The Wedding of Molly O'Flaherty

by Sierra Simone

  She worried her lip between her teeth. “Maybe. If van der Sant still agrees to partner with my company. And that’s a big ‘if,’ given what Cunningham did.”

  “Or we can sell everything and move to an Irish cottage by the sea. I will do whatever you want, Mary Margaret: if you want to leave and start fresh or stay here and fight. I will be by your side.”

  Her blue eyes seemed to melt, less sapphires now and more evening sky. “I know you would.”

  “So you’re not angry with me? For trying to ‘rescue’ you?”

  She gave me a rueful smile. “Not this time. But don’t make it a habit.”

  Relief rushed through me. Still holding on to her face, I demanded, “Say it one more time.”

  “I choose you.”

  I choose you.

  My dick was still half-hard from our gin-flavored kisses, and now it was thickening again. For her. I angled her head to expose her neck, biting hard at the delicate skin there, moving down to her collarbone and shoulder, marking her with my teeth in the same bruising way she’d marked my heart.

  “Mine,” I half-muttered, half-growled as I bit the tops of her breasts, which were pushed into firm swells by her corset. “Mine.”

  “Yes,” she breathed, her fingers twining in my hair, and with a rumble deep inside my chest, I spun her around so that her back was to the window and I pushed her against it, lifting her onto the deep windowsill.

  With no preamble, I started rucking up her skirt, and when I glanced up at her face, her sweet little mouth was parted into an O and her eyes had started to fall shut.

  “People might see us,” I said, pushing back the layers of silk that separated us.

  “I know,” she said raggedly, because my hands had just found the soft skin above her stockings.

  “I hope they do see us.” My voice was savage. “I hope they see me fucking you. I hope they see as you come around my cock. Because then there can be no mistake. Molly O’Flaherty belongs to me. Only me.”

  She nodded eagerly, a flush creeping up her chest, and I brushed against the wet, hot entrance between her legs. I’d meant what I said: I honestly didn’t care that this window was only half hidden. That if a partygoer somehow wandered to this seemingly abandoned corner, they would see the soon-to-be bride getting fucked by someone who wasn’t her fiancé. I didn’t care that this wasn’t the Baron’s, that most of these guests were part of London high society and were uninitiated into the libertine life Molly and I had led up until now. I didn’t care that they might be shocked. And while I did care about Molly’s reputation, I cared more about having her. Claiming her. Sealing our new understanding with a branding, scorching fuck.

  “Spread your legs,” I ordered. “Spread them wide.”

  I loved the way she shivered and exhaled when I used that voice, that voice that came so naturally around her. I loved the way she so quickly complied, my fierce fighting Molly, as if there was not a single part of her that could resist obeying me, even though in the other parts of her life, she obeyed no one.

  I rubbed myself through my pants as I watched her—her low, silk heels braced against the sill, her white stockings clinging to her delicious legs, ending at the middle of her sweetly freckled thighs. And those perfect thighs opened to that even more perfect cunt, the legs and the cunt both framed by the spill of ruby red silk around her waist.

  I squatted for a moment, bringing my face down to the level of her sex, and I leaned in for one taste—just one—licking from the soft place just above her ass all the way up to her clit. And then, unable to resist, I ran the tip of my tongue around the inner folds of her pussy, teasing it in and out of her as she squirmed. I wanted to consume her, drink her and eat her, breathe her and absorb her, and I promised myself soon—maybe even our wedding night, this stupidly romantic and hopeful part of me suggested—I would spend hours with my face between her legs doing just that.

  “So good,” I told her, standing and reaching for the buttons of my pants. I didn’t bother to wipe her taste off my lips—I wanted it there, and I wanted her to taste it when I kissed her. I wanted that feeling of her tasting herself as I pushed inside of her, as if I were returning her own pleasure to her, returning her desire back with something added, a circle of completion coupled with something more.

  A spiral, I realized as my cock fell free from my pants and I leaned in for a kiss. It wasn’t a circle at all, because the moment we came back to where we started, I wanted her more. I loved her more. And so there wasn’t completion, not really, not while we still had breath in our bodies. It was more like we brought each other higher or further, like each fuck and each kiss and each shared look was another twist of the screw that was slowly and painfully and wonderfully affixing our hearts to one another’s.

  “Silas,” she said, her pupils dilated but one eyebrow arching up in impatience. Aroused but scornful: that was pretty much the essence of Molly O’Flaherty. “Please,” she added after a minute, although her tone still suggested that she was about to take matters into her own hands (as it were.) “Please fuck me.”

  Well, what gentleman can say no to a lady?

  Especially when she asks so politely?

  I wrapped my fingers around the base of my cock, my other hand sliding around the corseted curve of her waist, and she was so wet, so ready, that I didn’t bother to guide myself properly to her pussy. Instead, I just shoved my hips forward as I yanked her into me, reaching up to clap my hand over her mouth right as she was about to cry out.

  I felt that muffled cry against my palm, and fuck if I didn’t just want to do everything I could to feel it again. With one hand still on her waist and the other over her mouth, I moved closer, pushing deeper inside, shoving through that tight wet heat until I was buried.

  And then I didn’t move.

  “Look,” I told her roughly. “Look at you. Look at where you are. Look at what you’re letting me do to you.”

  My good girl obeyed, glancing through the crack in the curtains behind us and then turning that gaze down to where we were joined, her stare turning hot and needy as she took in the way my hips pressed into her thighs, the way her clit pressed into the hard muscle above my dick. And suddenly I knew that I could make her come just like this, without moving, without any of those finger tricks or tongue tricks I’d become so famous in certain circles for. Just by filling her, just by making her breathe and squirm around my dick, by making her feel the hard thickness that wanted only her pussy and no one else’s. And of course, whispering in her ear about all the filthy things I wanted to do to her while I had my hand over her mouth.

  “I’m going to fuck your ass next,” I told her. “I’m going to bury my cock so deep inside your ass that you’ll forget your own name. You’ll forget anything other than my dick.”

  Her breathing hitched, her pussy clenching around me. I smiled wickedly.

  “You’re so ready for me to fuck you, buttercup. Why is that? You like being fucked where anyone can see you? Or are you just so desperate for me that you’ll fuck me no matter where we are?”

  I pulled out slowly and watched as I did, loving the way my dick came out wet and glistening. I knew she could feel every inch of the slide, the drag of my helmeted tip as it ran along her channel. And she watched the entire process greedily, hungrily, whimpering with relief against my hand when I oh-so-slowly pushed back inside her cunt.

  She tried to grind closer, to buck her hips into me, but I slid my hand from her mouth to her neck and she froze. Her eyes flashed with fear, with lust, with something deeper and more profound than both, and I drank it in as I also drank in the feeling of her pussy tight around me, the feeling of her still trying to grind into me in small movements that she hoped I wouldn’t notice.

  But I did notice.

  “You better stay fucking still and fucking quiet,” I told her, and she opened her mouth to speak—in anger or in fear, I didn’t know—and then I finished my threat, “or I won’t let you come.”

&nbs
p; She shut her mouth.

  “Good girl. You want to come, don’t you?”

  She nodded frantically.

  “Yeah? You like it when I make you come?”

  Another nod. More squirming.

  “I thought so.” I gripped her neck tighter. “Stay. Still.”

  She finally stopped trying to grind against me, but she had to squeeze her eyes shut in concentration, and the sight of it was so adorable that I dropped a kiss on each closed eyelid. “My good girl,” I whispered. “Now I want you to listen to me. You feel my cock inside you? You feel how hard it is for you?”

  “Yes,” she murmured, eyes still closed. “I feel it.”

  “It’s stretching your little cunt now. It’s so deep inside of you that I can feel your womb. And all of it—that womb, that cunt—it belongs to me now, you understand? It belongs to me, and if I want to spread you wide and fuck you in front of everyone you know, I get to.”

  “Yes,” she said, the word almost a moan. “You get to.”

  And then her eyes fluttered open. “Oh, please, Silas,” she begged, and she’d gone from that petulant impatience to something more stripped and more primal. “Please make me come.”

  Behind us, the band struck up a new song, a popular song, and I could hear the normal ballroom chatter ripple with approval and delight. The noises seemed to blend together—the glasses clinking and the shoes thudding on the floor and the voices sharing gossip and news and advice; all of it was occasionally punctuated with a laugh or a clink that was a little too close, which made it all the more thrilling. Any moment we could be discovered, and fuck if a part of me didn’t want that to happen.

  “What would you do if someone heard you say those words?” I said harshly. My hand closed tighter around her neck. “If someone walked around this corner now and looked into the curtains? If they saw you with your legs spread wide for me?”

  She made an incoherent noise. I smiled viciously at her. “You would let them watch, wouldn’t you? You’d let them watch, because that’s how much you need my cock. That’s how much you need me. You’d let some stranger watch you getting fucked like a whore and you wouldn’t care, so long as I made that pussy come for me. Isn’t that right?”

  “God, yes,” she moaned, and it was loud enough that I glanced around behind me to see if we’d been overheard. We hadn’t, at least not that I could see.

  I returned my attention to her, to the way her breathing had grown labored against the squeeze of my fingers on her throat. I took care to make sure she could still breathe easily enough, but I wanted her to feel that edge of fear, that edge of uncertainty. Molly O’Flaherty had never let fear get the better of her. She’d never let fear take residence inside her mind.

  Unless she was with me.

  I should feel terrible about that. But I didn’t. Not with that flush staining her cheeks and chest, not with the way her fingers grasped at my jacket. It occurred to me that I’d never fucked like this—only with words, only with a hand squeezing and releasing and squeezing again on her neck. With my cock sunk to the hilt, but unmoving, a rigid bar in the soft heat of her body.

  “I can do anything I want with you, can’t I?” I asked her. “I can fuck you in the middle of a crowded ballroom. I can bend you over and fuck your ass until you come and cry at the same time. I can share your cunt with Castor or Julian.”

  Her eyes went wide at that—but not just with shock. With lust. I’d said it merely to be dirty, merely to drive her closer to the edge, but once I spoke the words, I felt my own response to the idea, a hot knife of arousal deep in my groin, a sharp desire that made my balls tighten. God, to see her under Castor’s massive muscular frame or pinned under Julian’s lean body—it was a thought that would make most men furious, but for some reason, it made me wild with desire. It made me savage with the need to drive into her, to fuck her blind. I wanted to see her with my friends, I wanted to be the one to be able to share her.

  My thighs trembled with the restraint it took to stay still. “You’ve gone quiet, Mary Margaret. Is it because you want to be shared? Is it because you want me to spread your legs and offer you to other men?”

  Her mouth parted, lips berry pink and plump, and oh God, now the memories were crashing in, memories of her lips wrapped tightly around Julian’s cock, of all those long nights in Europe where Julian and I each took our turn with her, making her come over and over and over again, until we all fell asleep in a pile of tangled limbs. Of the time Castor had given in to his lust and curiosity one night during supper, and Molly had—only for that one night—allowed him to dominate her right there on his dinner table. He’d laid her out and tied her down and fucked her until she screamed with an orgasm so powerful it shook the table.

  Why doesn’t that make you jealous? I asked myself. But it didn’t make me jealous.

  It only made me harder.

  “Maybe I should pull out of you right now and go find Castor or Julian, hmm? Bring them back here to fuck you. I’ll bring Ivy too, and maybe I’ll make you watch while I sink my cock into her. Make you watch as I test her cunt to see if it’s as tight and wet as yours.”

  Wrong words. Sinful words. Awful words.

  But Molly’s eyes had fluttered closed again and her breathing was so fast, so rapid now, and that flush was so deep and so hot in her skin, and she whispered, “Oh God, oh God, oh God.” Her hands were fisted in my jacket, and she couldn’t help the squirming, the wriggling, the need for friction.

  I let her move against me as I continued. “I want to see Julian and Castor inside of you at the same time. And I want to fuck Ivy while I watch. And then, when they’re done using you, I will wrap my hand in Ivy’s hair—” I slid the hand from her waist up into her gorgeous mass of curls to prove my point “—and drag her over to your cunt and make her lick you until you can’t speak any more.”

  “Jesus Christ,” she managed, and I could tell we were there, that our fantasy had taken us there, and I finally clamped down against her airway as hard as I dared, keeping a mental clock in my mind to make sure she stayed safe. Everything about her was open, needy—her cunt and her parted mouth and her widened blue eyes—and everything about me was hard and tense and rigid.

  “And then after they’ve all had you, after they’ve come in you, then I’ll get you. And you’ll be so sensitive and swollen and as tight as a virgin, and I’ll fuck you for hours, as a punishment and a reward. Look down, Molly. Look at you grinding against my cock like a needy whore. I bet you can’t wait to have all of us using you, filling you with our seed.”

  The first wave was more like a ripple, a small tug, and I brutishly thrust up into it even though I was already sunk all the way in, stabbing myself into her climax as I finally let go of her neck. Air sucked into her lungs, and her orgasm doubled and tripled and quadrupled all in the few seconds it took for her to call my name.

  “Fuck, Silas!” She writhed and gasped, and I kept pressing into her, needing to feel every twitch and flutter and clench, needing my whole dick to feel every second of this orgasm, this first I-choose-you orgasm. I forced myself to stay completely still as she quivered around me, clenching my jaw with the effort of restraint as her narrow channel gripped and slid against me.

  She ground against me through it all, wrapping her legs around my waist to lock us close together, the pink bud of her clit rubbing shamelessly against me.

  God, I loved it. I loved her. And I had to start moving right the fuck now.

  As the last of her climax fluttered away, leaving Molly panting and slumped against the glass behind her, I widened my legs and started driving into her pussy in earnest, loving the image of my thick cock pulling out to the tip and then ramming back in. She was so wet, so deliciously wet, but swollen, and the coupling of the lubrication and the resistance was almost too much to bear. I didn’t go fast so much as I went hard, rocking her back with every thrust and making her squeak with mingled pleasure and discomfort.

  With a growl, I moved her f
eet back to where they had been—braced against the sides of the window—so that she was wide open for me. Yes, that was good, I liked that. I liked my hands around her tiny waist, I liked her cunt open and ready, I liked the noise of the party guests and the thrill of the public event behind me.

  “So fucking wet,” I grunted. My balls slapped against her ass with each thrust. “So fucking wet for me.”

  Her flush deepened and I knew she’d come again—if I could last that long. Which was a matter for debate, at this point. “Rub your clit,” I ordered her. “Rub it hard and fast. I want you to make me come when you do.”

  “Yes, Silas,” she whispered, her hand already snaking down to to find her swollen nub. I watched her slender fingers work herself, and she watched me watching her, and then she fell over the edge once more, her head falling back as she tried to hold in her cry. That’s all I needed—the long arch of her throat as her head dropped back, the wet clench of her orgasm—and then I was following her over the cliff into oblivion.

  The climax started deep in my body, a jagged thing sawing at the base of my spine, sawing deep into my balls and cock, and it hurt it felt so good, my whole body shrinking to one point—my cock—and then exploding outwards as I shot jet after hot jet of cum deep into her body. I held her tighter and thrust harder as that happened, wanting to fill her up with as much of me as I could. To mark her and claim her and fucking own her.

  I pulsed and pulsed for what felt like hours, fucking through the climax like a man possessed, until finally the light returned to my vision and the sensation of anything beyond my orgasm began to come back. Molly’s hands in my hair. The sticky warmth we’d made between us. The music still trilling in the background.

  I sucked in a breath. “Jesus.”

  Molly gave me an exhausted, sated smile—free of all sarcasm and impatience and calculation. A smile I remembered well from those idyllic three days we’d spent together. “I know.” She reached for my hand. “I know.”

  I slid out of her, already missing the messily perfect connection, and then squatted down again without bothering to tuck myself back inside my pants. I had to see this first, this image that I’d fantasized about for so long.