Page 163

Wicker, I know, is still down at the rink, doing a presser for the paper. Father is at the Gentleman’s Chamber, handling something or other, and Danner is out back, supervising a linen delivery.

I close the door behind me as I enter, pulling the empty, sterile specimen cup from my pocket. Setting it down on the desk, I take a seat in the chair, booting up the middle monitor. It’s currently showing a view of the front gate, and it takes me a moment to remember the keystrokes to pull up the server directory.

A sudden squawk makes me sigh.

“Pretty bird,” Effie trills.

“Dirty bird,” I mutter, and she echoes, “Dirty. Dirty bird. Dirty fucking bird.”

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” I wonder, annoyed. Pace usually covers her cage when he goes out.

She lets out an energetic series of clicks and croons, and then, “Gentle.”

I whip around to gape at her, the word said in such a perfect pitch to match Verity’s voice that it makes my spine rigid, like she’s somewhere nearby, watching.

“Gentle?” I ask Effie.

Her little head sways side to side. “Gentle, gentle,” and then she switches to Wicker’s voice. “Suck my balls.”

I exhale, realizing she’s just going off on one of her tangents. For being Pace’s bird, she sure is an attention whore. “Go to bed,” I say, finding the sheet on the floor and covering her cage.

Once she’s shut up, I go back to flipping through files, searching for the most recent recordings.

Adrenaline pumps through my veins when the video pulls up and I slide the specimen cup closer. Part of it’s anxiety, part anticipation, but mostly dread. Seeing myself like this on the screen is fucking surreal. I know it’s me lurching out of the bed. I know it’s my cock, thick and slapping against my abdomen as Wicker lets me out of the room and leads me down the hall. My gait is a little off–a bit too lax. But there’s no mistaking my scarred back.

It’s not quite like the first two times I sleepwalked into her room, aimless and meandering. This time, it’s almost like I know where I’m going, turning the corner and making a straight beeline right for her door.

It’s already open.

Unzipping my pants, I pull out my cock, warm but limp, and try my damndest to stroke a little life into it. The response is a weak flicker of want, but mostly what I feel isjealousy.

I’m fucking jealous of myself in the video. Of that glorious cock. Of the way I’m approaching her bed on the screen, wild and hungry. Verity’s awake, waiting for me with the covers up to her waist, but I don’t wait for permission. Ipounceon her, ripping away the sheets, tearing clumsily–viciously–at her ivory gown. It’s all reckless and feral, unbelievably primal, and she fights me. I can tell from the way she was waiting that she knows she has no choice. The fight… it’s probably instinct as much as anything else. I watch the two of us roll around the bed until I get the upper hand. I see the way I pin her down, my muscles flexing under the scarred flesh, my thighs powerful. My fingers tighten around her wrists as my legs spread her knees apart. She’s under attack–assault–because there’s no way to describe my cock in that moment but as a weapon.

I use it.Forcefully. Invading her cunt like I’m conquering territory.

I grip my cock in my hand and try to remember it entering her. Was it tight? It must have been tight. Was she even wet for me? Did she clench as I forced myself inside, or did her pussy remember me, let me in?

The thought brings a sudden tingle to my balls, but what makes me freeze is what she does next.

She strains upward, lips against my jaw, and speaks.

I can’t hear her words, but I see her mouth moving, eyelids fluttering as I pin her with my hips, going abruptly still. I witness her fingers combing back my hair, her hands stroking my sides. She unfurls like a flower, thighs falling to the side as she welcomes me in.

With a shimmy of her hips, she grabs the globe of my ass and rolls her hips upward, taking me in, heavy eyelids blinking up at me.

Stunned, I stare at the image of us, my cock giving a small but strong twitch.

We look like two hopelessly entwined lovers, caught in a moment of slow indulgence.

That’s not me–not how I fuck. When I have a girl beneath me, I command her with my hands, my tongue, my cock. Sex is a complex algebraic equation, and I’ve aced all the exams. Flick here, kiss there, obtain the data, find the value forx. Girls used to go wild for it–being ruthlessly analyzed to the point of utter sexual annihilation. There was a time they’d seek me out for it, flipping their hair or batting their eyelashes. Then they learned it was pointless, and I’d instead get franker and franker texts, outright asking if I’d fuck them.

My point is, this man on the screen can’t be me.

He turns his head, mouth brushing hers, and when we kiss, Verity is the one guiding it. I can see the saliva glisten between our mouths as our tongues tangle, slow and luscious.

“I made sure you were looking at me.”

Blood rushes between my legs, the heat surging to my cock. I grip the shaft in one hand, fingers working my balls, while I stroke with the other, trying to work it up.