Some men forced my legs to spread, angling their faces deep. Some men barely touched me, their hot breath wafting between my thighs.
I would like to say I managed to turn my brain off—to do what I promised and fly free, but every tongue kept me locked in the world I lived in. Every lick made my body turn to stone while my tummy twisted and ached from clenching.
I delivered dessert, but I was the ultimate sweet. The men took their time, firm fingers holding my hips, dragging their foul tongues from my clit to my entrance. And after every violation, they’d wipe their glistening mouths and say, “Thank you, Ms. Weaver.”
Thank you.
As if their appreciation was enough to stop me from feeling like dirt. Their treatment never changed. They remained courteous and gentle. Obeying boundaries and not doing anything but licking me in a place they had no right.
Their pleasantness made all of this seem so normal. So terribly normal. And my hatred slowly switched back to acceptance. The small flutter I’d felt from my nipples being sucked returned—frightful, tentative, but softening my hate tongue by tongue.
They weren’t hurting me. They weren’t making me do anything that had the potential to shatter my mind.
They just tasted.
A little taste.
That’s all.
And I didn’t fight.
Not at all.
I’m wet.
By the time I came to Daniel, my legs were drenched and the trimmed hair I meticulously maintained was mattered with droplets of Diamond brotherhood.
My hands were balled around the tray; my jaw tight and aching. Because no matter my good intentions—they’d won. They’d caused my body to have a reaction, and I was soaking.
The strange ache that Jethro had conjured was back, pulsing deep in my core. The flicker of tongues and gentle tastes frustrated me and I hated, positively hated, that I had to fight my hips from pressing harder against them.
I’d begun the service uptight but now I was wound tight. Seeking something. Seeking relief.
Daniel pushed his chair back, angling me physically between his spread hips. With a malicious glint in his eyes, he pushed me back with a firm palm between my breasts. “Fuck the stupid rule.”
I gasped as his mouth latched around my clit. The suction of his mouth made my body twist with oversensitivity. He wasn’t playful or respectful like the rest of the men. He knew what he wanted and he took.
Hard.
The ache wound tighter and tighter, clawing its way toward relief.
I squeezed my eyes. I couldn’t look at the men watching. I couldn’t do anything but breathe and get through it. And I definitely couldn’t look up where a small growl came, masked with silence.
It was nothing more than a growl.
But it resonated in my bones with knowledge.
Jethro.
The few seconds that each man had taken seemed much longer in Daniel’s arms. Suddenly, I cried out, jerking hard.
The tip of his tongue probed my entrance, trying to enter me.
No one had done that. They’d behaved with some unspoken rule to taste but not devour.
Fuck the stupid rule.
Daniel’s voice repeated in my head. Had there been guidelines on how I was to be treated?
Everything we’re doing is following a strict set of rules—laid out in utmost simplicity and must be followed.
I recalled what Mr. Hawk had said.
He had rules meant to ruin me but also…protect me?
Daniel tried again, his fingers biting into me painfully.
Then, I was wrenched away.
Torn free of his grip with a slice of his fingernails and dragged to the end of the table. The empty dessert tray went flying, clanging against the floor.
My legs tripped, sending me colliding with a body I’d been so intimate with only hours before.
The crash of the tray cut through the room like a loud cymbal. But no one said a word.
The moment Jethro dragged me to the head of the table opposite Mr. Hawk, he shoved the largest of all parchments into my hands. His eyes were dark, face tight. “Here, read it.”
Breathing fast, trying hard to forget about the sticky saliva between my legs and the sensation of having his brother’s tongue trying to enter me, I took the tattered age-stained scroll.
Jethro scowled, keeping a small distance between us. His coldness buffeted me, sending ice scattering over my bare arms. He looked pissed off—furious, yet there was something there that made my stomach twist.
Whatever game we’d played, whatever war we’d started back at the stables, wasn’t finished. He knew it. I knew it. And the knowledge sent power thrilling through my veins.
Leaning close, he hissed, “Stop staring at me, Ms. Weaver. I gave you a request.” Tapping the scroll in my palm, he snapped, “Read. It.”
Tearing my eyes from his, I obeyed.
The intricate border caught my attention first. Along with a design of vines and filigree, the words bound, indebted, owned were entwined in red ink.
The calligraphy of ancestors past sentenced me to a life worse than death. My rights had been taken. My life stolen. My body no longer mine.
18th August 1672
Signed and witness by Esq John Law
Matter between Weaver versus Hawk