He relaxed his grip just enough so that I could see the glorious sight of him stroking his cock. “My Molly,” he breathed as he tightened his fist. “My Mary Margaret.”
“Say it again,” I begged.
It became a prayer on his lips, a chant of power and ownership. “My Molly. My Molly. My M—fuck!”
His stomach muscles seized and jerked, tightening into deliciously tight lines, and his thighs clenched, and then he finally gave it all up to me, ropes of semen on my face and neck and hair, hot pulses of cum as he growled my name over and over, Molly Molly, my Molly, fucking his fist through it all, as if to milk himself for every drop. And the whole time, he’d kept those strong fingers wrapped around my jaw, holding me still as he marked me. As he claimed me in the basest way possible.
He didn’t let go of my jaw right away, and neither did the lust fade from his eyes. Instead, he examined every inch of my face with a possessive satisfaction, as if seeing me covered in his cum answered some deep, existential question for him.
I let my tongue move slowly, licking him off my lips as he watched.
He grunted and released my face. “You’re mine now.”
My eyelids burned at this. Why had I been so stupidly blind and proud last year? Yes, he’d fucked up, but now I’d broken our future as well. If instead of punching him and letting him leave, I had instead punched him and then forced him to make it up to me…we could be married now. We could have a forever together.
“I’m yours,” I whispered.
“And I won,” he declared with no small amount of satisfaction. Despite letting go of my face, he kept me pinned to the bed, his knees still astride my shoulders. And I loved it. He had won, and I welcomed the reminder, the reminder that I belonged to him. I would pretend that right now was for forever, that I had thousands of nights of him claiming me to look forward to.
I would pretend that this wasn’t both the first and last time that he would get to own me.
“You did win,” I said, my voice choked with the knowledge that this was almost at an end. No, Molly. Pretend, pretend, pretend, just for now. Just for tonight.
He trailed a long finger down my neck, running it through his essence, his half-hard cock stiffening as he reviewed the evidence of my submission. And then, with a reluctant growl, Silas moved off of me and went over to the table at the edge of the room. He returned with a damp towel and cleaned my face and neck and hair, saying nothing, although the low rumbles of satisfaction vibrating through his chest told me everything I needed to know.
After he finished, he tossed the towel to the side and reclined against the pillows at the top of the bed, crushing me to his chest as he did. I rarely felt this slender, this small, this female…but gathered in Silas’s arms and pressed against his firm chest, I decided that I could get used to it.
“So where are we going?” he asked.
“Pardon?” I murmured.
“I won, remember? And we’re going to run away together. Where shall we go? France? Belgium? I hear New York City is quite exciting.”
Pretend, pretend. Pretend that it’s not just more London and more misery and more Hugh awaiting you in the morning.
I shook my head. “Ireland. We’re going to Ireland.”
“Of course. To Ennis, I suppose?”
I closed my eyes, loving the feeling of his heart beating deep within his chest, a heart that I knew was mine for the taking.
Pretend.
“For a while,” I answered him, eyes still closed, allowing the scene to play out in my mind. “And then we’d go to a house on the coast.”
“Sounds wet,” Silas spoke into my hair, playfulness creeping back into his tone. “But I like it when things are…wet.”
“You are so much less clever than you think you are.”
“Then it’s a good thing I have you around to remind me. So what would our lives be like on this Irish coast? Would you try to make a fisherman out of me?”
I smiled at the image of my urbane, sophisticated Silas trying to fish. “No, we’d simply live our lives. Take walks, read books, make love.”
“Get married,” he added.
“In my childhood church,” I said. “You’ll have to become Catholic.”
“A papist? Only for you. I imagine all of our children would be little papist heathens as well?” His hands slid down to lace together over my stomach.
Pretend pretend. “Yes,” I said, and I was glad he couldn’t see my face and how close I was to crying. “All of our blue-eyed children.”
He slid deeper into the pillows, taking me with him, until we were snuggled so perfectly that I wanted to die here so that I would never have to leave. “I love you, Mary Margaret,” he said in a sleepy voice.
“I love you too,” I managed, hoping that he wouldn’t feel the way my ribs threatened to jerk and twitch with suppressed sobs.
“And tomorrow,” he said, words thick with doziness. “Tomorrow we sail for Ireland.”
“Yes.” I whispered the lie into his skin. “Tomorrow.”
Don’t worry! Silas and Molly’s story is far from over! Stayed tuned for the conclusion to
The London Lovers duet
in
The Wedding of Molly O’Flaherty ,
coming this November.
In the meantime, if you would like to keep up to date with new releases as they come available, please s ign up for my newsletter !
Other books by Sierra Simone:
The Markham Hall Series:
The Awakening of Ivy Leavold
The Education of Ivy Leavold
The Punishment of Ivy Leavold
The Reclaiming of Ivy Leavold
Priest
Midnight Mass (a Priest novella coming this Christmas)
Sierra Simone is a librarian who writes unabashedly sexy books with brains, beauty and big words. She lives with her hot cop husband and family in Kansas City. You can stalk her on Tumblr (NSFW!) and Facebook. You can also email her at thesierrasimone@gmail.com or sign up for her newsletter here..
Table of Contents
Title Page
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Coming Soon
About the Author