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Ellen wasn’t a woman used to surrendering. No one could be with a cause like hers to put their shoulder against. It was a hard thing, knowing that in the morning she’d be surrendering this that she had under her hands, giving it over to a woman of his own side and kind.
The man in her bed, soft hair, soft linen, soft skin, a rich man’s skin, sweet and clean like the maids who scrubbed his laundry kept him so, and she’d be surrendering him to another woman. “What should I do with you, then, on our last night before you are fucking wed?” she asked him and he looked back at her with those sad, serious eyes of his, dark as a Spanish maiden.
“Ellen,” he said, her rich sweet lad with his pretty mouth, prettier than any girl, even the sort that painted her lips to draw a man’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Show me this sorrow of yours, I don’t believe in it,” she said, which was a damned lie, it was obvious in every line of him. But he nodded his head, his sharp, pretty chin and got on his knees like he meant to do exactly as she said, every damned word his command.
She settled in her chair and rucked up her dress, inviting him with her chin and he came as he should, lips parted, not for a kiss, at least not one on her mouth. She didn’t bother to lower her pantalettes, didn’t need to, just spread her knees wide and he came to her.
His mouth was hot on her, fingers steady, like she’d trained him to it. Hadn’t been a maiden entirely, not a boy like this, but no woman who’d known what she was about had shown him how to please, not really. And, oh, he’d wanted to learn.
“Clever lad,” she murmured, heels on his shoulders while he used his mouth on her. Got her wet nice and slow, dove in so that she felt the stubble of his cheeks, the press of his nose, sweet, sweet, the slide of his spit slick fingers.
He was good, this sweet, smooth man of hers, with those fine, earnest fingers and sweet, honest mouth. Too honest to promise what he ought. She ground herself against him, feeling the flat of his tongue, wet and hungry. Drove him with her stockinged heels, the darned fabric pushing against his pressed shirt, pulled him with her hands, never mind if she pulled at buttons.
“Show me this sorrow you claim to feel,” she told him after, while her thighs trembled. His face was wet and he licked his lips, tasting her still on that fine mouth of his.
“I’m not sure how else I could,” he said. He was on his knees, hair mussed, slick with her, still in his shirt and breeches, though his tie was discarded, the buttons mostly open. She could see how he shuddered, see the line of his hard cock, imagine how nice it would look free of its confines, how nice it would feel up inside where she wanted him. He fit her, this man, how dare he fucking fit her so well?
Her teeth clenched as she looked down at him. How dare he? “You want to make it up to me, Edward Guiness?” she asked him, eyes gone narrow. “The fact you’ll be belonging to someone else tomorrow morning?”
He nodded, swallowed, she could see it in the sweet line of his throat. “Tonight,” he told her, “I’d like to be yours, Miss Cochrane.”
“You love me,” she said out loud, though not to him in particular, “so fucking much and yet not quite enough.” And then, she stopped. “What if I wanted what a man has from a woman, would you give me that?”
This stopped him. He knelt there, big eyes, dark lashes, soft hair, smelling of her as much as he smelled of laundry. “I– what?” Those eyes of his were all confusion now.
She grinned at him. “Or maybe what a man has from a man? Like your brother and his paramours, how about it then?”
He shook his head, “I don’t– you haven’t got–” his eyes were between her legs where his mouth had just been. Pink and parted.
“Haven’t got a cock is what you mean to say?” she leaned forward on her elbows. Pushed at him with one stockinged toe.
“Well, you don’t have one,” he said, flushed in the firelight. “So–”
“If I had one, on the other hand, would you have any objection to it having you?” She laughed. “Should I spare you your blushes, Mr. Guiness?” He was blushing fiercer, hot and red. And he was hard, still, maybe more than when he’d had tongue up inside her.
“If you had one–” he began. She leaned forward to him, wrapped one hand around the back of his neck and pulled him up to kiss her. He came, sweet and willing and hers, right now, still.
“I have one,” she told him, right up against that mouth of his. “A novelty item from a friend of mine who had it from a lady of the night, as it were. Apparently it is very popular. Stand up and take off your breeches and I’ll show it to you.”
She thought he might laugh. She thought he might leave. He stood up, eyes huge and wet and mouth soft. He was a tall lad, hers. He rocked on his feet.
She waited, humming, eyes on him, eyebrows gone up, as if she were waiting on his decision.
Very slow, he unbuttoned his breeches. Bared himself to her gaze. Smooth legs, not much more hair than a woman, but no woman had flesh like that between them. Made her lick her own lips, the flushed length of that cock of his.
“Ellen,” he said, and she stood up, careful like, and kissed his throat where it bobbed so lovely.
“Get yourself on the bed,” she told him. “If you’re mine right now, get on the bed. Hands and knees.”
He did it, she watched the tight pale lines of his ass moving as he did it. She’d never done a thing like this, nothing even close to it. She wanted to bite him, right there on the ripe lines of him. She wanted to have him.
She showed him the box with the object. It looked nothing and everything like a cock, a curve to it, fitted to a fine harness that would fit properly on her. Everything a lady of a particular sort might need to put it properly to her fellow.
He swallowed, chest moving with his breathing, those hips of his still. His cock was pressed up against his belly, untouched, moving with his body.
“So then, can I have your maidenhead before your wife gets a chance?” she crooned at him, light and lilting and he shuddered. “Don’t worry, I won’t make you bleed, boy, she don’t need to know.”
His knees shook and she pushed them that much further apart, made a space for herself. He smelled clean even there between his legs, where no man ought to. The long length of his spine, the deep curve of his ass in her hands. She put her mouth there, right there, where ass met spine, gave him teeth, just enough to make him startle.
“Don’t you worry, now,” she told him. “I’ll get you as wet as you’re needing to be. Wet as a girl.” And wouldn’t that be pretty if she could? And she can, with oil on her fingers.
And then.
The sound he made, one she had never heard. The tight, impossible curve of him, however slick and slim her fingers may be. The way he shifted, away and then back, the shaking line of him, that parted just so for her. Fingers and fingers, like if she tried hard enough she could put her hand right up inside him, keep him just so, just as he was, wet eyed and gasping.
It couldn’t fit, the fake cock on a harness. It couldn’t fit. That felt impossible. How tight he was on her hands, it couldn’t--
It fit.
The sound he made, the way his cock bobbed and left wet on his belly, wet like a girl, like she’d told him, like a maiden being taken, like he wanted it. The way his hips moved under her.
“I have loved you,” she told him, then she fitted her teeth into the back of his neck and sucked, where it would be hidden by collar and vest and tie. Imagined him so dressed on his wedding night, imagined his soon to be wife stripping him bare and seeking the marks left by Ellen fucking Cochrane. Wet like a girl, hands on his shaft, still oil slick from where they’d been inside of him. “I have loved you, and may the lord fucking damn you with it.”
She thought he might have cried, he might be weeping, he might be saying, “he has,” as his hips snapped back to meet her, sweet and surrendering.
“You’ll be feeling me on your wedding day,” she hissed, up into his ear, plastered against him, the press of the fake cock. “Every step you take, remember, don’t you ever dare fucking forget.”
She wouldn’t. She’d for sure never forget, not this.