Page 145 of Her Beast

Malcolm gritted his teeth.

A little bit of tongue work is one thing—it never got anyone pregnant—sticking my cock into her, on the other hand, and—

“Sir?”

Malcolm looked up; Butkins was standing in the doorway and he’d not even heard him enter.

“What is it, Butkins?”

“I know you didn’t wish to be disturbed, but—”

“But here you are disturbing me. What?”

“Miss Julia wishes to speak to you.”

“Tell her I’m not here.”

Butkins hovered.

“What?” he barked.

“She asked if you would be coming to dinner?”

“No.”

“Very good, sir.”

The door closed behind him and Malcolm slumped back into his chair. There, that was what he should have done all along. Dining with her, playing cards with her, sharing secrets with her as if they were school chums, taking her bloody skating, for fuck’s sake! And, worst of all, allowing himself to touch her.

Allowing himself to want her and imagine they might be able to have—

Damnit! He was doing it again: fantasizing about the impossible.

Malcolm was not the sort of man who yearned for women he could not have. Indeed, he’d never suffered an unrequited affection—either before or after his marriage—and the experience befuddled and displeased him.

Not that Julia was rejecting him, precisely, but she was too young and inexperienced to understand that what she felt was mere infatuation; she was only fascinated by him because she’d never met anyone who’d been open about their sexuality, and a warped sexuality at that.

She would tire of the novelty of him soon enough. And when she did, she’d realize that all he had to offer was a scarred, broken body and a corrupt, debauched soul.

But for Malcolm? Well, it wouldn’t be so easy for him to forget Miss Julia Harlow; he’d be the one who suffered.

Malcolm pushed back from his desk and paced the room, organizing his addled wits. Soon—very soon—this entire charade would be over.

He had Sheehan and his cunt of a sister and Tommy, all lined up like ducks in a row. Only one last duck evaded him, but Malcolm knew he’d not need to wait long for Brian Harlow to waddle into his snare.

Until then, he’d keep his mind, eye, and hands off Julia.

∞∞∞

Malcolm’s resolve lasted all of two days.

He’d spent a miserable and exceptionally unproductive forty-eight hours yelling at Butkins for minor—or entirely imagined—infractions.

Not only that, but he was constantly hard from remembering how Julia had looked that night, spread and needy and writhing beneath his mouth and fingers. He could recall the sweet flavor of her cunt without any effort—and it was ruining him for any other food or drink.

He’d considered summoning a whore—not Maisie, but somebody who’d evoke no memories of Julia, not that anyone could compare to her—but he was too infuriated to reward himself. He didn’t deserve an orgasm—he was an idiot for allowing his obsession to grow to such proportions.

For forty-eight miserable hours he suffered with an erection: he didn’t even jerk himself. It had been years since he’d gone without sexual pleasure whenever he wanted it.

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