Total pages in book: 210
Estimated words: 200837 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1004(@200wpm)___ 803(@250wpm)___ 669(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 200837 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1004(@200wpm)___ 803(@250wpm)___ 669(@300wpm)
So instead of starting a fight, I walk over to Clara—this woman that I love so much—place my hands on her cheeks, tilt her head up, and kiss her.
I’m still angry, but not at her. I’m angry at the world, and myself, and all the stupid traditions I am now obligated to continue. And the only way I know how to let go of it is to take control wherever I can.
And the only thing I have control over right now is how we put this night to bed. And I want to do that with sex.
So this is a passionate kiss. A greedy, hungry, insatiable kiss. And while I’m kissing her, I’m pushing her backwards. She kisses me back with just as much longing, yearning to forget. Because that’s all we’re doing. That’s all anyone’s ever doing in this city. We’re filling our lives with coffees, and pastries, and clothes, and galas, and the dreams of dreamers who think we’re all free.
But, of course, we’re not. We’re living under the thumb of an insatiable god hungry for pretty women.
Stop thinking, that voice inside my head chastises. Purge your feelings of guilt, and shame, and apathy with sex, Finn. It’s what Clara wants too.
And that voice in my head is right, I think. Because I can’t recall a single conversation with Clara Birch about Imogen Gibson, or Marlowe Hughes, or Mabel P., or Lucy Fisher, or Mabel S., or Piper Adley, or Brooke Bayford.
So why would Haryet Chettle be any different?
Clara doesn’t want to talk about Haryet, she wants to forget about Haryet.
Which just so happens to be a wish I am able to grant.
I’m still walking Clara backwards as I kiss her, but then the back of the couch is right there, pressing against her ass. I pull away, spin her around, place my hand right between her shoulder blades, and push her down, holding her in place for several seconds so she understands what I want her to do.
Which is stay still and follow my lead.
There is no way to get this gown off her in any kind of timely manner, and even if there was, the number of undergarments she’s wearing pretty much make the attempt at getting her naked pointless. So I don’t even bother trying.
Instead, I place my foot between her legs and kick one foot to the left, spreading that leg open a little wider. Clara gasps in surprise, but I don’t stop, just do that same move again, spreading open her other leg until, as a pair, they are wider than her shoulders.
My hand is still firmly pressing down between her shoulder blades, so she is now breathing heavy and with effort. Her head has turned to the left, her eyes trying to see me over her shoulder, looking for guidance, but she’s not able to fully meet my gaze.
I wait. There is silence in these waiting moments. Which is her way of giving me permission to continue.
So I lift my hand from her back, then lean down into her neck, biting her earlobe and making her squirm. My hand is lifting up the many layers of elaborate skirts, pushing them all up over her hips and exposing the gorgeous silk-lace lingerie covering her hips, and ass, and upper thighs. At the same time I whisper, “I love you,” right into her ear.
She wants to say it back, almost gets part of a word out, but I shock her back into silence by grabbing the edge of that fine silk-lace underwear and ripping it open, giving me the access I need.
There’s not going to be any talking. If she starts talking, I’ll start talking, and I don’t want to talk about anything right now. I just want sex.
A moment later I’m pushing a finger up inside her as I release my belt, open my pants, and pull out my cock, fisting it in my hand. Clara Birch is moaning loudly as this happens, arching her back and sending all the right signals, and I slide my finger along the streak of wetness between her legs.
I bend down a little, positioning myself at her entrance with one hand while I continue to stimulate her with the other, and then my finger slides out just as my cock slides in.
Clara’s gasp of surprise, and possibly pain, is immediate. But I don’t stop, or even consider going slower. I thrust into her hard, fisting her hair and pulling it with one hand while I slap her on the side of her thigh. She gasps, moaning a little, and then her arms stretch out along the back of the couch, bracing against my thrusting as I fuck her. We don’t make love. Not this time. I do love her, but this is not lovemaking.
I am pissed. I am ashamed. I am… not me anymore.