Rain Season – Day 17 of 92, 48th Year of Creipus the Pious
Waking up in Sicarius Estrova’s embrace on a chilly morning was a mixture of bliss and bother. While the warmth of his furnace-like body was comforting, being stabbed by a rock-hard cock was a bit much some days. Worse, if he realized you were awake, wet kisses and sour morning breath peppered your neck, dragging you from much needed sleep. His groping hand kneading at your breasts could either be ecstasy or torment, depending on how late he kept you up. Waking up this morning with a throbbing headache, four hours sleep, and something sliming up your spine was miserable. You groped for the heavy jaw above your head, pushing your palm against his throat.
“No,” you grumbled.
He rolled his hips into the curve of your butt as one hand tickled down your thigh. “Are you sure?”
“I am not in the mood, Sicarius.”
Long fingers toyed with the high edge of your silk undergarments. Despite cleaning up, the seam was crusted with his cum leaking from your body. Last night’s adventures roosted like pigeons in your skull, pecking at your brain with every tick of the clock. Raw from your overindulgences, you curled away from your husband.
“I can fix that,” he taunted, sharp teeth pricking at your ear.
Glaring at him sent another wave of pain through your head. You groaned, burying your face into the blankets. “Please leave me alone,” you half begged. “I did not get enough sleep, and my head hurts.”
Sicarius’s hand pulled away from your core, drifting up to your temple. Firm circles followed the taut muscles from the base of your skull to the swell of your neck. As the tense tissues released, you moaned with relief. The bed creaked. Sicarius chuckled. The wonderful sensation of rolling relaxation slipped away. You cracked open one eye, only to see your husband tugging his trousers over a very excellent backside.
“You stay there. I will acquire some aspirin.”
You tried to sit up, but another spike of torment sent you reeling into the mattress.
“Hush now,” Sicarius murmured, patting your head. “You need to get some more sleep before this evening.”
“Why?” you mumbled.
His nails dragged at the itch along your hairline. “I will tell you about it when you are feeling better, all right?”
A groan and tiny nod were his only reply.
“Sleep, kitten,” he cooed.
As if a spell descended upon your body, every limb felt like it was sinking into a whipped meringue. Heavy lids closed. Slow, steady breathing formed a rhythmic lullaby. When the door clicked shut, you slipped into unconsciousness.
A few hours later, your headache-less brain lolled into the waking world. Squirting through dry, sandy grit, you managed to focus on the blurry bedside clock: one fifteen in the afternoon. With a groan, you sat up, ears popping as you smacked gummy lips. The aching stretch in your bladder drove you from the soft bed into the bright bathroom. Red eyes took in the woman in the mirror. Puffy lids, swollen lips and messy hair all said the same thing: last night was more than your body could take.
On the sink were a glass of water and two aspirins. You downed them in seconds.
After tidying your appearance, you returned to the bedroom and drew back the velvet curtains. Squinting your way to the wardrobe, you spotted a silver box with a red bow propped against the closet door. Bare feet padded across the carpet. The ribbon slipped free. Curious fingers lifted the lid and parted the cream tissue paper. Inside was a black, bias cut floor-length gown with a ribbon belt and draped neckline. Tucked under the dress, you found a lotus-shaped platinum wire brooch with an opal center. Your fingers traced the halo of pale accent aquamarines. They glittered in the afternoon sun. Beside a butter-soft silver pashmina, there was a note.
Had to work. Meet me in the study. Wear the dress.
With an amused grin, you made your way back to the closet to pick a pair of matching shoes.
Thirty minutes later, with your hair tamed and makeup painted to your taste, you descended the stairs to the main hall. Despite the short slits in the tapered skirt, your steps were elegantly stilted by the body-conforming shape. When you reached the marble floor, you let the long hemline drop. The rounded train drifted behind you, sweeping back and forth along the polished surface. It made you feel like the world’s most expensive dust mop. Two quick raps on the study door were followed by one word:
“Enter.”
When Sicarius looked up from the mountain of paperwork, his furrowed frown shifted into a proud grin. He flew from the desk to your side and draped himself around your body. His fingers teased the silk ribbon around your waist.
“Do you like it?”
You rolled your eyes but could not hide your small smile. “At some point in our marriage, will you allow me to choose my own clothing?”
“And lose the pleasure of decorating my wife to my tastes?” His nose wrinkled. “Never.”
“Does your control fetish extend to all aspects of your life, Master?”
Sicarius hummed and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “You tell me.”
Your fingers plucked at the neckline. “So, what is the occasion?”
Blue eyes flashed with scheming excitement. “Ellsworth reported that your dinner etiquette has been satisfactory for two weeks. I think it is high time we tested you on a few guests.”
It felt like the Benson was parked on your chest. “No!” you protested, wrapping your arms around your ribs. “Sicarius, it is too soon! I do not feel confident enough for that!”
The grip on your waist hardened into a tight pinch. “You said the same thing two weeks ago,” he snarled.
Your eyes narrowed. “That is because what was true then is true now!”
He took your chin in his fingers. “You promised me this was a temporary affair.”
“You promised me that you would keep it secret until I was ready!” you fired back, stabbing a finger at the door. “You think all the staff, a plethora of shopkeepers, my family and friends, and the entire dock district is secret!?”
Sicarius drew a slow, irritated breath deep into his barrel chest. “We are discussing your behavior right now, not mine.”
“They are not very much linked?” you demanded.
“We have been married three months,” he pointed out, moving his hands to your shoulders. His words were sickly sweet, squeezed between gritted teeth. “I am trying to be patient, but is it so much to ask to have my wife come to dinner with me?”
“Is it so much to ask for you to uphold our agreement?”
With a string of Gamoidian curses, Sicarius’s fist banged down on his desk.
“Beating the furniture fixes nothing,” you stated, voice dripping with venom.
More rapid fire foreign mutterings paraded from his mouth. He ran his fingers through his silver hair. An irritated smile stretched tightly over his hard jaw. Wild, dark eyes stared at you as he leaned into your face. “Why are you like this?”
You sneered at him. “I thought you liked me spiteful?”
All at once, Sicarius threw his head back. Hollow, cruel laughter filled the room. It made your ears ring. When he finally stopped cackling, he pinched your jaw between his fingers. His other hand slipped up the slit in your skirt, bunching the fabric around your waist.
“Only so I can break you of it,” he growled.
Sicarius lips crashed against yours, hard and violent like a punch to the side. You squirmed in his hold, muffled whines squeaking from your throat. Your nails curled into his chest, digging into the flesh below his shirt. It did not slow him down. He forced his tongue into your mouth, dominating the kiss with a ferocious heat. You shoved at him, but he was like a brick wall. His fingers dived past the edge of your short slip. Your skin bristled with rage as he began to stroke the sore folds, smearing his leftover cum across burning flesh.
All at once, you bit him on the lip.
Sicarius pulled back, licking the blood from the wound. His grin was bright as neon lights, but both eyes looked like black, bottomless pools. “Naughty thing. What was that for?”
“I am sore.”
“So?”
“You can not solve every argument with sex, jokes, and bribery!”
He pouted. “Why not?”
“Sicarius!” you screeched.
With a sigh, he let you go. You stumbled backward, rubbing the sore spot on the crest of your hip. Straightening the silky dress, you felt wet heat between your thighs. While your brain screamed “traitor,” your body craved more of those big, groping hands.
Stars, what was this man doing to you?
Your husband wagged his finger in your face. “A compromise then?”
Cheeks filled with wanton heat, you panted to catch your breath. “W-what kind of compromise?”
He pointed to his nose and then your chest. “I allow you to break your end of the bargain tonight, but you will accompany me to the Marinar orchestra on a night of my choosing.”
…effectively letting Sicarius set the date of your societal debut.
You tilted your head with a quizzical frown. “Is there some reason why this is suddenly such a concern to you?”
“As you will recall, it has always been a concern of mine.” He shrugged and leaned on the desk. “However, given the guests tonight, I thought this an excellent opportunity to practice.”
A cold sweat peeled down the back of your neck. “Who is coming to dinner?”
Sicarius’s smile sharpened in excitement. “The Highton family.”
Twisting your handkerchief in knots, you walked up and down the front hall underneath the great golden tree. The long skirt of your maid’s dress flowed back and forth, swirling around your calves. Your nails were chewed to ribbons. Each tick of the second hand was a stab wound to your nervous heart. Alex and Lyle, both dressed in their formal livery, watched you from their seats on the stairs. Ellsworth stood beside the door, monitoring the black drive below the glowing full moon.
Alex sighed, burying his head in his palm. “Making a scene isn’t going to change the problem.”
You glared at the teenager, eyes zipping up and down his uniform, looking for any flaw that might upset the picky Lord Highton. The collar was starched, each button was tight to the blinding white coat, and the apron was wrinkle-free. Even the boy’s chef’s cap was ironed and pressed. Your eye twitched. With no real critique to silence him, you crossed your arms and snapped, “Should you not be helping Cook?”
Alex’s grin was snotty as he ticked off his fingers. “The quiche is done, Cook wants to know when the guests arrive so he can start the mushrooms, and this is far more entertaining.”
Lyle elbowed the boy. “Oh, come on, Alex. Don’t be a brat.”
Alex harrumphed and turned his cheek. “It’s her own fault, getting worked up over such a silly thing.”
“Mr. Slater.” Ellsworth’s voice was a low, firm grunt. “Mrs. Estrova is your employer and could see you dismissed without reference should she so choose.”
Alex’s eyes popped wide. His throat bobbed with a tight swallow.
You sighed and waved a hand. “It is fine, Mr. Ellsworth. Just because I do not wish to hear it does not make the boy wrong.”
Lyle grinned, his freckled cheeks wrinkling. “Yeah, Mr. Ellsworth, we all know that nasty criticism is Alex’s way of trying to comfort someone.”
Alex’s face bloomed bright red. He stabbed the mechanic in the side with a sharp elbow. “Shut up!”
Lyle grinned at him. “Be nice to her. She worked for this family for years. How would you feel if you ran out on Sicarius and then suddenly bumped into him after all that time?”
The undercook frowned. “You know that would never happen.”
Lyle wrapped his arm around the younger boy’s shoulder and poked the side of his cheek. “Ah, come on, under all that attitude you’ve got an imagination, right?”
Alex looked from your tightly drawn expression to the darkness outside the front doors. His sneer softened as he watched your fingers clench the fabric of your sleeves. You paced the veins on the marble floor like a caged animal, only half-listening to his response. A sympathetic grimace curled on his lips.
“Fine. About like that,” he admitted.
Lyle laughed and slapped his companion on the shoulder. His hand dug into Alex’s scalp, roughly ruffling the brunette’s hair. “Such an honest boy. The mistress may still like you yet.”
“Get off me, you idiotic goon!”
You stopped your death march long enough to notice Alex’s now crooked cap. “Lyle! Button your collar and stop disarranging your fellow staff. Lord and Lady Highton could be here any minute!”
With a pout, Lyle snapped the fasteners of his black collar and tugged down on his short, double-breasted chauffeur’s jacket. Your eyes locked on to the leather belt of his high waisted trousers. It was one notch too loose. With a loud cough and a stabbing point, you gestured to the infraction. He groaned, tightening the band. You straightened his gold-trimmed pillbox hat. Lyle winced but said nothing.
Mr. Ellsworth smiled, peeking through the window pane. “They are here.”
Like cockroaches scattering before a searchlight, the entire understaff ran for their places. Alex shot off down the hall to warn Cook. Lyle leapt to his feet and hurried to stand in the greeting line. You lifted your skirt and dashed around the corner to the master’s study. The door clicked shut behind you as you pressed your stress-weary body tight to the wooden frame.
Sicarius looked up from his desk, taking in your shaking hands and fear-riddled expression. “Ah. Our guests are here, I presume?”
Your head snapped up as you clutched your pounding heart. “I cannot do this.”
He slid to his feet, slipping his hands into his pockets. “You will be fine.”
“What if they recognize me?” you hissed.
“What if they do not? Will you be disappointed?”
You shook your head. “I would be incredibly relieved.”
Sicarius patted your shoulder. “Tell me, do most nobles recognize their lower ranked maids?”
“No,” you admitted.
He smirked. “And after more than a decade and a half?”
“No, you are correct.” Clutching your elbow to stop yourself from shaking to pieces, you sniffed back cold snot and tilted your head to the ceiling. “I am sorry. I know I am being irrational, but I…” Your voice trailed off.
Sicarius wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into the tuxedo coat. “See, this is exactly why I wanted you to be my wife tonight. I could hold your hand. We could face this together, instead of you going it alone.”
You buried your face in his lapel. “I can not. I do not have the strength to pretend to be what I am not.”
“What you are not?” A long finger tilted your head up. “You manage the state of this house with terrifying efficiency. You handle our staff with the correct blend of dignity and respect. You impressed my butler, a feat very hard to do.”
“I just…” Biting your lip, you looked away. “As a maid, I can weather the insults because it is the station to which I was born. I am comfortable with myself in my own skin.” A frustrated fist thumped lightly against his chest. “In pretty dresses, I feel like an imposter.”
He snorted. “I assure you that you are more a ‘real lady’ than most of those bred to it.”
As Sicarius stroked your hair, there was a knock on the door. You jolted bolt upright, wrenching out of his arms to smooth your skirt. Your husband chuckled and squeezed your shoulder.
“Well, since you are at your best when irritated, just think about scratching out my eyes, and I am sure you will find your courage,” he teased, pulling open the study door.
From your hiding place, you could hear your husband’s smooth greeting and a familiar male voice returning the niceties. A soft, feminine speaker issued her reply with polite poise. Footsteps traipsed to the front parlor. You pressed your head against the dark wood and took a few deep breaths. Then with a clench of your teeth and a whimpering groan, you darted out the door and bustled toward the kitchen.
By the time you retrieved the silver tea tray, Reeves and Ellsworth had taken their positions by the parlor door. The footman caught sight of your clenched jaw and furrowed brows. He flashed you a sympathetic smile.
“He’s rather a foul creature, isn’t he?” Reeves muttered as he took the handle in his grip. “Spent the whole trip telling his wife she was dressed like a slut. She’s wearing one of Georgette’s gowns too! Plenty tasteful.”
You swallowed. “Lord Highton has always been obsessed with appearances. The name is old. They have a reputation to maintain.”
“Still, that Mister Highton is a right pric—”
Ellsworth’s hand shot out, reaching for Reeves’s shoulder.
“Mister?” you asked.
Reeves’s eyes popped open. He looked to you and cringed. “Oh…”
You froze, cranking your head around like a stiff mechanical doll. “Mr. Ellsworth, how old are our guests?”
Ellsworth pressed his thick lips together, his dark eyes raking over the footman like a tiger’s claws over a fawn. Reeves sunk into his collar, taking a slow step back from the door.
“Mr. Ellsworth?”
As if some foul curse had seized his chest, Ellsworth developed the worst heaving cough you ever witnessed. “Forgive me, madam. It’s my lung condition.” Through the dry sputtering, he grabbed the footman’s arm. “Mr. Reeves,” Ellsworth rasped, hunched over like a man twice his age. His eyes flashed like a lightning storm. “Escort me to the kitchen.”
“Huh?” Reeves paused, sweat beading down his furrowed brow. All at once, a spark of recognition flicked across his eyes. “Oh! Right! Lung condition.” Reeves gave you an apologetic grin. “Rain season is a bear for him. You know. All that mold.”
…and yet Alex told you this morning his mold allergies were doing just fine.
Ellsworth gasped before doubling over in another fit. The younger man wrapped his arms under Ellsworth’s body. With an apologetic smile, Reeves shrugged and half-carried the still hacking butler down the hall. Dumbfounded, you stood outside the parlor door, clutching the tray. Dread warred with duty as your brain swirled with the new information.
If the guest was Mr. Highton, not Lord Highton, that meant he was one of the sons. When you considered that the eldest had yet to marry, that left only…
No.
There was no way.
After you had confessed how tormented you were by—
One alarming thought flashed across your mind. Sicarius and the professor shared an obnoxious hobby:
“You both enjoy baiting people.”
It was in that moment that you realized he would. He absolutely would.
Hot rage flooded your blood. You held your breath and depressed the lever. The door slipped open on smooth, well-oiled hinges.
Inside the parlor were warm violet-brown walls surrounding sumptuous golden furniture. Draped across the long, rolled-arm sofa was a dazzling woman in a shimmering dress that looked like it was woven from starlight. The high front neckline stretched from one fluttering sleeve to the other, covering her clavicle enough to sate even the most prudish mother-in-law. However, as she turned, you caught sight of a low-slung cowl back draped just below her tail bone. A small, silver chain tipped with a pear-shaped diamond trailed from her choker necklace along the column of her spine. It drew the eye down toward her pert, peach shaped rump. Matching pins adorned a flawless nest of plaited blonde coils piled atop her dainty head. Sooty lashes hovered over jade green eyes. Laughing along with your husband’s joke, Evangeline Calcraft had aged with the grace of a succubus.
However, as you came to realize “Calcraft” was no longer her name, you turned to the man sitting opposite your husband. When startled eyes met his disgusted sneer, your heart spasmed.
After all these years, Hunter Highton, your former master, was a guest in your home.