Page 8 of The Wife

His lips twitched again. “A pity. Well, we needn’t start tonight.”

What?

My breath caught as my eyes widened, and A Harlot’s Guide slid from my hold for the second time, to bounce against the mattress and hit the ground.

None of us looked down.

“Remove your gown, Countess.”

The command was soft. Silky.

I shuddered, glancing down at my husband, whose eyes were still closed.

“Yes, Louisa,” he moaned, fisting his cock as his valet violated his arse. “Join us.”

He was my husband, and I was a dutiful wife.

In a daze, I untangled my hand from his and reached for the ties of my robe. Robert didn’t once look at me, but Bramstock…

The man’s dark eyes swept over me, and I saw a flash of approval, of hunger in them, and for the first time all evening, I felt…powerful. This man was a servant, one I’d ignored for months. But tonight, seeing that he appreciated my body, that he wanted me to participate in this debauchery, made me feel desirable.

Between my thighs, my core dripped arousal, and I squeezed them together as I lifted my chin and pulled my sleeping gown over my head.

The valet’s voice was a velvet command, rich and dark, and it sent a shiver down my spine. “Climb up on the bed, milady. Kneel over your husband’s mouth.”

I froze. My body trembled, my mind racing. Kneel over his mouth? The words echoed in my skull, but they didn’t make sense. Robert’s mouth had never been there before. He had kissed me, yes, and touched me, but there? With his tongue?

Bramstock’s dark eyes flicked to mine, then down to Robert, who was still lost in his own pleasure, his cock hard in his fist. “Has he never done this for you, milady?”

My face burned. I shook my head, mute.

A tsk of disapproval. The sound was soft, but it cut through me like a blade. “I’m disappointed in you, milord.”

Robert’s eyes snapped open, his gaze unfocused but hungry. He blinked up at me, his lips parted, his breath ragged. The valet’s fingers tightened around his wrist, pulling his hand away from his cock. “You’ve been neglecting your wife.”

Robert groaned, his hips twitching as Bramstock’s cock remained buried inside him. “I⁠—”

“No excuses.” The valet’s voice was sharp, his grip unyielding. “Pick up the book, milady, and turn to page seventy-nine.”

My fingers fumbled as I bent to retrieve A Harlot’s Guide to the Forbidden and Delightful Arts from where it had fallen. The pages rustled as I flipped through them, my pulse pounding in my ears. I could feel both men’s eyes on me—Robert’s glazed with desire, Bramstock’s dark and commanding.

“Now,” the valet ordered, “read aloud what you find.”

I swallowed, my throat dry. The words on the page blurred for a moment before snapping into focus.

“The Invasion of B-Brussels,” I began, my voice unsteady. “In this most intimate of acts, the gentleman⁠—”

“Louder,” Bramstock interrupted, his tone brooking no argument.

I cleared my throat, my cheeks flaming. “The gentleman, or lady, may employ the tongue to great effect upon the lady’s⁠—”

My voice faltered. I couldn’t say it. Not here. Not with Robert staring up at me, his breath coming in hot pants, his wrist still in another man’s hold as his cock twitched with need.

Bramstock’s voice was steel. “Keep reading, milady.”

I forced myself to continue, the words stumbling from my lips. “The lady’s cunny, her delicate lower lips. The tongue may trace the petals, the folds, the very entrance itself, and⁠—”

I trailed off again, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The image was too vivid—Robert’s mouth on me, his tongue doing those things, his fingers⁠—