of your perfect body.”

  I nodded, pressing my head against his chest once more, feeling my breathing start to speed up. My dreams came back to me, the sneaking fear that someday I wouldn’t be able to perform, that I wouldn’t be able to be this good pet that he wanted. And with it came the twisted longing to be totally at one with him, even his darkness.

  Especially his darkness.

  “And now I will reward you,” he said. “You deserve to be spoiled.”

  Anticipation started to stir in my belly. “How will you reward me?”

  “You choose.”

  “Then I want you to fuck me,” I said without hesitation. I had none of these bothersome worries and anxieties when he was inside me. When we were together, our union felt so safe, indissoluble.

  He laughed to himself. “I know, but that’s not how this works. Today, I want you to do whatever you want with me. Today, I want you to take your pleasure selfishly. Use me however you like, because today, my mouth and cock and fingers belong only to you.”

  I bit my lip, confusion warring with my growing desire. He’d always been the dominant force in our affair, the one who shaped and directed our encounters, the one who determined when and how my orgasms would come. It was an alien feeling, being in control in bed. But my slowly throbbing clit and tightening nipples were not about to complain. I blinked away the last of my laudanum grogginess and then pushed him onto his back. The sheets pulled away from his shirtless body and I could see how hard he was in his trousers, a rigid outline that was mine to explore and use today.

  But I was sore—deeply sore—and I knew I would need to be ready for him. So instead of climbing on top of him, I positioned myself above his shoulders on my knees, so that my bare cunt was a mere inch from his face.

  “Yes,” he groaned, not waiting for me to lower myself, but instead raising up and capturing my sensitive flesh with his mouth, sucking and nibbling at turns. His tongue flicked over my clit, lightly at first, before moving to lick at my hole, plunging in and out. After the exhaustion of last night and with the honeyed influence of the opium still fogging me, I couldn’t support myself much longer, and my knees slid down so that I was now riding his face. I tried to raise myself back up, certain that he was uncomfortable, but he wrapped his arms around my thighs, trapping me to his face as he fucked me with his tongue.

  He made noises of deep satisfaction, noises of deep hunger, as if this were the only thing he ever wanted to do, and it was those noises—and the very prominent display of arousal behind me—that sent me over the edge. I bucked shamelessly against his face, forgetting about his comfort, forgetting about dignity, just riding his mouth as I quivered and clenched and panted, riding his face so hard that I could feel his stubbled chin grating across my flesh.

  I slowly stilled, looking down into his aventurine eyes as I did, leaning back so that my weight rested on his chest instead of his face.

  “Oh wildcat,” he breathed. “You don’t know how difficult it is not to flip you over and fuck you right now. Just tasting you makes me hard. But having you take my mouth like that makes me dangerous.”

  He wasn’t lying. His eyes blazed and his body trembled ever so slightly, as if he were fighting to restrain himself. I slid off him and then off the bed, indicating with a gesture that I wanted him to stay there. I wanted to look at him for a moment. At the expensive trousers tented by his cock and at the sharply muscled lines of his stomach, with that line of dark hair that led from his navel down past the line of his pants. His lips still wet from me.

  “You look a little wild right now, Ivy. What are you thinking about? Do you want to ride my face again? Or would you like to sink onto my cock and ride me that way? I know that beautiful cunt will be hungry until it’s filled. How will you let me fill it?”

  I stepped forward and tugged down his trousers. “Quiet,” I told him. “You’re distracting me.”

  He grinned, grinned like a man getting his pants taken off by a naked woman. “Good.”

  I climbed back on the bed and straddled him. “I’m going to fuck you until I come,” I told him. “But this time, you aren’t allowed to come until I say.”

  His smile faded, a dark and savage look replacing it. “Do you think that’s wise, wildcat?”

  “You said this was my reward, that I could do with you as I wish.” I slid my wet cunt along the underside of his shaft, which earned me a low hiss. “I’m choosing to use you. I’m going to use that thick cock to make me come, and then maybe I’ll think about letting you climax.”

  And with that, I guided his dick into my cleft, sinking down and groaning softly. Despite the delicious orgasm I’d just had, I was still very sore from last night and there was a sting of pain raking along my pleasure, pain from the rough fucking he’d given my pussy and also from the pressure this position exerted on the other part he’d fucked.

  He moved his hips underneath me, and I slapped his chest. “Stop it,” I said. “Stay still.”

  He didn’t look happy but he obeyed. I took advantage of this and began rocking myself against him, not moving up and down, but grinding my clit against him as hard as I could, moving faster and faster. I could see the muscles jumping and twitching in Mr. Markham’s arms and chest as he fought himself from grabbing me and fucking me on his own terms. It was so deliciously foreign, having control, and I felt almost giddy as I ground down harder and faster, reaching up with both hands to hold my sweaty hair off my neck, which lifted my tits higher. His gaze was glued to them as I moved, as I became less graceful and more ferocious with my movements, my thoughts dying away as some primal part of me took over. There was only the building tightness low in my belly, only his thick cock spurring me on towards an encroaching summit.

  “That’s it,” he growled. “Come, kitten. Come on me. Let me see how much you love my cock.”

  I did love it and I did come, slow spasms of pleasure gathering and gathering as I bore down on his thick member, impaled myself on it like I had nothing else to live for, like there was nothing else but this one perfect part of this perfect man that I loved. And then, like a firework imported from the east, I ignited. Lit up and blew up in explosions of red and blue and gold, crying out as my womb clenched and squeezed around him.

  He waited—impatient and hungry but still as a statue—as I rode out my pleasure on him, rode it hard and heedlessly, not caring what I looked like or sounded like. I slowly slumped forward, half lying on his chest with my face near his ear, his stone-hard organ still buried inside me.

  His voice was low. “Wildcat. I’m feeling quite vicious at the moment. Are you going to let me come?”

  “I want to see it,” I said, moving off him.

  “What?”

  “I want to see you come. I want to see you fill me with it.”

  His cock throbbed. “Is that so?”

  There was a mirror attached to the table that held his water ewer and basin. I moved a chair in front of the mirror and then angled the mirror to the side so that I would be able to see its reflection if someone were in front of me. I sat on
the edge of the chair and spread my legs. “Come here.”

  He was there in a moment, his hair tousled and his manhood almost painfully veined and purpled as he knelt in between my legs.

  “Put it inside of me,” I ordered.

  “Christ,” he muttered and closed his eyes. “I can’t—when you talk like that—” He gripped my thighs, not moving. “I almost come when you say things like that.”

  “I don’t care,” I told him honestly. “Do what I tell you.”

  His jaw clenched and his eyes burned with something that looked very close to anger, and then he stabbed inside of me with one brutal stroke. I arched my back and whimpered with delight, with need. He stayed inside me for a moment, waiting for my next command.

  “Make yourself come,” I said breathlessly. “But come hard. I want to see it spilling out of me.”

  “Shit,” he swore, drawing himself out and then slamming back into me. Ruthless thrusts, barbaric thrusts, and God, nothing had ever felt better. Each slam pounded against my clitoris and each stroke dragged his wide crown against something inside that made me toes curl.

  “Are you going to come again?” he asked, still pounding into me. “You like it when you’re fucked hard? You need it, don’t you? You need to be fucked by me all the time. Such a naughty kitten, needing to come so much.”

  My fingernails were scratching his neck now, his shoulders and his chest, not in protest but in the helpless animalism he always brought out in me.

  “I’m going to…” Even if I could have breathed, I wouldn’t have been able to finish my sentence, I was so far gone.

  “Watch,” he said. “This is what you wanted, right? You wanted to see yourself filled up with cum. So look, wildcat, because I’m going fill you up good.”

  He used one hand to grip my jaw and turn my gaze on the mirror, which showed me his tight ass pumping between my legs. I pulled my legs up, bracing my feet on the edge of the chair and exposing my pussy. Mr. Markham didn’t miss a single thrust, didn’t adjust his rhythm in the slightest. He kept fucking me, and now I could properly see the wide, slick cock pushing in and out of my pink folds.

  “Here it comes,” he growled, and then his thrusts went long and violent, his head dropping as he pumped into me. I watched in the mirror, entranced at how my body responded to him, the way my cunt welcomed him to the root even as I could see his full load beginning to spill out of me. He grunted and shuddered, finally looking down at where we were joined, swallowing hard as he saw his seed dripping out of me.

  “Did you like that?” he asked, reaching between us to stroke my clit. My orgasm—held temporarily at bay by my fascination—began to surge forward again and I rocked against his hand and his still-hard penis. “Do you like it when I come inside of you?”

  I nodded, unable to speak.

  “Good,” he said, his voice possessive and uncivilized. “Because I’m going to fill you up every day for the rest of your life.”

  And then I exploded once again, filled with him, held by him, every part of me his, and yet still I wanted more.

  Rain was supposed to be bad luck on a wedding day.

  I thought about this as I paced in my room, clad in a white and gold dress that cost more than most people made in a single year. It had elbow-length sleeves and a high collar in back, a collar that plunged into a low neckline in front—daring for a morning wedding, but Mr. Markham had wanted the design and I frankly didn’t care. And a secret part of me had to admit it was delightful to wear such a beautiful dress. It sparkled and glinted and rustled, the thick drapes and folds of the skirt making me feel like a princess out of a long-ago tale.

  Of course, no princess had an attendant quite as annoying as I’d managed to acquire. Mrs. Harold, the rector’s wife, had shown up this morning, fluttering her eyelashes and telling me how she just knew I wouldn’t have anyone to help me get ready and how that was such a crime.

  And what could I do? I didn’t have anybody to help me dress, and as tiresome as I found her, I did need the help with the elaborate gown and with my hair.

  “You look like a vision,” she told me, handing me a lacy gold shawl to drape from my elbows. “Mr. Markham will be so taken.”

  “Mm.” It was hard to focus, hard to concentrate. Today was so permanent, so final, and it felt strange to make such a move when I still felt uncertain about so much. I watched Mrs. Harold’s cerulean dress swirl around her feet as she went back to the chair she’d been sitting on. She had very large feet for such a slender woman.

  “He’s a difficult man to please,” Mrs. Harold said. “Aren’t you worried about what your marriage will be like?”

  I was still staring at the hem of her dress, swaying and lifting as she sat, her long pointed shoes exposed. “No,” I said distractedly. “I’m not worried.” Something was fitting itself together in my mind, something she had told me weeks ago. And I was an idiot for not seeing it before.

  “Mrs. Harold?” I asked. “Didn’t you tell me that you had heard about Mr. Markham laughing when he found Violet’s body?”

  She blinked at the abruptness of the question, and I watched with interest as her eyes slid away from my face to the corner of the room. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, the servants saw it. But, my dear, isn’t it a little late to be worrying about all this? You’re due at the church in an hour.”

  “But the servants didn’t see it.” I stepped closer to her, her position on the chair creating a height difference that obviously made her uncomfortable. I stared down at her, at her pretty if shrewish features. “You saw it, didn’t you? It was you at the edge of the field. Your footprints in the frost.”

  She opened her mouth and then closed it. Mrs. Harold, at a loss for words. But I didn’t have time to marvel. “I saw the sketches of the footprints at the police station,” I told her. “The feet so large they suspected they belonged to a man. But they belonged to you, didn’t they? The question is, why were you there? And why did you lie?”

  She stood suddenly, her face white and pinched. “You listen to me,” she hissed. “You are about to marry a dangerous man. You have no idea the things he’s done, the things he’s willing to do—he is beyond vicious. He is evil.”

  She took a breath. “Yes, I was there,” she finally admitted. “I was leaving the house early, and I saw him walking out from the stables. At first, I thought he was looking for Violet—he was calling her name and running, but then I knew that he must have known what happened, because he ran straight for where Raven was standing. Straight for where Violet’s body was. And there was no way I would tell him I saw—I knew how violent he was. Who knows what he would have done to me?” Her voice was high-pitched and strange, and there was more than fear in it, there was experience, somehow.

  I had to know. “Did he really laugh?”

  “No.” Her eyes met mine. “He howled. Like a beast.”

  “So you lied.” I don’t know why I was angry that the town gossip had lied—it was like being angry that a hawk had eaten a rabbit. But still, on Julian’s behalf, I felt furious.

  Her chin tipped upward defiantly. “The essence of it is true—he didn’t care that Violet had died. He wanted to hurt her. You have no idea how much he wanted her to suffer. He loved it when she cried. When she begged. His howl could have been a howl of victory, not of grief.”

  “You don’t know these things,” I said. “How could you?”

  “Oh, I know.” And for some reason, she was crying now. “And you do too. Let me ask you, Miss Leavold, has he ever treated you in a way that society would consider unacceptable? Has he ever made you afraid? Has he ever shown desire at the sight of your fear?”

  “I—” Yes. The answer was yes. But I couldn’t answer.

  “Congratulations on your nuptials, Miss Leavold. You are marrying a monster, and what’s worse, you’re doing it knowing full well that you’ve been warned. Don’t expect me to come to your funeral too.”

  I was the one who sat now, unable to speak, as Mrs. H
arold left without saying a goodbye.

  Thirty minutes later, and I was waiting for Gareth to pull the carriage around for me, so I could join my future husband at the church. My hands were shaking. Shaking hard.

  Was I ready for this? Could I be ready for this? Mrs. Harold had shaken me deeply. Has he ever shown desire at the sight of your fear?

  Yes.

  But I had also felt desire in conjunction with my fear, so what did that make me? Was I a monster like he was? He was no gentleman, but I was no lady. Ladies didn’t crave the things I craved.

  No. I had made my choice three weeks ago in the lane to Stokeleigh. I’d decided to stay, decided to trust that I was safe. Decided to trust that whatever happened the night Violet died, Mr. Markham at least hadn’t been the one to directly take her life. And that had to count for something, a small weight to bear against my ever-present doubts.

  Besides, I thought as I turned and made my way downstairs, Mr. Markham had showed me nothing but passion, love, devotion, generosity, and domination. All things I needed. He’d taken me into his home, into his bed, protected me, and was even trying to make an honorable woman out of me by offering me his hand in marriage. There was nothing about him in our time together that indicated he would hurt me, at least in a way I didn’t want. He had even promised to tell me the truth—and let me leave if that truth became too much.

  Yes. I am sure this is what I want.

  I descended the stairs into the foyer, where the front doors were already open and waiting, revealing the thundering sky and the sheets of silver-gray rain. I thought I could hear the sounds of the carriage coming up from the stables, but it was impossible to tell over the low roar of the storm.

  “Miss Leavold.”

  I started, surprised to see the white-haired man from York. He’d been standing in the doorway to the parlor, concealed by the rainy morning shadows, but the fresh drops on his jacket indicated that he hadn’t been inside long.