Chapter Six: The Brand of a Sinner (Pt 2)

The breakfast continues. 

Arthur is back to reading the morning paper, occasionally commenting on the stock market or the weather, completely oblivious to the fact that his wife is drowning in the seat next to him.

I keep my hand pressed firmly over the scarf now, but it doesn't matter. 

The damage is done. The mark is burned into Arthur's mind, and the memory of its creation is burned into mine.

But Ethan isn't finished.

I feel it first as a light pressure against the hem of my silk gown. 

I freeze, my fork halfway to my mouth. 

Beneath the table, Ethan’s foot is moving. He’s kicked off his loafers, and I can feel the heat of his skin through the thin fabric of my dress.

He starts at my ankle, his toes tracing the bone with a slow, agonizing precision. 

I try to pull my legs back, to tuck them under my chair, but his leg is a heavy, immovable barrier. 

He traps my calves between his feet, his toes beginning a slow, rhythmic climb up the inside of my thigh.

"The omelet is excellent, don't you think, Sweetheart?" Arthur asks, not looking up from the Financial Times.

"It’s... it’s wonderful," I choke out. My voice is a frequency too high.

Ethan’s foot hitches higher. He knows exactly where he’s going. 

He knows the silk of my dress is the only thing standing between him and the ruin of my composure. 

He reaches the soft, sensitive skin of my inner thigh; the place he bruised only hours ago.

I can feel him through the fabric of my underwear. 

His toes are rough, blunt, and hot. 

He’s tracing the line of my lace panties, circling the edge, teasing the very center of my heat.

Across the table, Ethan takes a slow, calm bite of his toast. 

He looks bored. He looks like a man thinking about a board meeting. 

But his eyes... his eyes are fixed on me, dark and bottomless, watching the way my pupils dilate.

Then, he pushes roughly.

His toes find the damp center of my silk panties, pressing firmly against me. I hold in a gasp, my body jolting as if I’ve been electrocuted.

Ethan’s toe hooks into the lace, pulling the fabric aside with agonizing slowness until he finds exactly what he’s looking for. 

When his skin finally meets mine; wet, hot, and electric, the world tilts on its axis.

I lose the battle.

A low, broken moan escapes my throat. 

It isn’t a scream, but it’s a sound of pure, unadulterated surrender. 

It’s a wet, guttural vibration that hangs in the air of the silent breakfast like a confession.

“Mmm-hnn…”

I catch the sound at the last second, turning it into a cough, but my face is crimson. 

I feel the heat crawling up my neck, clashing with the purple marks hidden by my scarf.

Arthur stops mid-sip, his teacup hovering near his lips. "Zora? Was that... are you in pain, sweetheart?"

I can’t answer. 

Ethan has started to move his foot in a slow, circular grind, his rough skin catching on my clitoris with a slow, torturous pressure that makes my vision swim. 

Every nerve in my body is screaming, dialled up to a frequency that makes my ears ring. 

I feel the first wave of a climax threatening to shatter me right there in front of the man I vowed to honor.

"I..." I gasp, my head falling back slightly. 

“Nnngh.”

Across from me, Ethan’s eyes turn a shade of grey so dark they look black. 

He’s watching my throat move as I swallow another moan. 

He’s watching my knuckles turn white as I grip the table. He isn't just touching me; he’s drinking in my ruin.

"She sounds quite... congested, Father," Ethan says, his voice a deep, cruel purr. 

He doesn't stop. He presses harder, his big toe finding the exact spot that sends a jolt of lightning through my spine.

I can feel myself slicking the silk, the scent of my own arousal beginning to rise in the small space beneath the table. I am terrified that Arthur will smell it. 

I am terrified that I’ll scream.

"Zora, you’re shaking," Arthur says, setting his cup down with a worried clink. He starts to rise, reaching out to touch my forehead. "You’re burning up."

"I'm fine!" I choke out, the words catching on a sob of pleasure and terror.

Beneath the table, Ethan gives one final, punishing rub; a hard, rhythmic friction that sends me over the edge. 

I bite my tongue so hard I taste copper, my hips jerking off the chair in a silent, violent spasm. 

My toes curl in my heels, and for a second, I can’t see, I can’t hear, I can’t breathe.

“Ah… hhh…” The sound is faint, breathless, but it’s the sound of a woman being thoroughly taken.

Ethan finally pulls his foot away. I feel the sudden, cold void where his heat used to be. He stands up slowly, adjusting his cufflinks with the calm precision of a surgeon.

"I'll leave you to your rest, Mother," he says, his gaze lingering on my trembling lips.

"Please try to keep your voice down. You wouldn't want the servants to think the house is... haunted."

He walks away, the rhythmic click of his shoes on the marble floor sounding like a countdown. 

I’m left slumped in my chair, my breathing ragged, my body a map of his marks, while my husband reaches for my hand to check my pulse, completely unaware that his son just stole my soul under the breakfast table.