The Persuasion of Molly O'Flaherty

by Sierra Simone

  And it was amid her final crest, her last stunned sigh, that the curtains swept abruptly open, revealing Hugh.

  My eyes flew open at the noise of the curtain, and there was Hugh, looking furious and alarmed all at once. The last shreds of my orgasm peeled away from my core and wilted, like flower petals in the summer heat. My mind began to clear, registering shame and horror and oh my God, that was the best thing I’ve ever felt. Ever.

  Silas’s hand was still at my throat, the perfect amount of pressure to send adrenaline zinging through my system without actually threatening my ability to breathe. And his other hand was still gripping my sex. And part of me never wanted it to leave. Part of me wanted to spend the rest of my life being so possessively held by this man, because somehow his arrogant manner of touching me sent me soaring far higher than even the most passionate caresses from any other lover I’d ever had.

  The other part of me was simply furious. With myself, for having wanted Silas so much that I let him make me come. And with Silas, for being himself and yet not-himself, this new Silas that I had only glimpsed for the first time last year, and only then for a few days. This dominating, intimidating, rough Silas, who was more predator than gentleman.

  This predator who counted me among his prey.

  And Molly O’Flaherty is no one’s prey, I thought fiercely.

  I straightened to tell him this, to tell him that it didn’t matter how dirty he played the game, he’d still never win me, when he was yanked backwards and Hugh’s fist connected with his jaw.

  I realized how it must have looked to Hugh, me backed into a corner, my skirts at my waist and Silas’s hand around my neck. I suppose my gasps of pleasure could have looked like pain and the contortions of my face like a struggle—but still. No matter how well-intentioned his chivalry, it was unnecessary.

  “Hugh!” I came forward, my skirts still in disarray, my breathing rapid and shallow from the intense climax I’d just had. I grabbed Hugh’s arm before he could swing again. “Stop!”

  Hugh threw me a furious look. “Molly, he…he was touching you.”

  I cleared my throat and smoothed my skirts, making sure that when I spoke, my voice was cool and collected. “He was touching me with my permission, Hugh. Step away.”

  Silas, meanwhile, was standing back up and rubbing his jaw with a rueful expression, like he should have expected all along that something like this would happen. “I have to say, Hugh, when I contemplated the possibility of leaving here with a bruise on my face, I rather thought it would be from Molly. At least you don’t hit as hard.”

  Hugh practically snarled, lunging at Silas again. Silas easily dodged Hugh’s second swipe, an arrogant grin spreading across his face. Now that the two of them were standing, now that Hugh was trying to hit Silas and failing, I could see that Hugh had gotten lucky with his first punch. Silas was tall and quick, and without any malice or apparent anger, he parried a punch from Hugh as he stepped in behind him. And then—almost casually—he twisted his body so that Hugh went sprawling onto the floor, landing hard on his ass.

  And even though I still hated Silas, and even though I liked Hugh, I giggled, clapping a hand over my mouth when Hugh glared up at me. “I’m sorry,” I said, the giggles punctuating the words. “I just—you look—I’m sorry.”

  Silas was trying not to laugh himself, at least until he turned to me, his bright blue eyes suddenly serious. “Molly. I need the word.”

  “The word?”

  “Your safe word.” Everything about his stare was too blue, too impossibly blue, and somehow hard and soft at the same time, like this look contained all of the love and all of the angry, resentful lust he felt for me. I remembered his fingers on my throat, and my cunt clenched with renewed want.

  “You realize I am the first woman ever to need a safe word for courtship, right?”

  His lips twitched, that irrepressible grin hiding under the surface, begging to come through. “If I’m honest, darling, this is the first time a woman has ever needed a safe word with me at all. But,” and that beautiful mouth turned into something sterner than a smile, “this is also the first time I’ve ever wanted a woman to marry me.”

  Marry.

  I’d repeated that word in conversation—and in my own mind—enough times that it didn’t even sound real any more, like it was a word dredged up from some foreign and ancient text. A word synonymous with torture and pain.

  I hated the thought of marrying, and the thought of marrying the one man who’d managed to break my heart…

  “Clare,” my mouth said before my brain could catch up. Before my brain could definitively tell my body—and my traitorous heart—that I didn’t want Silas to have this safe word, because having it was tacit consent to his pursuit.

  “Of course,” he said, because unlike most people, he knew that I’d grown up in County Clare just outside of Ennis, until my father moved us to Liverpool when I was twelve. And I hated that he knew that. I hated how sweet and musical the word sounded on his lips when he repeated it: “Clare.”

  And then he gave me a deep bow and left, vanishing into the whirl of the wine-soaked ballroom almost immediately.

  I glanced down at Hugh, who was finally standing up, and then to my wrinkled skirts. My body still sang from Silas’s touch and the memory of those intensely blue eyes.

  No, I told myself. He doesn’t get to come back here and parade those eyes and that easy grin around. That ship sailed—literally—last year.

  It sailed when I’d told him I loved him and when he’d said it back to me, and then not hours later I’d found him with his prick inside Mercy Atworth.

  The memory sent a predictable storm of rage pounding through my blood, and I wished Silas were still here so I could rescind my safe word and finish the job that Hugh started when it came to layering that handsome face with bruises.

  God, I needed gin.

  Why I’d agreed to receive Frederick Cunningham the next morning, I wasn’t entirely sure. Maybe I hoped the board had relented and he wanted to deliver the news in person. Or maybe I was sick of admitting anemic, floppy-haired dandies into my parlor and watching them plead their case for marrying me. Or maybe I was simply restless after seeing Silas last night, restless and furious and filled with an empty kind of longing. I’d gone home with Hugh, but I’d dismissed him the moment we crossed my threshold. He wasn’t Silas, and no matter how much I wanted to pretend that my cunt didn’t care, the lingering satisfaction in my body told me otherwise.

  Whatever the reason I agreed, I immediately regretted it as I entered my parlor and Mr. Cunningham rose to take my hand. The de facto leader of my company’s board was taller and older than me, and I felt like a stupid girl in front of him.

  A stupid girl of fourteen, to be precise.

  The late morning light dusted his pale blond hair and matching mustache with gold, and the effect might have been handsome—for he was indeed a handsome man—if not for the smirk curling on his lips. I allowed him to kiss my hand, purely to show him that he had no power over me, but the moment his mustache tickled my skin, bile rose in my throat. The memory of stinging flesh and the taste of my own tears caused me to yank my hand away faster than was polite; Mr. Cunningham’s smirk deepened as he rose back up to his full height.

  Fucking hell, Molly. Show no weakness, remember? Be a wolf or a hawk or a snake—anything but the girl you used to be.

  “How may I help you today, Mr. Cunningham? I’m afraid I have no husband yet, so if you’re expecting my engagement announcement, you will be sorely disappointed.”

  “Call me Frederick, please. I think you’ve earned that familiarity, have you not, pretty girl?” Mr. Cunningham asked, settling into an upholstered armchair. My favorite armchair, if truth be told, because it sat at the head of the room. It was impressive and the perfect shade of blue to set off my eyes.

  “I’d like to keep our acquaintance within the bounds of etiquette, if you don’t mind,” I said, doing my best not to grind my
teeth together. I sat in another chair, one far enough away that I could pretend I didn’t know what that mustache felt like on my skin. Far enough that I could pretend I didn’t know exactly how selfish and ruthless he could be.

  If I try to win your hand, I am not going to play fair.

  Silas’s words from last night echoed in my memory, and I forced myself to connect them to the man sitting across from me. Frederick Cunningham was exactly why I didn’t let men fuck me, why I never ceded control of myself in the bedroom or in affairs of the heart.

  Funny though, how I had so enjoyed the ruthless, selfish side Silas had revealed to me last night…

  “As you may know, Martjin van der Sant is visiting us soon, and he will expect to meet with you, in addition to touring our docks and warehouses.”

  Van der Sant, yes. I’d almost forgotten in the fog of recent events, but van der Sant owned one of the most expansive shipping networks in the world, connecting Europe to India and China, and he was looking to partner with O’Flaherty Shipping in order to expand his reach to Iceland and Canada—places where O’Flaherty Shipping was established and thriving. A partnership between us would be mutually beneficial and profitable, with very few drawbacks. However, we needed van der Sant far more than he needed us, since we were already losing clients who wanted more access to the Eastern hemisphere, and he was a notoriously fastidious and uncompromising businessman. There had been at least two other English companies he’d come close to making an agreement with, only to pull out at the last minute because he didn’t like the state of their books or the personal habits of one of their dock managers. Everything would need to be perfect for his visit, but I wasn’t concerned. I ran O’Flaherty Shipping fastidiously. There would be no irregularities in our books, our managers were all hardworking and moral men, and I was prepared to be as discreet as possible about my own personal habits when he came to town.

  I took a deep breath and returned my attention to Mr. Cunningham. “I’m quite prepared for van der Sant’s visit, a fact of which I’m sure you’re aware. Is there another reason you needed to see me?”

  He crossed his legs, raising his chin and looking quite pleased with himself. “I came to strike a bargain,” Mr. Cunningham said.

  “I am sick of your bargains,” I said, not bothering to hide the irritation in my voice.

  Mr. Cunningham smiled. “What a shame. But I think you will like this one better than our last.”

  Our last. To an outsider, it might have seemed that he was referring to the board’s demand that I marry, but we both knew better. I kept myself from crossing my legs reflexively, making sure my back was straight and my shoulders square.

  “In fact,” he continued, “I am certain you will like it. Perhaps too much; I admit, it does feel as if the board will be ceding too much in this agreement.”

  Hope, for however brief a moment, flowered within me. As much as I hated this man, as much as I resented the other men who had invested in my father’s company, perhaps something had happened to change his mind. Perhaps they had found a new heiress to torture or perhaps they’d realized I would still find a way to run the company the way I wished, even with a husband.

  Not for the first time, I cursed myself for not having the money to purchase as many shares as possible. But a few years ago, I had sunk most of my money into long-term land investments in America and Australia, all of which were doing quite well, but by the time I withdrew my earnings and tried to buy out the shares, it would be too late and the deadline for my marriage would have passed. And even if I could, I knew the board members would not sell their shares to me, out of avarice or spite or some combination of both.

  I should have been buying shares all along, I thought regretfully, and not for the first time. If I owned the majority of the shares, I wouldn’t stand to lose so much when other people sold theirs.

  “I’m afraid I still want you to get married,” Mr. Cunningham said, interrupting my internal cycle of hope and regret. “Just to forestall whatever you might be thinking.” Light glinted off his wedding band, and again, my sadistic memory dredged up the way it had looked in the candlelight of his room that night. The way it had looked covered in my blood and his semen when he’d shoved his fingers inside of me to confirm that yes, my hymen was well and truly gone.

  My face burned with anger and my hands balled in my skirts, but I managed to keep my voice cold. Sneering, even. “I didn’t dare to hope for anything of the sort, Mr. Cunningham. Please proceed; I have many other things I need to accomplish today.”

  “Very well then.” He leaned back and uncrossed his legs. “I know how much you despise this parade of suitors marching through your door and crowding you at parties. I know you hate the idea of getting married and would like to have this matter settled as soon as possible. Which is why I have selected a suitor for you. He is willing, he is powerful, and he has the board’s full approval. You will marry him and assume your proper role as a wife, and we will keep our shares, and everybody will live happily ever after.”

  “What,” I asked, my voice icy, “makes you think I’d even be willing to consider someone of your choosing?”

  “Frankly, Miss O’Flaherty, the board is being very magnanimous here: this gentleman is already a good friend of yours—and if I’m reading things correctly, he’s sometimes been more than a good friend. He approached the board and has told us in good faith that he will assist us in our cares.”

  A good friend. My mind flashed to Silas and something in my chest squeezed. He’d said he’d playact with me in order to convince the board that I was doing his bidding; was this part of that? Had he already begun his pursuit of me? And why did that make me feel so light-headed and breathless?

  “Who is it?” I demanded.

  Mr. Cunningham dusted a speck of lint from his trousers. “Viscount Beaumont, Hugh Calvert.”

  “Hugh.” Disappointment deflated me, helplessness streamed through my blood.

  Hugh.

  Hugh had approached the board, not Silas.

  What did you expect? You know you can’t count on Silas for anything. You can’t trust him.

  I forced myself to think clear-headedly. To be pragmatic. “Viscount Beaumont has already offered his hand to me.”

  “Splendid!” Mr. Cunningham said. “Well, perhaps I am late with this news then. When shall you be delivering your acceptance to him?”

  Pragmatic Molly cautioned me to keep the hot, angry words from spilling out, words that would tell Frederick Cunningham exactly how long it would take me to deliver my acceptance to any man, which would be when hell froze over, thawed and then froze again.

  No, Pragmatic Molly recognized that she’d already given Hugh’s offer serious consideration. She recognized that perhaps this was the best chance she had at salvaging this miserable scenario and at least getting married to someone pleasant, someone who wasn’t after her money.

  “I’m still thinking about it,” I said finally. “I am not willing to make this decision in haste.”

  “Very well,” Mr. Cunningham said, shrugging and then standing to leave. “But just so you know, you may cease with interviewing your other would-be husbands. The board is quite set on the viscount.”

  “So I don’t even have a choice now?”

  Mr. Cunningham approached me, but I stayed sitting, my hands curled around the armrests, my fingernails digging in and denting the wood there.

  “Oh, Miss O’Flaherty. Molly—you never minded when I called you Molly, did you? You always have a choice.”

  He stood right in front of me now, but I refused to stand or even to look up at him. Instead, I stared resolutely ahead at the large bay window overlooking Eaton Place, my jaw set.

  Still, out of the periphery of my vision, I could see him unbuttoning his trousers, could see him withdrawing his penis.

  Tears pricked the back of my eyelids, but I refused to let them spill. Not this time.

  “You know what your choices are, don’t you, Molly?�
�� he asked, his facade of gentleness too weak to hide the triumph in his voice.

  I didn’t answer, didn’t even shake my head, and then his hand was fisting my hair and his erection was at my lips, pressing, but I didn’t open my mouth. He pulled my hair harder and tears did leak out now, but I still refused to accept what he was forcing on me.

  “Be my whore,” he said and I could hear him lick his lips. “Be mine, and I’ll make everything else go away.”

  Somewhere in the back of my mind, I heard a fourteen-year-old girl crying and the sound of a pen nib scratching on paper. A decision that had saved my father’s fledgling company and destroyed my innocence in one fell swoop.

  “Come on,” Mr. Cunningham coaxed. “I hear what a little slut you are. Am I supposed to believe that I have the one cock in London you won’t suck?”

  I knew better than to open my mouth to answer; he would only see that as an invitation, and I’d be gagging on his penis before I could get the first word out. While we’d never repeated the trauma of That Night, he had forced himself on me in other ways in the intervening years.

  Part of me longed to bite his member as hard as I could, longed to see if I could bite it clean off. Another part wondered how much it would hurt if I grabbed his balls and squeezed until something ruptured. And yet another part of me—a small, defeated part—was tired of fighting him. Wanted merely to let him use me and leave so that I could move on with my life.

  But whatever my fantasies were, I knew that Mr. Cunningham held all the power here. If I hurt him now, he’d have me arrested as fast as he could find a police officer. If I hurt him now, not only would he make sure that everything Father (and later, I) had built was taken away, but it would mean all my earlier sacrifices were invalidated. And that idea was just as repellent as doing his bidding, the idea that all of this debasement and humiliation had been for nothing.

  He was breathing fast now, stroking himself as I still refused to open my mouth. “It’s been a while since we’ve done this, Molly. How long has it been? A year?”