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Xavier’s conversation with whoever he has been talking to for the past twenty minutes and thirty-five seconds has moved on from politics to gossip while Wednesday has been mentally plotting the next chapter in her second Viper de la Muerte novel. After all, she is only here to hang on her husband’s arm like a bauble, ready to be shown off whenever he wishes, so she may as well use the time productively. She has just arrived at the climax of the story, with Viper discovering the identity of the traitor, when across the room, the swift movement of one of the many servants clad in their host’s household livery derails her train of thought. She sighs in irritation, quietly enough that no one in their little circle notices. As soon as a lull in the conversation presents itself, she lightly presses the fingers of her hand resting in the crook of her husband’s arm into his flabby muscles to get his attention, and murmurs, “If you’ll excuse me, I need to use the powder room.”
Xavier absentmindedly nods and lifts her hand to his lips, his attention already back on the inane nattering of one of the men in their circle. She slips away through the crowd, depositing her untouched glass of mediocre champagne on a passing waiter’s tray and casually brushing the back of her left hand along the skirt of her dress.
Her heels are muted by the lavish carpet as she strides down the sparsely populated hallway, pausing only long enough to ensure no one is watching her before slipping through the second door down from the ballroom.
The sounds of music and conversation are greatly muffled as she steps deeper into the room. The thick curtains framing the large windows on the wall across from her, overlooking the front gardens, are incongruously open, allowing the almost full moon to illuminate the otherwise dark room. It provides enough light for her to idly admire the tasteful furnishings: almost ceiling-high wooden bookshelves, filled to the brim with old tomes, with a tall hooked ladder resting against the rail running along the top. On the wall to the left, the shelves are broken up by a central large fireplace with an oversized portrait hung above it, while in the middle of the room, groups of comfortable-looking red armchairs, sofas, chairs, tables, and side tables are artfully arranged in groups strewn about the center of the room. Large plush Persian rugs underneath the furniture muffle her steps. Walking towards the windows, she idly strokes the tips of her fingers over the red velveteen top of the sofa facing the fireplace when she catches movement from the corner of her eye. She doesn’t have time to do more than tense before a large hand covers the bottom half of her face and she is pulled back against a strong, muscular body by a long arm wrapping around her middle, restraining her arms against her sides.
She can feel the intruder’s breath against her ear as he says in a raspy voice, “A young lady like you really shouldn’t be sneaking around darkened rooms in stranger’s houses all by herself.” Her captor’s hand travels from her face to her throat, squeezing just enough to make her feel a hint of danger. “There’s some sick people out there,” he continues, his hand wandering lower until it rests over her heaving bosom. “Besides,” he murmurs, puffs of breath trailing her skin as he noses down her neck, the brush of his lips on her skin sending a shiver down her spine, “your esteemed husband might get the wrong impression.”
“Or the correct one,” Wednesday breathes, twisting just enough in her captor’s embrace that she can grab onto the back of his neck and pull him into a passionate kiss that leaves them both moaning.
“You’re late,” she gasps when they finally come up for air.
“You’re impatient,” Tyler growls, his actions belying his words as his hands slide down her front to hike up the skirt of her gown and her underthings at her waist. As soon as he’s ascertained that she will keep them out of the way, his left hand slips beneath the neckline of her gown, scooping her breast out from its confines, while his right hand slides between the halves of her split drawers. His hand is so large that he can easily cover her entire mound and the length of her nether lips, the tip of his middle finger resting just above her opening.
Before Wednesday can say anything, his finger dips down, teasing her opening in a way that makes her bite her lips, then he draws it up between her already-slick folds to the pulsing nub at their apex.
“Fuck,” he breathes against her cheek, “It’s been less than a week since I last fucked you senseless, and you’re so wet for me already. Did you miss me? Did you miss my mouth?” He nips at the corner of her jaw, just at the threshold to risking a mark, making her shiver. “My fingers?” He squeezes her nipple at the same moment that he starts rubbing her nub with the fingers of his right hand, the shockwave of pleasure sending a gasp from between her parted lips. “My cock?” He grinds the hardness rising from between his thighs against her lower back, and she has to bite her lip to keep from moaning.
“Seems you’ve missed me too, then,” Wednesday rasps once she’s recovered, rolling her hips back into Tyler’s body.
He groans shamelessly, but low enough so as not to be overheard. “Every day,” he admits, biting the lobe of her ear. “Every hour, every minute, every second of every day.” His fingers start polishing her pearl in earnest, the waves of pleasure washing over her from that one point only enhanced by the sharp sting of pain zinging through her body every time he pinches her nipple. “How much longer do we have to keep up this charade?” he growls into her ear, knowing very well what the sound of his voice going all gravelly does to her.
With a gasp, Wednesday fists her right hand into the hairs at his nape in a desperate attempt to get even closer, while the fingers on her left dig into his thigh, her hips rocking back against his groin. “We’re... almost there. I’ve finally—” she moans, her head dropping back against Tyler’s chest at a particularly potent wave of arousal, “f-found out where Xavier’s father keeps the documents... proving the family’s involvement in many—yes, just like that—financial schemes like... the one that—Oh, Lilith!—ruined your parents’ lives.”
“Good,” Tyler growls, his efforts redoubling as if in reward; his left hand now scooping her other breast out to give her nipple the same treatment as its twin had received. “Lucas is ready to publish his exposé about the villains the Thorpes truly are.”
Wednesday couldn’t care less about what Lucas is or isn’t ready for right now, her chest heaving with her labored breaths, her fingernails digging into Tyler’s clothed thigh and the back of his neck, though she finally can’t keep her arm up in that position any longer and grips tight to his wrist instead, not to steer his movements between her thighs, but to ground herself for the climax she can feel rising inside her.
“Please! Tyler...” she gasps.
“Come for me, cockroach,” he rasps, drawing his fingernails over her nub, and that is all it takes for her to shatter apart, her back arching and hips rolling back against Tyler, pulling a low groan from him at the pressure against his erect member.
As her body shudders with the last vestiges of her release, his right hand lets go of her so he can draw his fingers, stained with her fluids, into his own mouth, moaning as he licks them clean.
Wednesday wants to turn and kiss him properly at the sight, but Tyler seems to have other plans. He swings her around to face the sofa, bending her over its back, his left hand firmly clasped around the base of her neck. Her skirts are now flipped up in the back, exposing her privates to him, followed by the rustle of fabric. Moments later, his cockhead brushes against her pulsing opening, sending a renewed shiver of arousal through her body, her fingers clenching in the red velveteen of the sofa.
Without a word, in a single, swift roll of his hips, he buries his cockstand inside her to the hilt, drawing twin moans from their throats. With one hand on the back of her neck and the other on her hip, he drives his rigid member into her again and again, his rhythm punishing, his considerable girth stretching her delightfully, almost bordering on pain.
Wednesday revels in it, arching into every thrust, bliss coursing through her veins at the long-missed sensation of her lover inside of her.
“And to think, Xavier will never know what he’s missing,” Tyler rasps, his sneer audible in his voice.
“Never!” Wednesday gasps. Her marriage was never consummated, though Xavier thinks it was. Whenever her husband seeks amorous congress with her, she serves him wine, mixed with a potent concoction of Grandmama’s making, which puts him into a very suggestible state, and a few choice whispered words and light touches are enough to make him believe he’s lain with her. He chalks up her cool behavior towards him the rest of the time to her being modest, which simply confirms how little he actually knows her.
As if having read her thoughts, Tyler chuckles. “Poor simpleton truly doesn’t know you at all... he’s so deluded by the image he has of you, all innocent and in need of protection and guidance.” Almost every word is accentuated by another thrust, making it difficult for Wednesday to concentrate on what he’s saying.
Then he leans over her, so they’re chest to back, and whispers filthily into her ear, “But I know better. I know how wanton you can be, given the right incentive. I know how to touch you to make you beg for more.”
“Yesss...” Wednesday hisses, whining at the way he grinds into her, at the sparks the deep, constant stimulation sends through her. But it’s not enough; they don’t have time for long and slow. “Tyler—” she says in warning.
He nips at the lobe of her ear before straightening again, and starts up an even more punishing rhythm, pounding into her, driving both of them towards the precipice.
“Maybe we should give him a little demonstration, once this is all over,” Tyler rasps, his words barely decipherable over the sounds of their harsh breaths and of flesh meeting flesh at a brutal speed. “Make him watch while I rail you, make you beg and scream for me, make sure he knows that you never belonged to him—”
That is it; that mental image is what drives her to her crisis, her insides fluttering around Tyler’s member even as her whole body seems to convulse with a pleasure so strong, she has to bite the back of the sofa to keep from screaming until the house and all its guests and servants descend on them. Tyler is only moments behind her, his cockhead erupting with wave after wave of spend until he barely twitches, and he rests his forehead against the back of her neck, both of them momentarily satisfied.
Finally, he pulls out of her and cleans up the worst of the overspill with a handkerchief from one of his livery pockets, though not all of it. He knows Wednesday enjoys carrying his spend inside of her while in her husband’s presence.
They have just started setting their clothes to rights when there’s the discreet sound of two evenly spaced, brief knocks, followed by a pause of equal length and another pair of knocks before the door opens just enough for Bianca Barclay to slip inside, closing it quietly behind herself. “If you two lovebirds are done,” she says with a barely contained salacious grin, the way her eyes take in their partially debauched state showing clearly how much she enjoys the view, “Mrs. Thorpe here should head back to the ball, before Xavier comes looking for his little wife.” Her voice is dripping with sarcasm at those last words. She smirks at Wednesday when she adds, “Well, once you’ve fixed your hair, that is.”
Wednesday runs her hand over the top of her head and freezes momentarily, then huffs in annoyance at the state she finds it in. Her glare only draws an unapologetic grin from Tyler, who calmly continues doing up the buttons on his vest.
“Here, let me,” Bianca says, stepping behind Wednesday so she can rebraid and pin her hair. Thankfully, it isn’t the first or third time that Bianca has done this, so she manages it almost as swiftly as Wednesday could if she was wearing a less constraining outfit and her limbs were a little more coordinated after the thorough ravishing she just received.
Wednesday runs her hands over the impeccably restored crown braid, adjusting a couple of hair pins by a minuscule amount simply for the joy of watching Bianca roll her beautiful eyes.
“Careful, Addams, or next time you beg me to tip your velvet, I might refuse,” she says in a low, intimate voice, leaning closer.
Wednesday gives her a slow, dark smile, lessening the distance between herself and the slightly taller woman even more. “Please! As if you’d ever miss an opportunity to make me scream.”
Their intense eye contact is interrupted by Tyler’s pointed cough. “Right,” he says, clearly not unaffected by the rising tension between his two lovers, but making a valiant effort at thinking with the head on his neck. “Before Xavier stumbles upon all of us and starts asking questions, it’s high time for you both to return to the ballroom and for me to sneak out.”
After agreeing that they will see Tyler at the tea room he works in—separately, to avoid gossip about the two women conversing—Wednesday kisses both of them and leaves the library, to be followed shortly by Bianca. Tyler will sneak out last, once a good while has passed, blending into the staff in his borrowed livery, and then disappear off the grounds.
“There you are!” Xavier exclaims as soon as Wednesday enters the ballroom, clearly having been on his way to go looking for her. He pulls her to the side by her elbow, his fingers digging into her arm uncomfortably, though Wednesday keeps her face in her usual unreadable mask. “I was starting to worry you had run off.” He tries to make it sound like a joke, but his deep insecurity rings in his voice clear enough for anyone with ears to hear it.
From the corner of her eyes, Wednesday sees Bianca enter the ballroom and says huffily, “One of my hairpins came loose, and I had to ask Miss Barclay to assist me with setting my coiffure back to rights, since she was the only one present in the powder room.”
Bianca and Wednesday have been very careful to cultivate an image of barely veiled dislike for polite society. There are only a select few who know that their relationship has... evolved since their youthful rivalry, Tyler being most intimately aware, of course.
But Xavier thinks their old enmity is still intact, so Wednesday’s statement quickly shuts him up, as she knew it would, even as his eyes dart to his former fiancée, then back to his wife.
“Oh. I’m sorry,” is all he says, before he plasters on a strained smile. “Let us get some refreshments. We haven’t been able to greet the Nobles yet, and I saw them over by...”
Wednesday lets her husband-in-name-only lead her around the ballroom, paying just enough attention to his babbling so she can hum and nod in the appropriate places. Most of her mind, however, is busy making plans for how to celebrate after his family has been brought to their knees, their feeble economic empire built on lies and coercion razed to the ground.