It’s been two days since I last saw Farrow. The cook brings my meals to the room, and every time she comes by, she scolds me, saying I need to get out of this room, stretch my legs.

“You’re going to make yourself sick in here,” she says with a narrowed glare.

But I don’t listen to her until nearly the end of the second day. Then, finally, the boredom and restlessness begin to take its toll.

I start exploring the upstairs hallway. But aside from a few more bedrooms, and a locked door that I can only assume must be Farrow’s room, I don’t find much of interest. I head downstairs, and eventually find myself in a huge, mostly empty room. There’s a piano in the corner, but nothing else, not even a sofa or chair.

On the walls, however, there are paintings. Tons of them, some landscapes and animals, a caged bird, a wild fox creeping through a glen. But mostly, there are portraits of two people. A little boy, in various stages of growth—a toddler, running through the grass; a schoolboy in uniform fidgeting on a chair—and a beautiful woman. A woman whose haunting, icy blue eyes look familiar.

I’m staring at the largest portrait of her, when I hear someone step up behind me. I draw in a sharp breath and whip around, almost expecting to find Farrow there, ready to scold me or punish me for sneaking around this room, a room that, while unlocked, has the air of abandonment and privacy.

But it’s not him. It’s the cook again, watching me, a hint of suspicion in her eye.

“You said I should go for a walk,” I point out, and she half-smiles, then quickly wipes it away, grimacing again.

We stand there for a few moments, but she doesn’t ask me to leave. She doesn’t leave either, so eventually I clear my throat and point at the portrait. “Who is she?”

The cook hesitates. “Lady Lochlan.”

My spine tingles. Farrow’s mother. To judge by the unused room and the way the portraits hang, gathering dust, alone and unwatched, I have to guess that she isn’t around to care for them anymore. Isn’t around to play this piano, or commission more portraits.

“What happened to her?” I ask quietly.

The cook sighs. “It’s not my job to educate people on their father’s sins.”

I blink, confused. But that’s when I notice she has something in her hands. A covered silver tray.

“Lord Lochlan is back,” she says, and my stomach twists to hear her refer to him that way. Lord.

But it also twists for another reason, one I don’t care to admit. Could it be I actually feel excited to see him?

But no. It’s probably just boredom. Being alone in this drafty old house with nobody to talk to except the lone servant who doesn’t deign to speak more than two words to me will do that.

“I made up a lunch for you both,” the cook adds, holding the tray out to me. “He’s in the garden. Take this out to him.”

I accept the tray with a nervous swallow. But what else do I have to do? It’s not like I can pretend that I’m busy at the moment. “Thank you,” I tell her, but she only bows her head and backs out of the room.

I’ve stared out my window forlornly enough to know the way to the garden. It takes me a couple tries to find the door outside through the side galley. I hesitate in front of it, checking my dress in the glass. It’s the most demure thing that Farrow left for me to wear, which is to say, not very. It’s a sundress, short and tight, though thankfully it covers my ass when I sit down, which is more than I can say about most of the other skirts and dresses he chose.

I open the door and step into the garden. There are a few paths winding through hedges and past ornate flower displays and rose bushes. It takes me a while to find Farrow, tucked away under a trellis of roses, sitting at a little iron table with a cup of coffee. I hesitate, surprised, because there’s an open sketchbook on his knees.

I didn’t know he was an artist too.

He hasn’t heard me approach. Doesn’t notice I’m here. For a moment, I enjoy the view. Not just of him, though Farrow looks as infuriatingly handsome as ever in gray slacks, a white dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves, and a dark gray vest that matches his slacks.

Business attire. I wonder where he’s been these past few days. Probably attending to his company somewhere.

But the sketch unfolding on his knees is at odds with the imperious, controlling man I know. It’s delicate, beautiful. A still life of the roses that climb along the trellis overhead, some curling down toward Farrow and others tilted up, petals lifted as though embracing the sun.

“You’re talented,” I say, finally, breaking the silence.

If I startled him, he doesn’t show it. His shoulders tense for a second, but then he glances back at me over them, the usual smirk planted on his narrow mouth. “Being kind to me won’t change our relationship,” he says.

“What relationship?” I respond sarcastically. Then I set the tray on the table in front of him, next to his coffee. “Your cook sent this out.”

“Mia always does worry about my diet,” he jokes.

“Mine too, apparently,” I mutter, and to my surprise, he laughs at that.

He lifts the lid from the tray and inspects the sandwiches underneath. Tea sandwiches, some kind of chicken salad that smells delicious. Everything his cook prepares does, actually.

“Well?” he asks, and I blink at him, startled. He’s pointing to the chair beside his. “Are you joining me?”

I smooth my skirt beneath me and ease into the chair next to him as he divides the sandwiches, passes me a plate, and takes the other for himself. Before he does, he sets his half-finished sketch on the table.

“Who taught you?” I ask, before I take a bite of my own sandwich.

He doesn’t answer, digging into his meal instead.

I finish chewing first, watch him. But he just takes a long sip of tea, and continues to eat. Guess he’s done being talkative. I shrug and lean back in my chair, bored after two days without anyone to talk to. “My mother taught me,” I say, to break the ice.

He sits up straighter. Casts me a strange sideways look. Takes another long drink of tea. “I didn’t know that,” he says finally.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, I’d wager,” I reply.

“I knew you were going to study art. I just didn’t know why you got into it in the first place.”

I narrow my eyes. “Great. So not only did you buy my virginity, but you stalked me before doing it. Why am I surprised?”

But instead of responding angrily, he passes me the sketchbook. “Draw something for me?”

It’s a request. A simple one. But it’s the first time he’s ever asked me to do anything rather than demanding. So I accept the pencil he passes me and flip to a blank page, setting aside my half-finished sandwich.

I start to draw the same thing he’d been drawing—the flowers. My style is more fluid than his, less exact to reality. He stands and leans over my shoulder, watching as I draw. I’m just starting on the first rose, when he touches my shoulder lightly. I inhale sharply, pausing. Then I keep drawing.

He trails that hand up the side of my neck, then runs his fingers through my hair, gently, almost a caress. I shiver and nearly draw a line straight through the rose.

“You’re not making this easy,” I point out.

“It’s not my problem you find me so distracting,” he replies, that ever-present smirk in his tone.

I try to ignore him as best I can and keep drawing, but soon, his hand is tracing along the neckline of my dress. Dipping beneath it to curve over my lacy bra. His warm palm cups my breast and he squeezes gently. He circles his fingers around my breast, closer and closer to my nipple, which hardens at his touch. It’s impossible to think, to catch my breath with the way he’s touching me. He pinches my nipple between his thumb and forefinger, rolling it back and forth, and spikes of pleasure build in my belly, rocketing along my spine.

I can’t help it—I arch my back, curling upward into his touch, pressing against his hand. His other hand slides down to caress my other breast, and I part my lips, head falling back as my eyes drift closed. I moan softly, and…

That’s when a loud clatter interrupts us. I jolt upright, forced back to the present, to remembering where I am—and who I’m with.

The sketchbook has fallen from my lap, the pencil clattering across the garden stones beside it.

But Farrow is relentless. He leans in and kisses the side of my neck, his hands still tracing my breasts. “Tell me you want more, Pamona. It’s okay to give in.”

I grit my teeth, clamp my lips tight. But his hands feel so good, tugging gently on my nipples now, little spikes of pleasure jolting along my body, and his tongue is trailing along my neck, tracing the lines of my muscles, his teeth nipping at my skin, and I can’t help it.

He’s right. “I want more,” I whisper.

I can feel him smile against my neck. “Do you want me to repeat what happened the other night? Do you want me to make you come again?”

I swallow hard. This is a test, I know it is. But I’m too electrified now, my pussy clenching tight, dampness spreading between my thighs. “Yes,” I murmur, half ashamed and half excited by the answer. By giving in.

He doesn’t waste any time. The moment the word leaves my mouth, he’s in front of me, pushing my knees apart. He kneels between them and shoves my flimsy skirt up around my hips. I cast a nervous glance over his shoulder, around the garden, but none of the servants are anywhere in sight. And I doubt he would stop even if they were—he’s already pulling my panties down, tossing them aside as he presses his nose between my legs, the stubble on his cheeks scraping my sensitive inner thighs, making me gasp and tense.

Before he even touches me, he trails a finger along my slit, feeling the moisture there. “It won’t be long before you’re begging for my cock, Pamona.”

I tense, digging my nails into my palms. “Never.” There’s a world of difference between letting him get me off and letting him fuck me.

He licks his finger, covered in my juices, and grins. “Your body doesn’t lie. Look how hungry you are for me.” Then he delves between my legs again. His tongue traces my upper thighs first, slow and hot and taunting. He trails his tongue along the crook of my legs, where they meet my hips, then traces the lips of my pussy with his fingers, not spreading them yet. I wrap my hands around his head, bury them deep in his hair as he parts my lips and runs his tongue along my slit. I arch my hips as his tongue goes deeper, each lick pressing his face harder against me, his nose digging into my clit as he eats me out.

His hands slide underneath me, half lifting me off the chair as he grips my ass hard. I gasp, my head falling back, and that’s when he pushes his tongue fully into my pussy. My gasp turns into a long moan as he licks along my inner walls, pushing his tongue as deep inside me as possible. He curls his tongue, traces my front wall, and a shudder runs through my body, my hands fisting tighter in his hair.

Pleasure floods through my body, taking control over any sensible part of my mind that’s left. When he draws his tongue out of me and runs the flat blade of his tongue over my clit, I inhale sharply, my hips jerking against the chair, thrusting up against his face. He grabs my ass with both hands and flattens his mouth against my pussy, licking harder, faster now. I moan again, louder, losing any control I had left. As his tongue lashes across my clit, I cry out, not caring who hears.

The orgasm hits me full-force and makes my body buck against the chair. He draws out from under my skirt, grinning. “As good as the last one?” he asks, licking his lips slowly.

“Better,” I pant. He chuckles, self-satisfied, but my gaze has drifted to him instead. To the bulge in his jeans, more prominent than ever.

All I can think about is the last time I saw his cock. The taste of his cum.

He notices the direction of my gaze, and stands, slowly unzipping his jeans as he does. “You can ask for what you want, Pamona,” he says.

“I don’t want you to fuck me,” I say, defiant to the last.

He smirks. “That’s not the only thing you could ask for. If you want to taste me, you’re welcome to.”

I swallow hard. But he’s already drawing his cock out, and it’s every inch as glorious and strange and fascinating as it was last time, and I want to taste him again, not just a sneaky taste of his cum after he leaves the room. I want to feast on it.

“Go on, Pamona. You can give in, just a little. Unless you’re scared. Do you think tasting me will make you want me too much? Afraid you’ll beg me to fuck you if you do?”

Hell no. Two can play this game. I can suck him off without asking him to take my virginity.

I fall to my knees in front of him, and he laughs, guiding the head of his cock to my lips.

“I knew you were dirty for a virgin.”

In response, I lick along the side of his cock, slow and sure.

He inhales sharply, his hand fisting in my hair, tight enough to bring tears to my eyes. I grin. It’s good to know that I can have just as much of an effect on him as he does on me. Time to put that to good use.

I lift one hand to circle it around the base of his cock, and lick him slowly, my tongue exploring every side of him.

“Are you sure this is your first time?” he asks thickly, and I shoot him a narrowed glare. He just laughs and runs his hands through my hair. “You’re a naturally dirty girl, that’s all I’m saying.”

But after a few minutes of licking him, I’m not quite sure what to do next. I know I need to take him into my mouth, but he’s so thick, so long… How will I breathe?

He senses my hesitation and leans down, cupping my chin for a moment until I look up at him. “Relax,” he says, those ice blue eyes locked onto mine, commanding. “Open your mouth.”

I part my lips wide. He rests his cock on my lips for a second, gazing down into my eyes. Then he eases into my mouth, slowly thrusting forward. I wrap my lips around his cock and marvel at the sensation of him gliding along my tongue.

But he goes farther, farther, and my eyes get wider, my breath hitching with nerves.

His hand clenches in my hair again. “Relax,” he repeats.

I force myself to take a deep breath and release my jaw. He thrusts against me, rocking back and forth, each thrust bringing him deeper into my mouth. Eventually, the tip of his cock brushes the back of my throat, and for a moment I tense, tears stinging my eyes, my body clenching as it yearns to gag. I choke a little, and blink up at him, nervous.

He just laughs again, catching my eye. “Don’t be scared to make noise, little virgin. It’s hot, hearing you gag on my cock.”

I swallow, and he tenses in my mouth, his body stiffening at the sensation of my tongue against the underside.

“I didn’t realize this would be so easy.” His laugh reverberates through my body. “We’ll be done in no time at this rate. Admit it, Pamona, you want me.”

Part of me thrills at hearing him talk like that. Like he already possesses me. But more of me—the sensible half of my brain—rebels. No. Still, I cannot get enough of him, now that I’ve tasted him. I lick at the vein that runs along his cock, and we find our rhythm together, him thrusting into me, me licking and sucking as he does. His hands tighten in my hair, and I wrap mine around his waist, grabbing his muscular, firm ass to pull him farther into my mouth as I start to adjust to the sensation, to his size and flavor.

I want more.

“I’m going to come in your throat,” Farrow growls, thrusting against me faster. “You’re going to swallow my cum and love every drop.”

I moan around him—yes—and that only makes him growl deeper, fuck my face harder.

He finishes with a guttural sound, half moan and half roar, and buries his cock in my mouth, up to my throat. I choke against him for a second, adjusting, but I love the feeling, and the flavor of his cum coating my tongue, my throat, my mouth. When he pulls out, he holds his cock in front of me, hands still pinning my head in place.

“Lick me clean,” he orders, and I do. I run my tongue along his length, lapping up every drop of his cum.

When I finish, he grips my shoulders and pulls me up beside him, standing. I’m shaky, unbalanced, but when I go to lean on him, I notice he’s quivering a little too. The second he sees me spot that, however, he stops and holds himself stiff and steady as he tucks himself back into his jeans.

“That was your first blowjob, wasn’t it?” he asks again, and I flush.

“Of course,” I reply, frowning at him. “Hell, I’ve never even kissed anyone before.” I laugh a little. “Funny I wound up giving a blowjob before a kiss.”

In response, he wraps his arms around me and pulls me against him. Before I realize what’s happening, his lips crash into mine. I kiss him back, hard, tasting myself on his lips, just as I’m sure he can taste himself on mine. Our mouths part, and his tongue invades, intertwining with mine, claiming it the way he’s claimed so much of me already.

I can feel his whole body against mine, his muscles tense, his chest hard. I wrap my arms around him, trace his back as he pulls me against him, lifts me off the ground with the strength of his embrace, our lips still pressed together, tongues exploring one another.

I can feel his cock between us, growing hard again already, and I arch my hips to grind against him. My clit, still sensitive from the orgasm he gave me, aches when I press into him and start to thrust slowly. He groans into my mouth, kissing me deeper, running his hands through my hair, almost gently…

Then he jerks back, breaking the kiss with a gasp of protest that could’ve come from either one of us, I’m not sure.

He sets me back on my feet and steps away, dusting himself off. We’re both breathing hard, our faces flushed, eyes glistening with lust. But when he catches my eye again, I watch him force the wall down between us, the cold, impervious façade back up.

“I will fuck you,” he whispers. “The moment you beg me, which will clearly be soon… I’m going to take you.”

I lift my chin. Remember where I am. Who I’m with. “Never,” I reply, my jaw clenched. All the pleasant sensations of our kiss flood away, replaced by defiant anger. He won’t have me, not if I have anything to say about it.

He narrows his eyes. Studies me for a long, silent moment. Then, without another word, he turns and leaves the garden.

I collapse into the chair, still shivering, confused about everything that just happened. What was that? That kiss, and the way he shut down immediately afterward… The mood changing suddenly. His insistence to remind me where I am, that he’s in charge. Did that kiss mean something? Or was it just another way to taunt me?

On the ground at my feet is the sketchbook he gave me to draw in, forgotten. I pick it up and flip through the pages. My breath catches in my throat.

He’s amazing. Every page is more detailed than the last, all of it almost photorealistic in quality, the sketches accurate down to the tiniest detail.

But it’s when I reach the first page that I really pause. Tilt my head, and wonder…

It’s a drawing of the woman from the paintings. Lady Lochlan, the cook said. Farrow’s mother.

In his drawing she’s smiling, but there’s still something sad in her eyes. Something distant and afraid.

What happened to her? I can’t help but wonder, as I set the notebook aside and set about cleaning up our lunch. As I do, I shake my head.

It doesn’t matter. I am not going to give in to this man. He thinks he has me where he wants me, but he has no idea the kind of restraint I’m capable of.