The Bride of Larkspear: A Fitzhugh Trilogy Erotic Novella

by Sherry Thomas

  My heart pounding, I get off the bed and force myself to count to ten. Then I remember that I have not come unprepared. That, in fact, I have come perfectly prepared.

  I take out the glass dildo from my pocket. It is small, no longer and no thicker than my index finger.

  I look back at her. As if sensing my gaze on her, she speaks again. “I let him fuck me—I have no choice. And he fucks me relentlessly. But when I am alone, I wash off all traces of him and think of you. I imagine your fingers spreading my cunt, your tongue licking me in my favorite place, and your cock penetrating me to rapturous depths.”

  Dear God, she is good. I open the vial of oil I’ve brought along and lubricate the dildo, my hands trembling only slightly. Then I tip the vial over her bottom and let a small stream fall into the crack.

  She lets out a small yelp of surprise. “Of course you would. You have always been endlessly inventive.”

  I massage her rosebud.

  “Yes, exactly.” Her words are now breathy moans, but she has never been one to give up. “I remember the last time you did this, I—”

  I push the dildo halfway up her anus. Her body seizes. Her mouth opens wide. I push the dildo farther in, until only its base protrudes from between the cheeks of her buttocks.

  Her breaths come in hitches and rasps. While she remains on her knees, her body trembling and adjusting to the invasion of the dildo, I undress, climb into bed behind her, and place the head of my cock against her cunt. She is drenched. I sink deep into her in one motion, groaning with the hot, sleek pleasure of her body.

  She no longer censors herself. Those erstwhile tiny little escaped whimpers have turned into full-on moans and screams. And instead of mere quiescence, she is pushing her bottom back against me, compelling me to fuck her deeper, harder.

  I don’t know whether it is fury or thrill coursing through my veins. It has ever been this way with her, feelings that should be simple and straightforward turning complicated, even twisted. I only know that I cannot live without this. I cannot live without her.

  Her climaxes come in voluptuous waves, one building upon the next, together pushing toward that violent crash. And I crash directly into her, my seed erupting endlessly, this collision of ours as much one of passion as one of desperation.

  I desperately want to make her mine. And she desperately wants to avoid ever becoming mine.

  AFTERWARD, I RELEASE HER WRISTS, hold her in my arms, and, with her blindfold still on, kiss her for a long time. She does not return my kiss, but she does not speak in mockery. Nor does she tell me she is pretending that I am someone else when I once again make love to her, slowly, tenderly—for a while, at least, until my lust—our lust—burns out of control and we again revert to animals.

  In need. In frenzy.

  In love.

  Me, at least.

  Chapter Four

  DAWN BEGAN WITH A MISTY DRIZZLE. By the time I return—early—from my ride, rain is coming down in a steady shower, accompanied by flashes of lightning and rolls of thunder.

  I find Grisham outside my door, anxiously waiting for me. Most of the time he is high-spirited and adventuresome, and I see little of him except in passing, as he runs about showing himself a good time around the estate. But when the sky cracks open with booms of thunder, Grisham turns into a whimpering pup and follows on my heels for as long as the weather remains loud and violent.

  “I ought to chase you out of here, Grisham,” I admonish him even as I crouch down to scratch him behind his ears. “Why, yesterday afternoon when I came across you in the woods, you didn’t even stop to say ‘arf arf.’ You just zoomed past me after that rabbit. And now you come with your tail between your, well, next to your leg, and you want the comfort and security of my manly presence?”

  Grisham barks eagerly.

  “It’s true what they say: Irony is lost on you, my boy. All right, I forgive you. Now give me a minute change out of my wet clothes. We’ll go down for breakfast and I’ll let you steal some bacon from my pl—”

  Some instinct makes me turn my head. Farther down the corridor, my bride stands by her half-open door, watching me. For no reason at all, my face grows hot.

  And is it my imagination or is her face also turning red?

  I straighten. “Lady Larkspear.”

  She returns a perfunctory nod, steps back inside, and closes the door. I remain where I am for long minutes, before I realize I am still wet and that Grisham is still waiting for his bacon.

  I sigh and rub the top of his head. “Come on.”

  WHEN I LEAVE MY ROOMS again, I look toward my bride’s door. It remains firmly closed, no one observing me, openly or surreptitiously.

  Disappointed—even though I knew she was not going to be there—I set out for the breakfast parlor, Grisham at my side. Only to come to a standstill on the threshold of the room. She is at the table, a slice of toast in one hand, a book in the other.

  Grisham barks to announce himself.

  She looks up, her gaze sliding over me as if I am part of the wall, to land with a smile upon Grisham. “Well, well, if it isn’t the true master of Larkspear. Come here, Grisham.”

  Grisham needs no further encouragement to bounce toward her chair, tail wagging furiously. She grabs his head and scratches his neck. “There’s my boy. There’s a good boy. How did it go with your lady yesterday? Did you have any luck? You did, didn’t you? You look smug, you dog.”

  “How do you know about his lady?” I can’t help my question.

  She glances sideways at me. “Oh, doesn’t everyone know he is hot for his little bitch?”

  My face scalds again. Fortunately there are no servants about to bear witness—the items for our breakfast are set up on the sideboard for us to help ourselves. I approach the sideboard, lift the silver domes, and cast about for something to say. “Don’t restrict yourself to toast. Your favorite dishes are here: baked mushrooms, potted hare, and fried ham.”

  “How do you know these are my favorites?” Her tone is just noticeably sharp.

  Do I dare open up any more of myself to her? Will she consider it an open invitation to hurt me further?

  I turn around and my gaze lands on Grisham. Poor thing had been frightened of carriages, after what had happened to him. Then one day, as I was getting into one, he leaped in after me. After that he was fine and carriages didn’t bother him anymore.

  Except I am not a dog and she is not a carriage. My limbs are safe from her, but my heart—

  My heart I have always hidden away, and precious little good it has done me.

  “We have known each other half our lives. What don’t I know about you?” I hear myself ask in a tone that might almost be described as tender.

  She blinks and glances away.

  I return to the table with my plate and take a seat. “What are you reading, if I may ask?”

  She looks down at the book, as if surprised to find it in her hand. “Baudelaire’s letters. Now, that’s enough licking, Grisham. You’ll ruin my skirt.”

  Grisham, at her firm tone, sits down rather sadly next to her chair.

  She reaches across the table, takes a piece of bacon from my plate, and gives it to him. “There, there, don’t look so downtrodden. There are better things to eat than broadcloth.”

  Watching the two of them, I am more than a little afraid at just how easily she might handle me in the future, with a scratch behind the ears and a piece of bacon. Will I be as easily satisfied as Grisham?

  “I have Baudelaire’s complete works, if you are interested.”

  She gives Grisham another pat on the head before turning her attention to me. “Do you read them, or do you merely have them about because they have been controversial in their day?”

  This time I do not hesitate as long. Telling the truth, like anything else, becomes easier with practice—and as I realize I am in no worse shape today than I was yesterday. “I read them because you admire his works.”

  She sets down the book a
nd pulls apart a piece of her toast. “When have you ever cared about my opinions? The first time Baudelaire’s name came up between us you told me I liked him only because he was outrageous.”

  “And can you deny that there is some part of you that did like his work better because it infuriated so many?”

  A slow smile spreads on her face. “No, I cannot deny that.”

  Even sitting down, I feel a little dizzy. A real smile, for me.

  Her countenance turns serious again. “But that was not the entire reason, at best a quarter of it.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  She raises a brow. “And yet you mocked me for it every time we happened to be in the same room for months afterward.”

  Bringing her pleasure in bed might make her body yearn for mine. But in the end, our lives will not always be spent making love. There will be many, many hours when we will be out of bed, fully clothed, and not even touching.

  And whether I succeed or fail in my endeavor to win her heart, I will succeed or fail here, at this breakfast table, in the light of the day, without those skills as a lover to aid and abet me.

  “I have always been a bastard where you are concerned,” I admit, my mouth as dry as a cotton bale.

  She raises both her brows. “So you do know that.”

  “Yes, I’ve always known that.”

  She considers me as she scratches Grisham’s ears. He pants a little. She takes another piece of bacon from my plate and offers it to him. The familiarity of her gesture makes my heart roll over.

  “And do you intend to continue to be a bastard to me?”

  I swallow. “Would you like me to be different?”

  She says nothing.

  Of course not.

  For her to say anything at all on the matter would be to show an interest in this marriage of ours, an interest in the shape and texture of what happens between us.

  She eats the rest of her toast, drinks her tea, and rises, ushering Grisham out with her, leaving me with a brisk, “Good day, Lord Larkspear.”

  THE RAIN STOPS MIDMORNING. From my study, where I try my best, given my distracted state of mind, to deal with a stack of papers, I become aware that outside, my bride and my three-legged dog are frolicking on the gravel drive. She throws a stick; he retrieves it. She throws it again, and he, with even greater joy and enthusiasm, goes after it.

  Such a simple, mindless pastime. But Grisham does not tire of it. And I do not tire of looking at them: his love of life, her delight in everything that is vibrant and spirited in him.

  I should join them. But I stay where I am, behind the curtains of my window, and only watch.

  WHEN I ENTER HER ROOM that night, my bride is already naked in her bed, reading, with half a dozen pillows propping up her back, her hair hanging loose, and both her knees raised, giving me an almost unimpeded view of her pudenda.

  I hang onto the door handle behind me, forgetting how to walk.

  She peers over the top of the book at me. “You are here, Larkspear. As you can see, I have decided to make things a bit easier for you,” she says, setting aside the book.

  I find my voice somewhere. “My lady, your consideration is boundless. I am touched and humbled.”

  To be more accurate, I am flabbergasted. Things are moving at a pace I could not have foreseen.

  She smiles at me. My blood boils and freezes at the same time; I am aroused and chilled.

  “So, what color sashes have you chosen for tonight?”

  “Green,” I said, pulling them out of my pocket. The sashes unwind, their ends falling gently to the carpet, a deep, jeweled shade like that of malachite. “The color of your eyes.”

  She twists a strand of her hair. “How romantic.”

  “Anything for you, my lady,” I mumble, at a volume that might be too soft for her to hear.

  “How should I place myself tonight? On my back or”—she rolls over and graces me with an incomparable view of her bottom—“on my stomach?”

  My feet, of their own volition, move toward the bed. “How would you like to be placed?”

  “My goodness, you do care what I think,” she teases me. “My answer, of course, depends on whether I will be blindfolded.”

  “No blindfolds.” No blindfolds ever again. I always, always want to see her eyes.

  She turns onto her back and lifts a hand over her shoulder, making her already taut breasts sit up even more pertly. Her nipples are hard. “Then this way. So I can see you. Watch you.”

  Dear God, what have I unleashed? I am still dazed. Stunned. What is she doing?

  As much as I want to believe that she might have come to care for me a little, and even with my heart’s proclivity for flights of hope, I cannot quite accept this complete change in her attitude.

  It is not about what she feels for me. She is testing something. But what?

  She holds out her hands to be tied, this woman who can never truly be tied down—not to bedposts, not to conventional expectations, and certainly not to the typical boundaries of marriage.But I fasten her wrists to the headboard, because she lets me.

  Because she wants me to.

  Her skin is dusky in the candlelight. I trace my fingers up the side of her rib cage, over her shoulder, then up the length of her arm to her bound wrist.

  “Don’t you want to be touched?” she asks with a trace of mockery in her voice.

  “I do. But I don’t want to be scratched.”

  She laughs softly. “What is a good time in the marital bed without a few scratches on your back, Larkspear?”

  The ground has shifted beneath my feet sometime this day. Now she is in charge of the games we play. Except these are not games, but battles I wage for this marriage. For our future.

  “If only I could be sure that a few scratches will satisfy you.”

  “Why shouldn’t they?”

  “You will want more. You will want your foot on my neck.”

  “Hmm, don’t give me ideas.”

  I disrobe next to the bed. Her gaze licks me like a hot flame. “Look at you, so gorgeous and fit.”

  I have no idea how to react—never before have I received a compliment from her. So that I wouldn’t seem too flustered, I bend my head and bite her upper lip. Her breath caresses my chin. As I pull back, her gaze slides down my body. “Ready again, I see.”

  “Ravenous.”

  “Such interesting nights you give me, Larkspear.”

  I settle myself between her thighs. “Do you think of me during the day, Lady Larkspear?”

  She smiled. “Never, my dear.”

  “Liar.”

  “You can’t prove it.”

  I thrust deep inside her, without any preliminaries. But none are needed: She is as wet as if I’d spent hours kissing and caressing her.

  Her lips part. Her eyes close briefly, but the next moment they are wide-open again. “Do you think of me during the day, Larkspear? Of my hard nipples and pretty cunt? And all the different ways you’d like me to take your cock?”

  “Yes.” I punctuate my answer with a long, hard plunge into her. “Yes.” Another plunge. “And yes. Every minute of every hour. You are all I ever think about—your eyes, your hair, your lips, your smile.”

  Her breaths become unruly. She stares into my eyes, as if searching for some truth deep inside my soul. I take her lips with mine. And for the first time since we become husband and wife, she returns my kiss, her tongue entangling with mine.

  Then she pulls back, alarm on her face. Does she worry that she has allowed me too much intimacy, when she has set out only to tease and test me?

  “Tell me more about my nipples and my cunt.”

  In other words, not about her eyes and her smile, nothing that will seduce her into kissing me again.

  “Gladly.” I pull her nipple into my mouth, licking, rolling, sucking, even as I thrust again and again into her tight, hot core. “I spend half of my days in a daze, thinking about how much you love to be fucked. How you moan when
my cock fills you just right. How you throw your head back when you can take it no more. And how your cunt grips my cock and milks every last drop from my balls.”

  She moans, the sound engorging my cock further. I withdraw almost completely, then thrust deep. She lifts her legs and wraps them about me. Her willingness almost undoes me. I grimace and hold back from coming.

  “Did you finger yourself today, thinking about how flustered and randy I would be to find you already naked?” I demand.

  “Yes.” She pants.

  I thrust relentlessly into her. “Did you pinch your nipples and imagine my eyes on them?”

  Her voice rises. “Yes.”

  “And when you were in your bath, when no one could possibly see where your fingers were, did you touch that other place and imagine what it would be like to be sodomized by the entire length of my cock?”

  She grunts animal noises and screws up her face, but does not speak.

  I fuck her even harder. “Answer me. Did you?”

  “Yes!” The word emerges wild and unsteady.

  I can’t hold on much longer. I want to—I need to—spill everything inside her. “And did that thought make you come harder than you’ve ever come before?”

  She shudders and thrashes, coming harder than she has ever come before.

  As do I.

  I UNTIE HER WRISTS AND hold her in my arms. To my further shock and amazement, she lifts one hand and settles it in my hair.

  I want the moment to last forever.

  All too soon, however, she begins to pull away. “I should like to rest now, with your lordship’s permission. Playing with Grisham all day was hard work.”

  I do not want to go. I feel like Odysseus, home at last after ten long years at sea. How can I ever leave again?

  I give her more room but do not get up. “Let me tell you a good-night story. You deserve one after playing with Grisham all day.”

  She casts me an amused glance. “Let me guess—your story is about what the prince really does to Sleeping Beauty when he finds her.”