Chapter 29: Volume 1- [ - 30 ]
I held her.
Let her cling. Let her believe that the man whose arms she was in was doing this for her, for her comfort, for her happiness, rather than for the systematic demolition of her marriage and the redirection of her sexual loyalty from her husband to himself.
And then, because I was who I was, and because the Viagra was still singing in my blood, and because the arousal meter was reading ninety-seven and the morning light was doing truly beautiful things to the thin fabric of her nightgown where it clung to her leaking breasts, I said:
"Can I enter again?"
She trembled. "But — he has arrived. My husband. He will be—"
"He will be changing his boots. Drinking water. Complaining about his hangover. He will not come here."
I turned her around. Gently, with the careful, practiced hands of a man who understood the geometry of a pregnant woman’s body. I bent her over the writing desk — the same desk where I had found the treasury key, where I had read the documents about the purchased knights, where the original Caelum had signed away his dignity one piece at a time. Her hands found the surface, bracing herself, her belly pressing against the edge of the desk, her nightgown riding up over the swell of her hips.
I held my cock. Pressed it against her from behind — the thick, blunt head finding the cleft of her ass, sliding downward, trailing wetness against the tight, puckered ring of her anal before settling against the swollen lips of her pussy.
"No—" She trembled, pulling forward, her hands sliding on the desk. "It is not right, Lord. It will hurt. My lord, it hurts."
I rubbed her ass. Slow, circular motions, my palm against the soft, warm flesh, feeling the muscle beneath, feeling the tension.
"Come on," I said, and my voice dropped into that register — the soft, wounded register, the one that said ’I need you and you are refusing me.’ "Can I not deserve it? Do you hate me that much?"
Her eyes widened. She looked over her shoulder at me, and the guilt on her face was so raw, so immediate, that I almost felt something.
"No, Lord — not like that. I do not hate you. I—" She trembled, one hand leaving the desk to hold her belly, her fingers splaying across the taut skin. "I do not — let me — please—"
She was protesting. Not forcefully — not with the conviction of a woman who truly wanted to be elsewhere — but protesting nonetheless, her body shifting away from me, her thighs pressing together, her gaze dropping to avoid mine. She showed the awkwardness of a woman caught between desire and obligation, her eyes finding everything in the room except my face.
’It is wrong. He is outside. Garrick is in the building. If he came in — if he heard — if he saw—’
I looked at her. Blankly. The calculation running behind my eyes was not kind — it was the cold assessment of a man who wanted to bend her over and fuck her ass and was being delayed by the last surviving scrap of her marital loyalty. She was being too much now. The guilt, the hesitation, the ’Garrick this’ and ’Garrick that’ — it was grating, a fly buzzing around a meal I was trying to enjoy.
Before I could respond, footsteps echoed in the corridor.
Heavy. Armored. The deliberate, rhythmic tread of a man in knee plates walking on stone. My body moved before my mind finished calculating — the instinct of a transmigrator who had spent years reading web novels where the protagonist gets caught with his pants down at the worst possible moment.
"Someone is coming," I said, and my voice carried the urgency of genuine alarm.
Elira’s face went white. Her eyes widened to their absolute limit, and her internal voice became a scream:
’No — no no no — if it is Garrick — if he sees me here — like this — my belly — my nightgown — the desk — he will—’
I pushed her. Not gently — there was no time for gently. I guided her down, behind the desk, into the narrow space between the wooden panels and the wall, her pregnant belly barely fitting, her hands scrambling for purchase on the stone floor. She looked up at me with terrified eyes, and I did the only thing that made sense in that moment.
I placed my cock in her mouth.
"Muffle your voice with this," I said, and the words were absurd, obscene, the kind of instruction that could only exist in the deranged intersection of arousal and survival.
Her lips closed around the head. Her eyes rolled — fear, revulsion, the chemical override of the oil still lingering in her tissues, all of it mixing into a cocktail that made her pupils blow wide and her hands grip my thighs. I grabbed her head. Held it still. Stepped forward, driving my cock deeper into her mouth, the head pushing past her tongue, into her throat, the wet heat enveloping me as I positioned myself so that my body blocked the desk from the view of the door.
She coughed. The sound was muffled — buried in flesh, swallowed by the shaft filling her throat — but I could feel it, the vibration running through my cock and into my pelvis. Her saliva was flowing freely now, the gag reflex stimulating production, and it ran down her chin, dripping onto her nightgown, darkening the fabric.
’Haaah — his — it is in my — I cannot breathe — my jaw — he is too deep — if Garrick — if he hears—’
The door opened.
"Greetings, Lord."
The voice was deep, measured, carrying the rough edge of a man who had been drinking all night and had rinsed his mouth with water and fixed his armor enough to pass inspection. Sir Garrick Thorne stood in the doorway of the study, his scar pale against his ruddy face, his dark hair still damp from whatever whore’s bath he had taken before the walk home.
He looked at me. I looked at him.
’You bastard,’ I thought, my hands resting on the desk in a posture of casual authority, my cock buried in the throat of his wife three feet below his line of sight. ’How dare you walk into my study without knocking.’
But what I said was: "Sir Garrick. What brings you here so early?"
His eyes narrowed. The greeting had been correct, the tone appropriate, but something in his expression suggested that he found the sight of the young lord standing behind his desk in the morning light with a glass of juice and a smile slightly irritating.
’What is this idiot doing awake? He is usually drooling on his pillow until noon. And why is he standing behind the desk like that — as if he is actually doing something—’
Garrick’s internal voice was a low rumble of contempt. The same contempt he had shown in the training yard, the same dismissal that every person in this house directed at the lord they had decided was beneath their notice.
"So," I said, lifting my juice glass, taking a slow sip. "You must have enjoyed yourself at that bar."