The Wedding of Molly O'Flaherty

by Sierra Simone

  He angled his fingers so that he was rubbing against that one spot inside, and I couldn’t take it anymore. My nipples tightened and my belly tightened and my cunt tightened—all of my senses and sensations shrinking to the one point where his touch met my body.

  “Oh God,” I moaned, my head falling back. “I’m going to…Oh God, Silas…”

  “Yes,” he groaned. “Let me have it. Let me feel it.”

  And there it was, all of it, the shame and the fear and the shredded sense of self-worth. It hovered in me as my orgasm hovered just out of reach, and then my orgasm crashed into me, fusing everything into white-hot waves of release. It ripped through my body, out of me and back into me, sending me soaring and falling at the same time; my only tether to reality was Silas’s other hand still gripping mine, squeezing hard as I clenched and pulsed around his fingers and rode his hand chasing after every single flutter.

  And when I opened my eyes to see Silas staring at me with his face so serious, so stern—eyes hungry and still a little angry—more shudders rippled through me.

  He was right. I belonged to him.

  He still clasped my hand as he slid his fingers out of me and raised them to his mouth, where he slowly sucked my taste off of each and every one, our gaze never breaking as he did.

  I took a deep breath in and a deep breath out, and where I expected shame or regret for violating the contract, I found none. And I found that—just a little, just an infinitesimal amount—my other shame had lessened. It was still there, and I wasn’t young or foolish enough to believe it could be wiped out with a single act or a single intention, but it was better.

  Lesser.

  He was right; he had carried my burden, and carried a part of it still, because he had looked the horrible truth of it in the face and still chosen to love me. As if it didn’t matter what I had let Cunningham do to my body or to my mind, because he saw that Molly O’Flaherty was so much more beyond those events, that those events could matter as much or as little as I wanted them to, and that, either way, he would shoulder the load with me while I figured it out.

  We sat in silence for just a minute more, my body languidly unwinding and his face no less intense, but before I could speak to thank him, to explain what gift he’d just given me, he wiped his hand on his pants and then glanced to the clock on the mantel. And like that, the authoritative Silas was gone and my friendly Silas was back in his place, polite smile and all.

  “I should go,” he said ruefully, getting to his feet and giving my hand one final squeeze.

  “Silas…” I stood too, trying to find the words. “I—I want to say thank you but that isn’t quite right. But I don’t know what is quite right.” I stopped when I noticed the formidable erection still tenting the front of his pants. “Silas, you can’t go downstairs like that.”

  “I’ll walk it off,” he said with a faux-cheeriness that vanished the moment I stepped forward and pressed my palm against his rigid length, curling my fingers around it through his trousers. A low hiss escaped his lips, and for a minute, I thought maybe he would finish what he’d started. That maybe my commanding Silas would return and order me to the bed, where he’d satisfy us both.

  But it wasn’t meant to be. He moved backwards, wincing as my hand left his cock.

  “Let me help,” I begged. “We’ll be fast. I promise.”

  He came just close enough to drop a kiss on my forehead and then he straightened his jacket so that it hid the worst of it. “I must go, buttercup. I’ll see you in an hour or two.”

  And then he swept his hat off the floor and left the room.

  I’d lied to Molly.

  The moment I closed the door of the rented room, I was searching out another space, one private enough where I could rectify the embarrassing physical situation I found myself in. And the whole time, my mind was screaming why did you leave her, go back go back go back, but I knew I couldn’t. For one thing, we’d violated the contract. Well, I had violated it, despite all of her careful and creative planning last night to find a way for us to share intimacy without breaching the damned thing, and then I’d blown all that work to hell when I’d shoved my fingers inside of her.

  While a sick part of me could justify the breach by saying that my actions had only been to take care of her after her confession, no part of me could justify further violating the agreement simply for my own pleasure.

  And for another thing, there was her confession itself, and all of the rage and concern and tenderness and frustration it inspired within me. I’d wanted to show her that I was there to support her, there to love her, but I also wanted to respect the solemnity of the moment. The seriousness of it.

  Serious and solemn moments, moments filled with tragedy and pain, should only rarely evolve into sticky cum-covered moments.

  I wouldn’t say never. But rarely.

  And the very next door I tried opened to my efforts. It was empty, and with a silent prayer, I locked the door and hoped no one would try to return to the room in the next…well, honestly, it wouldn’t take very long.

  I freed myself as quickly as I could, letting out a long breath when I finally circled my hand around my dick and started pumping. I didn’t bother to pull my pants down any farther or even unbutton my jacket; I widened my stance and worked my cock fast and hard, imagining it was Molly’s hand wrapped around me, that it was her breathing I heard instead of my own.

  I looked down to see the dusky-dark crown pushing through my fingers and then pulling back, disappearing and reappearing, and I thought about how it would look thrusting up between her breasts or between the cheeks of her ass. I tightened my fist, thinking about that ass, about the way she’d gasped and panted when I’d fucked her there for the first time. I’d been gentle and easy since Molly had never allowed a lover to take her that way. Only me. I’d been the first to fuck that hot, tight place. I’d been the first to mark her there.

  And then my mind disappeared into a filthy haze of images—some remembered, some imagined—depraved things that I would never admit to thinking in polite company…or even in not-so-polite company. The feeling of Molly’s delicate throat under the crush of my fingers, the image of my hand holding her down as I pumped into her. The tableau of her and me and Viola and—yes, even Castor—all together in that bedroom, slick cunts and warm mouths and hunger. Me straddling Molly and jetting cum onto her lovely freckled face.

  I erupted all over my hand, long spurts of white heat, groaning and fucking my fist even faster to spur the pleasure on longer, pretending for those last few thrusts that it really was Molly’s cunt I was fucking and not my own hand. Until finally, I stilled, breathing hard. My lust was temporarily slaked, but I didn’t feel any better. Instead, I tried to push down the yawning emptiness that wanted to creep up in its place.

  I didn’t want to do this alone.

  I wanted to be with her.

  And on top of that, what kind of man needed a woman that way after she’d told him the terrible stories of how someone had abused her?

  A bad man, that’s the kind of man.

  I felt a little guilty for using the nearby ewer and towel to clean myself, since this wasn’t my room, but it needed to be done. A few minutes (and some vigorous scrubbing) later, I was clean and decent enough to be seen in public. I pressed the emptiness down, along with the anger over what Molly had endured at the hands of that monster, plastered a grin on my face and made my way to the club’s dining room.

  Generally only members were allowed to dine at the club, but members could invite guests, and since Castor was a member, we were more than welcome. When I reached the table, Julian, Castor and Martjin van der Sant were deeply engaged in a conversation about shifting trade alliances around the Empire. I made my apologies for my lateness, was introduced and sat, staying quiet for most of the meal. Not necessarily because business didn’t interest me, but because I wanted to study van der Sant, this man I’d rashly plunged into business with for Molly’s sake.

 
Van der Sant seemed to be the kind of person who inspired respect, not affection. Though short in stature, his rigid posture and imposing demeanor gave the impression of a much larger man, and his conversation was clipped and direct. Completely humorless.

  However, when Julian happened to mention his child, van der Sant’s face softened. “I always wanted a son,” the Dutch man said. “But I am more than pleased with my Birgit.”

  He turned his attention to the waiter, to signal for more water, while the three of us exchanged uncomfortable glances. Castor and Molly had arranged tonight so that Birgit’s innocence would be unequivocal. But we hadn’t once given a thought to the emotional toll this would take on van der Sant, witnessing the attempted seduction of his daughter. Would he be furious? Devastated?

  How would I feel if this happened to one of my nieces? Or my own daughter? There was no way to endure that kind of test politely or stoically—every masculine protective instinct roared at the thought. In fact, I wanted to go upstairs now and strangle Cunningham before he could even lay eyes on Birgit again.

  But of course, reality was slightly more complicated. The illegality of murder aside, there was the issue of preserving the relationship between father and daughter along with Birgit’s virtue. I’d not been consulted—perhaps if I had, I would have advised against all this subterfuge and opted for something more direct—but I knew enough about Molly to know that she believed in almost nothing more than the sanctity and warmth of a healthy love between a father and his daughter. I knew enough about Molly to know that she saw Birgit as a younger version of herself, and that her efforts to help Birgit were penances paid to the ghost of the girl Molly used to be.

  Lost in thought, I didn’t notice how the conversation had shifted until the mention of Molly’s name pulled me out of my haze. My head snapped up to see van der Sant gesturing delicately with his fork.

  “…Currently investigating a shipping company here in London that we’d like to work with. However, there have been rumors of certain behaviors,” he said distastefully. “My manager tells me that there are a few people who assert that Miss O’Flaherty has been sighted acting immorally.”

  Immorally. The word carried judgment and self-righteousness and the strident fervor of someone who associated any and all irregularity in public behavior as a moral failing.

  Irritation flared, irritation and the very real urge to drive my fist into van der Sant’s face. But that was unthinkable—however harshly he criticized Molly, he was still a potential business partner, and I couldn’t jeopardize that with my selfish need to defend her. The company was more important to her than what some priggish stranger thought of her. Aside from that, Molly’s relationship with the three of us was still unknown to van der Sant, and it was prudent to keep it that way until it was absolutely unavoidable. It would be wise to keep up the illusion that we were merely investors interested in sealing our exchange with a friendly meal.

  He may decide not to do business with Molly at all after tonight, I thought. But that was out of my control. My reaction to van der Sant’s statement, however, was in my control. With great effort, I kept my face relaxed and open, my lips tilted up in an interested smile.

  But next to me, Castor and Julian had both stiffened, Castor’s powerful frame no longer merely athletic but threatening. Silent anger spilled out from Julian, spilling like paraffin oil across the table, a dangerous thing waiting to be kindled into explosive flames.

  I glanced over to Castor, whose scowling visage indicated he was ready to fling lightning bolts down upon his enemies, like a muscled, clean-shaven Zeus, and then over to Julian, who flexed and fisted a hand under the table, unconsciously rehearsing for a duel of honor, and then to van der Sant, who seemed baffled by the sudden and stony silence that had fallen over the table. It appeared that it was going to have to be me who kept this dinner afloat, along with Molly’s prospective partnership with van der Sant’s company.

  “Rumors are just that, Mr. van der Sant,” I said easily, using the smile that had gotten me dances in the ballroom and reprieves from my childhood nursemaid. “Just words. Did you happen to find anything substantially immoral in the company itself while you were investigating?”

  Van der Sant shook his head and wiped his mouth. “That’s just it, Mr. Cecil-Coke. The company has been sedulously guided through the years. The books are scrupulously kept, the managers are all honest, and there’s been nothing irregular whatsoever in the financial machinery of her business.”

  “Surely that is a better testament to Miss O’Flaherty’s character than mere hearsay?” I asked, lifting an eyebrow.

  “I’m forced to concede you are correct,” van der Sant admitted. “And while I find it improper for a woman to be involved in such a masculine enterprise, I cannot ignore that she has done a marvelous job. Her company still presents an excellent opportunity for us, and though it may trouble my conscience, I believe I will put aside those rumors permanently. Ultimately, what matters is that her company is ethically run, and in that respect, it is quite spotless.”

  Good, you asshole, was what I wanted to say. But I refrained, instead only making a small noise of approval in my throat and then asking if he’d like more wine.

  Next to me, Castor and Julian slowly let go of their anger, and by the time we were finished with the meal, a semblance of civility had covered over the earlier tension. Still, Julian’s voice was brusque when he stood and said, “Would you like to retire with us upstairs for some brandy? Silas and I would like to talk over our new investment.”

  Van der Sant nodded. “Of course.”

  The room wasn’t empty when we opened the door. Of course, that was the plan, but I still felt a clench of anxiety when Molly stood and swept toward Birgit’s father with a serious look creasing her face. I wanted to protect her from this—all of it. From van der Sant’s disapproval, from the memories of Cunningham’s touch, from the chaos that could ensue after Cunningham’s perversion was exposed.

  But Molly didn’t need protecting. With her shoulders back and her eyes slightly narrowed in determination and her dress gleaming green in the light of the small chandelier and its matching wall sconces, she looked like a solemn figure from some sort of Gaelic myth.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said quietly to Martjin van der Sant. “I have something important to discuss with you.”

  The Dutch man looked from me to Castor to Julian—and then back to Molly—confused and clearly a little annoyed. “Miss O’Flaherty, this is highly unusual. And improper.”

  “It’s about Birgit,” she interrupted, politely but firmly. “It’s about your daughter.”

  This was enough to halt whatever he’d been prepared to say next. Concern flashed in his eyes. “Please explain.”

  Only I saw the way Molly’s chest rose, as if she was taking in a breath for courage but also trying to hide it. I thought of her earlier today, her hand trembling in mine, her eyes glittering with unshed tears. It’s too late for me.

  I’d tried to prove to her that it wasn’t; that nothing changed the way I felt about her. If anything, I loved her even more, not because her story inspired me to protect her and heal her, but because it had allowed me a glimpse of the incalculable strength of her mind, the diamond-hard quintessence of her soul. It allowed me to see a Molly that I saw rarely—a woman both fragile and fierce, brilliant and yet so impossibly ignorant about herself.

  I love you, I thought fervently, trying to send that thought to her, to strengthen her.

  And maybe it worked. She let go of the breath she’d held and answered in that same calm but firm voice. “When I first met Birgit, I asked her to consider me a friend. After all, we are both very similar—we were both raised by fathers after our mothers had died. Our fathers were both prosperous businessman. And both of us were deeply loved by these fathers.”

  Molly had said the right thing. Van der Sant’s irritation melted somewhat, and he nodded.

  She went on. “In addition,
I wanted to extend my protection to her. Birgit is very beautiful and very young and very…untouched. I’m sad to say that I know from personal experience that a man within my own company is drawn to such girls. I worried that Birgit would capture his eye, and I wanted to make sure that he couldn’t bring any harm to her, as he has to me and others. Unfortunately, she came to me this morning to tell me that he has threatened her with the most appalling of arrangements. That she must surrender herself to him or he will publicly slander her reputation. He has told her that if she doesn’t comply with his wishes then he’ll convince you that she’s been dishonest and unchaste.”

  “That’s a very concerning allegation,” van der Sant said after a pause.

  “I know it is,” she agreed. “And it probably seems unlikely. Outlandish even. Which is why I am not asking you to believe me without proof.” She indicated the corner of the room, where a narrow door was set into the wall, a remnant from a century ago, when this building had been a family house. There was a heavy table placed against it to discourage use, and indeed, it looked like no one had touched it in decades, but a door it remained, and it allowed eavesdropping, provided you pressed your ear to the seam and listened closely.

  Van der Sant seemed to grasp Molly’s meaning right away. Color rose up his neck, anger and horror and disbelief. “Are you—is my daughter behind that door?”

  His anger didn’t faze Molly. “She will be shortly. The room adjoining us belongs to Frederick Cunningham.”

  “Mr. Cunningham,” he said. “He’s the man you were referring to?”

  “Yes.”

  Van der Sant’s mouth opened and closed at this new piece of information. Molly forged on. “I can understand why you are angry. Why this situation infuriates you. But before you vent your rage on me and before you storm into the next room, I want you to know that Birgit sincerely believes that you would not put faith in her if she came to you. Your own daughter, who adores you and has never given you any reason to doubt her, still thinks that you do not love and trust her enough to believe her story.”