Chapter 7: Titjob Tally
The heat from the fire was nothing compared to the burn of his skin against hers. Elara’s knees ached against the hard floor, but the discomfort was a distant thing, smothered by the overwhelming reality of his cock pressed between her breasts. Her blouse hung open, the fabric rough against the sides of her heavy, exposed flesh. The scent of him—sweat, sandalwood, and something uniquely male—filled her lungs with every ragged breath she managed to take.
“Tighter,” Alaric grunted, his voice a low rasp that vibrated through her.
She pressed her breasts together, enveloping him more firmly. His length was slick with pre-cum, a pearly string of it glistening in the firelight as it coated her cleavage. The sight was so lewd, so utterly debauched, that a fresh wave of heat flooded her own core. She could feel her nipples, tight and sensitive, brushing against the inside of her own arms as she moved.
His hand fisted in her hair again, not yanking, but holding her with an absolute certainty of possession. His other hand braced against the armrest, knuckles white.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
Her eyes, hazy with a confusing mix of shame and raw arousal, lifted to his. The Duke’s face was a mask of strained control, his jaw clenched, his grey eyes dark with a storm she was only beginning to understand. He was watching her, studying every flicker of expression as she serviced him with this intimate, filthy act.
“You see what you do?” he breathed, his hips giving a slight, involuntary thrust upwards, smearing more of his wetness across her skin. “You see how your softness undoes me?”
He guided her then, his grip in her hair directing the rhythm. She moved back and forth, the slick, hot slide of him against her skin a torturous friction. The room was filled with the wet, soft sounds of their joining, a stark counterpoint to the crackling fire. Her world narrowed to this: the weight of her own breasts, the solid thickness of him, the intense focus in his gaze.
“Fuck,” he hissed, the vulgar word a shock in the quiet room. His composure was fracturing. “Your tits were made for this. To be a warm, soft sheath for my cock.”
A moan escaped her, unbidden. His words, so crude and direct, should have repulsed her. Instead, they coiled tight in her belly, a spark igniting the damp kindling between her legs. She felt her own wetness, a slick acknowledgment of her participation in this depravity.
His thrusts became less controlled, more desperate. His breath came in sharp gusts. “That’s it. Just like that. Take it.”
She was taking it. Taking his size, his heat, his loss of control. She felt the moment he began to unravel, a tension coiling in him that was about to snap. His fingers tightened in her hair, a sharp, almost painful punctuation.
“Elara.” Her name was a ragged prayer, a curse.
With a guttural groan, his body went rigid. Hot streaks of his release erupted, painting her skin, her collarbone, the valley between her breasts with his spend. It was warm and thick, the scent musky and primal. He pulsed against her, his entire frame shuddering with the force of his climax.
For a long moment, the only sound was their labored breathing. The fist in her hair loosened, his hand falling away to lie limp on his thigh. He slumped back in the chair, his head tilted back, eyes closed. Spent.
Elara remained on her knees, trembling. The evidence of his pleasure cooled on her skin. She felt used. Exposed. And terrifyingly, overwhelmingly alive.
He opened his eyes. The storm had passed, leaving a flat, calculating calm. He looked at her, at the mess he had made of her, with the same dispassionate interest he might give a finished ledger.
“Clean yourself up,” he said, his voice once again cool and distant. He gestured to a folded linen cloth on the edge of his desk, as if he had anticipated this very need.
She reached for the cloth, her movements clumsy. The fabric was soft, absorbent. She wiped at her chest, the act feeling both necessary and deeply shameful.
As she worked, he stood, righting his clothing with efficient, practiced motions. The Duke was back, the man of ruthless efficiency burying the animal who had just grunted his release against her skin.
He walked to his desk and picked up a fresh piece of parchment. He didn’t look at her. “Wednesday. Be here after the household has retired.”
It was not a request. It was a decree.
She finished cleaning herself, her hands still unsteady as she re-buttoned her blouse. The fabric felt confining now, a poor shield. She stood, her legs weak.
“The terms,” she said, forcing her voice not to waver. “For Wednesday.”
He finally glanced at her, a ghost of something—amusement, perhaps—touching his lips. “You’ve already set the price, Miss Meadowsweet. You just haven’t realized how high it’s become.”
He dipped his quill into the inkwell, the scratch of the nib signaling her dismissal. She was halfway to the door when his voice stopped her.
“The ledger.”
She turned. He wasn’t looking at her, already engrossed in his writing.
“Your earnings are yours. The door you opened works both ways. Don’t forget it.”
She fled then, the heavy door closing behind her with a soft, final click. Out in the cold, dark hallway, she leaned against the stone wall, her heart hammering against her ribs. She could still smell him on her skin. She could still feel the phantom pressure of his hand in her hair. And she knew, with a sinking, thrilling certainty, that he was right. She had opened a door, and there was no closing it now. The Cold Wolf of the North had tasted her warmth, and he would not be satisfied until he had devoured her whole.