Our meal consisted of dishes I recognized from restaurants, and a few I didn’t know at all. By Church standards, it was a feast, but I could barely take it all in thanks to the hand Mr. Carson kept on my thigh. It made my heart beat faster, the throb echoed between my legs until I couldn’t focus on the food at all. I desperately wanted him to move that hand higher, to slide it under the fabric which separated his skin from mine and repeat what he had done to me at the auction house.
Please, Lord, I prayed silently, trying not to squirm in my chair. Please move Mr. Carson to take me tonight, and grant me the blessing of a child.
Guiltily, I knew that it wasn’t a child I wanted at all. The sin of lust had overtaken me, and I knew I just wanted to feel Mr. Carson touch me. A child would still be a blessing, but in that moment of weakness, I knew it was only an excuse.
We ate in near silence, my attention far too focused on the heat of his palm pressed against my thigh. Dinner ended, and Mr. Carson leaned back in his chair to enjoy a drink. He stroked my leg absently as he sipped the amber liquid in his glass, and by the time he finished I was nearly ready to fall to my knees and pray for deliverance…or beg him to take me.
At last, he pushed his chair back, and I was allowed to stand as well. The hand which had been on my thigh moved to gently cup my backside. “I think it’s time to retire for the evening, Constance.”
“Yes, Mr. Carson,” I said. My voice sounded rough and strained; he smiled, and I was sure he and everyone in earshot knew exactly the effect he was having on me.
I didn’t care. At that moment, he could have thrown me down on the heavy oak table and taken me in front of the servants, and I wouldn’t have objected, but all he did was guide me back upstairs, his hand resting on my hip and his body tortuously warm where it pressed against mine.