The Awakening of Ivy Leavold

by Sierra Simone

  He moved to the other breast, and I moaned out loud. He lifted his head. “If you keep making noises like that, I won’t be able to stop myself from taking you right now.”

  That was exactly what I wanted, and I meant to say so, but then his fingers brushed against my center and my words were lost. He petted, he played and he teased, until my hips were pushing up against his hand, begging and begging.

  He moved his mouth down, kissing a circle around my navel, until he reached my mound, which he blanketed with soft kisses. The first time his tongue swept across my clitoris, I thought I would weep. His tongue caressed me again, slowly at first, then in quick flutters, punctuated by kisses further down, where he’d lick inside of me. And then gently, so gently that I didn’t realize it was happening, his finger slipped inside of me. As he continued sucking on my clit, his finger crooked in just the right way, pressing against a place that made me buck my hips and pant. And then there were two fingers pressing, and his mouth hot and sucking, tongue dancing, and the knowledge that in a matter of moments he would be buried inside of me.

  I came.

  Waves of pleasure rolled through me, and he kept his mouth on me the whole time, not pulling away until my body had entirely stilled. He straightened up and ran his fingers down my torso, parting my legs with his hands so that I was all spread out for him. His jaw was working and his face was flushed, and I knew it was taking everything he had not to rush. He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off, throwing it to the floor without looking where it landed, and then he unbuttoned his trousers, freeing his thickness, which jutted out proudly from his narrow hips.

  Through all the times he’d touched me, and I him, I had never seen him naked. And the sight was impossibly perfect: his tall body banded with slender muscles, his stomach flat, his legs powerful and long. And his cock—though I had seen it before, felt it before, I was still mesmerized by it. By its thickness and length, by the wide crest of its crown. My body warmed once more at the thought of it touching me and penetrating me, but my mind also registered a dim nervousness.

  “You’re so big,” I whispered.

  He didn’t answer my unspoken question. “Do you trust me?” he asked again.

  I nodded, biting my lip. He crawled over me, his cock brushing against my stomach as he leaned down to take my lips. My taste still lingered on him, and I marveled at that—I was tasting myself and him at the same time. He stretched his body over mine, and I felt the unmistakable heat and hardness of him brush against my pussy.

  My breath hitched. I’d only been this close to him once before, in the hallway a few nights ago, when he’d almost lost the war against himself and taken me up against the wall. The firelight flickered along his body, casting soft tessellations of light over his wide shoulders and powerful arms, and I looked down to see how his body looked over mine, poised to make it his own. The sight made me shudder. It was so sinful, so wrong. Never had I felt more at his mercy, and never had I felt more aroused.

  He moved again, and again I felt his cock against me, but it was no longer light and teasing, but pressing. As I watched, my breath stitching uneven patterns, he took himself in his hand and rubbed his crown against my pussy. “Please,” I said. “Please.”

  “Please what, wildcat?” His voice wasn’t teasing, it was demanding. He wanted to hear me say how much I wanted this, wanted him, and I didn’t deny him.

  “Please…I want you inside of me.”

  “You want me to fuck you?”

  I didn’t hesitate. “Yes.” And then he inched himself inside, ever so slightly, no more than he had been two nights before.

  “Look me in the eyes,” he ordered. I tilted my head up, immediately caught up in his gaze. There was lust there, but there was something else too, and my heart thrilled at the sight of it. I had never allowed myself to think that Mr. Markham would feel anything for me but sexual desire, but right now, at this moment, I thought I saw something more. Something softer and deeper.

  I smiled up at him, and he bent down and took my mouth in a savage kiss, as if my smile was something to be adored and punished at the same time. He pulled up. “Watch me,” he demanded. “Watch this.”

  And then he pushed himself all the way inside, pushing past that initial point of resistance, and I gasped at the sharp and unexpected pain.

  His hand found mine. “Do you need to stop?”

  I shook my head. There was so much pressure, so much fullness, but also so much pleasure laced through it all, and I didn’t want him to stop.

  He went slowly, and even though I was so aroused, so wet, there was still some discomfort as he slid in and out. He groaned, his hands knotted in the coverlet by my head, as if he were straining to go so slowly. “You are so fucking tight,” he said. There was something like a threat in his voice, the threat that he wouldn’t be able to hold on to this uncharacteristic tenderness much longer.

  He ducked his head down to suck on my breasts, his movements still careful and slow. And then he reached down and stroked my bud, softly, lightly. The sudden rush of sensation, of sheer pleasure, made me shudder, and Julian groaned again as he felt me quiver underneath him.

  “Tell me,” he said huskily. “Tell me what it feels like.”

  “I feel so…full,” I whispered. There was no other word for it. He filled me and stretched me, and every time he moved, delight and pain spiked through me. “But at the same time, I want more. More of this. More of you.”

  He angled his hips upward, and he brushed against a spot inside of me that made me whimper. “You have all of me, Miss Leavold.” He started moving faster now, his cock hitting that place over and over, and his thumb still making expert circles over my clitoris. The pain subsided, and all that was left was pleasure, pleasure so deep, so intense, that it barely compared to anything I’d felt before at his touch. This was terrifying and transformative, deep and wild, and I realized I was moving under him, becoming more and more desperate with each stroke.

  “Oh,” I breathed. “Oh, please…”

  He looked down at me, hair spilling across the pillow, my back arching and my legs opening, and I saw the darkness unfurling in his eyes. “I want to feel you come around my cock,” he said. “I want to feel you clenching around me.”

  My body responded to his command, tensing tighter and tighter, and when I looked down at us, at him moving in and out of me, at our legs tangled together, at how exposed I was, how vulnerable and wanton I was at the same time—I came once more, an orgasm more powerful than any I’d ever felt, shuddering and tugging down to my very core.

  “That’s it,” he said. And then: “Forgive me.”

  With his knees, he nudged my legs farther apart and drove into me. I cried out—half in rapture, half in pain—the waves of my orgasm leaving me impossibly sensitive, and he met my eyes. There was no tenderness there, no checking in to see how I was faring, there was only lust and raw desire. Only shadows.

  “I wanted you from the moment I saw you,” he growled as he thrust into me viciously, repeatedly. “I wanted you like this, your virgin cunt mine and mine alone. I wanted to feel you come around me. I wanted to come deep inside you, to mark you as mine.”

  How could he not know? “I am yours, Julian.”

  As he crushed his lips to mine, I felt his whole body stiffen. He groaned into my mouth as he filled me with his heat, pulsing and throbbing, and the sound of his breath as he came was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard.

  We lay there, his body heavy on mine, his face buried in my neck. I ran my fingers through his thick hair, feeling a happiness that I had never felt before. I had often felt the untamed peace of swimming and climbing, and the gratification of a good book and a quiet room. But this feeling—it was fragile and floating, unmoored from all practicality, all the things that I knew to be true about men and men with money. Unmoored from my fierce desire for independence and liberty. I loved Mr. Markham, and now he was here, in my arms, and I could easily let myself believe that was
enough.

  After a long minute, he stood and pulled on his trousers. Without asking, he lifted me in his arms again, setting me down on a chair near the fire, then going to his washing table and wetting a linen towel. He came back and knelt in front of me, gently parting my legs. Slowly, he began cleaning me, starting with my inner thighs and working his way to my center, and when he pulled the towel away, I saw that it was tinged pink.

  I had bled; it was a moment that was supposed to be reserved for my wedding night, but I didn’t care. I knew no wedding night awaited an impoverished orphan—at least not a wedding night with a man I truly wished to be with. But despite the transgressive nature of tonight, the shock of the blood and its confirmation that it all had been real—I still felt that fragile happiness. And no bridegroom had ever been tenderer to his bride than Mr. Markham was to me in this moment.

  The towel was soft and cool against my skin, and when he finished, I almost asked him to keep going. Instead, I waited as he brought me his dressing gown, a heavy thing of gold and crimson brocade, trimmed with velvet. As I stood to pull it over my shoulders, to tie the sash around the pleated folds, a knock sounded at the door. I cast my eyes around, desperate for a place to hide—I’m sure Mr. Markham didn’t want the servants to know what he was doing with his dead wife’s cousin.

  “Have a seat, Miss Leavold. I assure you, my servants are very discreet.”

  I doubted that, but I was also buoyed by the fact that Mr. Markham wasn’t ashamed to have it known that I was in his chambers. He wasn’t ashamed of me.

  The door opened and Gareth stood outside. “Sir, I hate to bother you this late, but—” His eyes lit on me, wrapped in the dressing gown, my hair tousled and my face undoubtedly flushed. Something moved under his expression—jealousy? judgment?—but whatever it was had vanished before I could properly assess it.

  “There’s a problem,” he continued, studiously avoiding me. “One of the horses has escaped from the stables.”

  “What do you mean, escaped?” Mr. Markham demanded. “Which horse was it?”

  “Yours, sir. Raven.” Gareth sounded genuinely regretful. Horses were expensive, and beyond that, I knew that Mr. Markham treasured Raven and rode him whenever he had the chance. And, I remembered from that long ago conversation with Gareth by the dry stone wall, it was the horse that had killed Violet.

  “How could you let such a thing happen?” The man who had so tenderly washed me was gone, replaced by the furious landowner I now saw. The muscles in his back and shoulders tensed, and for a moment, I thought he was going to strike something or throw something or shout, but his hands balled at his sides and he mastered his anger. “I’ll come at once.”

  He didn’t look at me as he grabbed his shirt and jacket, and he didn’t say a word in farewell as he left.

  I was completely alone.

  For several moments, I sat utterly still, letting the events of the past hour soak into me, unable to process how everything had happened so fast, how I’d awoken a virgin and now found myself naked and alone in Mr. Markham’s rooms. It all seemed so hazy and unreal, like a dream half-forgotten upon waking, but the raw ache between my legs testified how actual tonight had been. I’d done it, done the only thing I’d wanted to do since I’d met Mr. Markham—and the one thing an unwed lady should never do.

  But, of course, that bothered me very little. I had no potential marriage to throw away. In fact, since my sole means of survival were currently in the hands of Mr. Markham, perhaps giving him myself was the best thing I could do for my future. I stood, a smile playing on the edges of my lips as I allowed myself to fantasize about a future with Mr. Markham. The two of us, spending our days entwined here at Markham Hall, seeing and feeling and tasting nothing but each other.

  Mr. Markham’s rooms were quite large, in the traditional medieval way. A sitting room with a massive fireplace adjoined the bedchamber itself, where the rumpled blankets and sheets told the story of what had happened there tonight. My pulse raced when I saw the small splotches of blood on the snowy linen…would Mrs. Brightmore guess?

  She won’t have to, I told myself. Gareth had seen me, and if anything was certain in this life, it was that servants loved to gossip. Soon the entire household would know that I’d let Mr. Markham have me, and while I didn’t necessarily feel ashamed, I did bristle at the thought that they might now consider me weak-willed.

  I found myself pacing, my euphoria now dampened, and as if one nervous thought spawned another, I found myself also wondering at Mr. Markham’s departure. I knew he had to find his horse, obviously, but without even a word of goodbye?

  A memory of a book floated to the surface of my mind, a novel about a woman who failed in her chastity and ultimately died of consumption. I remembered the character leaving her lover’s rooms quietly after every assignation because it wasn’t seemly for such women to presume upon a man’s time. They had one purpose, one task, and once that was fulfilled, they only stayed at the explicit request of their paramour.

  I pulled the dressing gown tighter around myself, suddenly wondering if I’d made an error, a gaffe that displayed my total ignorance of society. Should I have left immediately? Was Mr. Markham disgusted with me, bored with me, annoyed that I had lingered after the act?

  Surely not. He had carried me from the bed, cleaned me and dressed me. These were idle frets…yet they seemed reluctant to wither away, the roots already finding purchase in my mind.

  Besides, I had gone into this with my eyes open. I knew exactly what kind of arrangement this was. If I found myself being treated like a prostitute, well…what else could I have expected?

  A picture on the mantle caught my eye. I stepped closer, taking it in my hands. It was a small oil painting of Mr. Markham in profile, very cunningly done and by someone with a lot of talent and training. I bit my lip when I saw the name at the corner—spiky and unmistakable.

  Molly O’Flaherty.

  She had painted this and given it to him. And he had displayed it prominently in his room. A swell of jealousy and the horrible recollection of hearing the two of them kissing—the knowledge that those had not been their first kisses, not even close—and all of a sudden, the giant room seemed too small, the velvet curtains too dark and the fire too hot. I went to the door and ran down the hallway to the stairs, consumed with a single thought: outside.

  I pushed past doors and through rooms, and then I found myself in the garden outside, the stars glittering in the clear sky above. The moon was still high—it was not that late, despite the feeling that I had lived an entire lifetime since supper. If the houseguests had been here, the night’s revelries would have only just begun. I had no shoes and only the dressing gown separating my skin from the night air, but I didn’t care, and I knew the darkness would shroud me from the gazes of anyone who could watch.

  I went down to the stream, trying not to think of Molly and her bright eyes, her shipping fortune, her wild history with Mr. Markham, and failing wildly. He had held her at a distance, he claimed he only wanted me, but then he had that picture in his room. She was so much better suited to him—already part of his circle and wealthy—not to mention that her charisma and vitality enchanted even me when she wished it to. Again, who was I to be jealous of her? I knew the dynamic of my relationship to Mr. Markham; I had no claim on him. It was illogical to feel possessive just because I’d been foolish enough to fall in love.

  But, I argued with myself, he sometimes seemed as infatuated with me as I was with him. I knew I wasn’t imagining that. He said so himself.

  But then again, it wasn’t a matter of interest or attraction. Molly herself had told me that. It was a matter of duration. How long until Mr. Markham grew tired of me and moved on—or worse, back to Molly? Would he allow me to continue living at his home? More importantly, would I be able to go on after losing him?

  When I finally reached the water, I was near tears—tears that had so many causes and influences that I couldn’t push them down or away�
�but I wasn’t prone to crying, and so they remained on the edge of spilling over, burning my eyes and tightening my throat. I sat on a stone, my breathing erratic and forced, remembering all the other things that should have warned me away from the tortured man who had accepted responsibility for my life. Wispel’s words, Mrs. Harold’s words, Gareth’s words. Even his own words.

  They said he murdered Violet. That he possibly murdered his first wife.

  Was I in danger of more than having my heart broken?

  The night brought no answers, no comforts, except that my restlessness and confusion had enough space to breathe. I paced the moonlit path by the stream; I swam; I tried to rest in the grass, but peace was elusive. I couldn’t go back to the house—not now. I couldn’t face his empty bed—or mine. Instead, I listened to the owls and bats flapping through the dark, to badgers and foxes rustling through the woods, to the water spilling its eternally cheerful spill.

  Perhaps these doubts were galvanizing. They were all pointing to something—that either my heart or my life were in danger, and that perhaps I should leave. But where? I would have to search for employment, and at that, I balked. Being a governess was the most respectable thing I could think of, but to be shackled to the caprices of a wealthy family, my time no longer my own…

  And I didn’t want to leave Mr. Markham and his dark, somber house. No matter how bad he was for me, I couldn’t truly fathom extricating myself from him. I craved him too much.

  The sky darkened and lightened, finally blushing slightly at the edges of the horizon, and I decided that I should go back up to the house. I was cold and stiff and weary, and there were no answers out here. Only more doubts.

  As I took to the path once again, I heard footsteps. I froze, my mind flashing to old stories of highwaymen and ghosts, but it was Mr. Markham who emerged out of the gloom, breathless as if he’d been running.