Chapter 384- Milking a Noble Woman
Her hair was arranged in the formal style appropriate for the occasion, the elaborate pinned construction of court dress.
Her gown was the deep green of old money, the corset cinched high and firm, the décolletage of the neckline presenting the architecture of a woman who had birthed a child recently and whose body bore the evidence of this in the full, milk-warm weight of her chest above the corset’s edge.
She was glancing over her shoulder with the bright, anxious eyes of a woman who knew how many guests were in the next room and was calculating the margin.
"’But what if someone sees us, hero—’" Her voice low. The practiced diction of a trained performer applied to whispered panic. "’My husband is—’"
"’No one will see.’" Raven’s hand slid to the small of her back. Descended. "’I’ll make sure to fill you up faster.’"
His palm closed over the curve of her ass through the layered fabric of her gown — the full, generous weight of her beneath the formal draping, his grip finding it with the casual certainty of a man who had already mapped this territory and was returning to it.
"’Come, my lady.’"
His voice on the title — the ’my’ in it — was not the formal usage.
Lady Margaux made a small, helpless sound.
She lifted her fan. Held it at the diplomatic angle that meant ’I am processing a situation and require a moment’ in formal body language.
"’Haven’t I assisted you,’" Raven continued, his voice warm and conversational, his hand remaining exactly where it was, "’in securing the perfume distribution contract within the capital?’"
The fan lowered slightly.
"’You... did.’" Her voice had changed. The diction was still perfect — the crisp consonants, the measured vowels — but the breath behind the words had developed an unevenness. "’The Aurelius contract was — yes. You facilitated—’"
"’Then.’"
He said nothing else.
He reached with his other hand and found the hem of her gown — the outer skirt, the long sweep of green fabric — and drew it upward.
Lady Margaux looked at the wall.
Her posture remained immaculate.
Her skirt rose.
The long white underlinen of her noble dress came into view, the delicate embroidered edge of it rising past her knee, past her thigh — and beneath it, the linen drawers that the current court fashion required, thin fabric that did nothing to conceal the shape of what was beneath.
He pressed his palm over it.
Over her.
Directly.
She made a sound that had nothing to do with ballet training.
"’What a delicate body,’" he said, with genuine appreciation, the appreciation of a man who has encountered many bodies and knows the difference. His fingers found the fabric. "’At such an age, Madam Holt.’"
"’Hero Raven—’" Her voice. Fracturing at the edges now, the careful diction doing its best and losing ground. "’Please — be — my husband is receiving guests — if he should come looking for me—’"
She reached forward.
Her gloved hand found the surface of the nearby writing desk — the small, elegant piece of furniture that occupied the alcove between sconces, the kind of tasteful item that decorated hallways in houses with recently acquired wealth — and her fingers closed around the edge.
She bent.
The movement was, despite everything, graceful. The years of discipline still present in the line of her back, the angle of her neck, the way her body arranged itself even now. Only the destination of the movement revealed what discipline had been overruled.
He took the drawers.
Pulled them down.
The cool hallway air arrived on the backs of her thighs, and above the white fabric pooled at her knees, the full, heavy curves of the baroness were presented to the amber lamplight — the thick, pale flesh of her, the dark, soft shadow of her between—
PHAAACKK.
"’MMNN—AAAHH~!!’"
No preamble. No staged entry. Seven inches, driven forward in a single stroke that drove her forward against the desk — her chest meeting the wood, her gloved fingers clenching against the edge, the elaborate construction of her hairstyle swaying with the impact — and the hairy, warm cunt that had been dripping since they’d reached the hallway received him with the wet, dense, intimate sound of a body that had been waiting.
Her ass clapped back.
The full, soft weight of her cheeks hitting his hips with the impact, the flesh shaking outward in concentric rings from the point of contact — the expensive gown bunched at her waist doing nothing to muffle the sound of it.
"’HNGH~!!’"
She pressed her lips together.
Thirty-five years of social training applied to the problem of remaining quiet in her own hallway with a hero’s cock buried inside her.
It lasted one thrust.
PAH! PAH! PAAAH!
"’AAANGHH~!! H-hnn— PLEASE — SLOWER—’"
"’Zai,’" he said, and the name — his private shortening of her formal title, the intimacy of it — made something in her expression fracture further, "’these noble women.’" He grabbed her hair. The elaborate pinned construction of court dress came undone in his fist — the pins scattering against the hallway floor with the small, precise sounds of expensive things being unmade. Her hair fell. Dark, thick, the length of it tumbling as he pulled. "’Genuinely. The most—’"
He thrust.
PAAAH!
"’IAAANGHH~!!’"
"’—tasteful.’"
He lifted her leg.
The transition was efficient — her body turned, pivoted, her back now against him, one leg hoisted in the bend of his arm at the knee, the other barely maintaining contact with the floor — and she was facing the hallway, facing the direction of the banquet, the sounds of her husband’s guests filtering faintly through the stone.
Her face, in this configuration, was visible.
The face of Lady Margaux Holt, baroness, former principal dancer, woman of considerable reputation — tilted back against his shoulder, eyes half-lidded, the careful expression that she maintained in society gone entirely, replaced by what expressions are when they are not maintained.
Her mouth was open.
Her teeth were showing.
The sounds she was making had not been taught to her at the Aurelius Academy.
PAH! PAH! PAAAH!
"’AAANGHH~!! HHNN~!! D-DON’T — SO DEEP — HERO — PLEASE—’"
He walked.
She was on one leg and in his arm and he moved them both through the hallway toward the garden door with the focused efficiency of a man who had a destination and had already accounted for the complications of transport.
The garden.
The moonlight was the kind that happened in early summer — full, direct, the silver-white of it lying flat across the grass and the formal hedgerows and the stone pathways of the baron’s recently redesigned grounds.
He brought her down onto the grass.
The gown spread around her — the expensive green fabric fanning outward, the damaged architecture of it splayed across the lawn, the corset still in place and doing its job of presenting the top of her chest above the neckline at the angle that had been fashionable for three seasons.
He pulled the neckline down.
Both hands. The corset’s edge came with it, the firm boning yielding to direct pressure, and the full weight of Lady Holt’s breasts released from containment into the moonlight with the specific, generous momentum of things that have been held and are now free.
They swung.
The full arc of them, heavy and pale in the silver light, the nipples dark and already erect — but there was something else, something that had not been present in the formal arrangement of the gown.
A thinness around the areola.
A fullness that was not entirely the fullness of arousal.
He looked.
He understood.
He leaned down and put his mouth over the left nipple.
Milk.