Hospital Debauchery-Chapter 206: Groom’s Mother II

Eleanor bared her teeth.

She meant it to be a sneer, cold and cutting and aristocratic, the kind of look that had sent servants scurrying and lesser men retreating. Instead it came out raw, lips peeling back from teeth in something too close to a snarl.

"My husband trusts me in ways you will never even begin to comprehend," she said. "If he walked through that door I know what he will do and it doesn’t involve having any filthy thought."

"And Ethan, my son—would tear you apart with his bare hands if he sees you this close to him. So it’s you who should be more worried."

The threat should have sounded ridiculous. It didn’t. It sounded like prophecy.

Devon’s laughter ebbed into a slow, appreciative exhale that brushed her cheek.

His thumb then moved—just once—gliding along the sharp edge of her jaw in a single, languid stroke. The faint rasp of masculine skin against hers drowned out the distant murmur of the string quartet in the ballroom.

That one small touch lit a fuse that burned white-hot all the way down her spine and exploded somewhere behind her knees.

"Same Ethan?" he murmured, "Now I’m hoping he comes through that door."

He leaned forward no more than an inch.

It was enough.

The heat rolling off his chest met the cool silk stretched across her breasts and her nipples tightened instantly, painfully, pushing against the delicate fabric like they were trying to reach him.

She felt the reaction in every cell, a bright shock of shamefully visible if he cared to look—and he did. His gaze flicked down for a heartbeat and the corner of his mouth curved, knowing.

"Why are you breathing so fast." He said, a smirk forming across his face as he stared at her.

"You’re shaking, Eleanor," he said, almost gently, as if he were comforting a frightened mare.

"I am not," she snapped.

She was.

A fine, relentless tremor had begun somewhere behind her knees and was crawling upward, insidious and unstoppable, turning muscle to water.

His hand left her chin.

The absence was a physical blow.

Cold rushed in where his warmth had been, and for one dizzy, terrifying second the corridor tilted.

She swayed, actually swayed, as though that single point of contact had been the only thing tethering her to the earth.

Devon took one deliberate step backward.

His palms opened at his sides in a gesture of surrender that felt like mockery.

He was giving her the space she should have demanded the moment he touched her. Space she suddenly, burning with shame, realised she no longer wanted.

"Then prove it," he said, voice soft as the brush of lips against a throat. "Prove there’s nothing here."

The words were childish, playground-taunt simple. They should have been beneath her. Instead they struck like a match against the dry tinder of her pride.

Eleanor stepped forward.

Just once.

The silk of her gown sighed against the front of his trousers, a whisper of fabric on fabric that shot lightning straight between her legs. Heat flared everywhere they almost touched, a bright, impossible burn even through layers of civility and money and lies.

"See?" she said, forcing iron into her voice even as it trembled. "Nothing."

Devon’s gaze dropped to her mouth and lingered there until she felt the weight of it like teeth.

Then his eyes lifted again, black and amused and ravenous.

"Nothing," he echoed, tasting the word, tasting her lie.

Her chin lifted another fraction.

A dare wrapped in ice.

He accepted it without hesitation.

His right hand rose with agonising slowness, giving her every chance to slap it away, to scream, to run. She did none of those things.

His palm settled against the side of her neck, warm and sure, thumb resting precisely over the frantic hammer of her pulse.

Heat sank through her skin in slow, deliberate waves, spreading outward until her breasts felt heavy and aching, until her thighs pressed together of their own accord.

Her breath fractured.

"Still nothing?" he asked.

The words brushed her lips like the kiss that hovered, waiting, inevitable.

She opened her mouth to destroy him with words. Nothing emerged but a soft, helpless exhale.

His fingers slid higher, threading into the fine hairs at her nape, cradling the base of her skull with a tenderness that felt obscene in its certainty. He did not pull her closer.

He simply held her there, suspended between righteous fury and a hunger so sharp it felt like dying.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered.

The words rang inside her skull like cathedral bells tolling for a funeral that had not yet happened.

"Say it, Eleanor. One word and I walk away."

She couldn’t form it.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, humming with every filthy, forbidden thing they had not yet done.

His left hand rose next, slow as smoke curling from a dying fire. It settled at the curve of her waist—barely any pressure at all.

Still, his palm burned through layers of silk and whalebone and branded its shape into her forever. His fingers moved in tiny, exploratory circles, tracing the line of a rib, the rigid edge of her corset, learning the rhythm of her breathing as though he had composed it himself.

Her next inhale shattered into pieces.

He heard it.

His thumb swept once along the column of her throat—a stroke meant to calm that only stoked the fire higher. Her nipples throbbed against cool silk until the friction was unbearable.

His knuckles grazed the underside of her breast—once, twice, feather-light and deliberate. Her thighs clenched hard, searching for pressure, for relief, for anything.

A small, broken sound escaped her—half gasp, half whimper—raw and humiliating and utterly honest.

He smiled, not triumphant, almost reverent, and leaned in until his lips hovered beside her ear. The faint rasp of his stubble grazed the delicate shell and her knees buckled a fraction.

"Good," he breathed, the word hot, damp, devastating against her skin. "So why were you playing hard to get when all you wanted was your own share."

His mouth began a slow, worshipful pilgrimage along the line of her jaw—not quite kissing, just the drag of parted lips, the furnace-heat of his breath, the maddening scrape of stubble that left tingling trails of fire in its wake.

Every millimetre was deliberate, measured, designed to unravel her thread by thread.

When he reached the corner of her mouth he paused, waiting, giving her one last chance to save herself.

Her hands had found his chest without conscious permission. She told herself it was to push him away. Instead her fingers curled hard into the fine wool of his lapels and pulled.

She turned her head that final, fatal fraction.

Their mouths met.

It began soft—barely more than a brush of lips, a question asked in breath and heat.

Then he angled his head and took it deeper, slow and relentless, coaxing her open with patience that felt like both prayer and predation. He tasted of whiskey and something darker she had no name for, and she hated—God, how she hated—how instantly, violently addicted she was.

A moan tore out of her, raw and desperate and shocking.

Then she was kissing him back with a fury that frightened her, nails scraping the short hair at his nape, dragging him down to her height, demanding more, more, more.

He answered with a growl that started in his chest and poured into hers like molten iron.

His hand slid down the elegant curve of her spine and settled at the small of her back, pressing her fully against him until there was no space left for lies or dignity.

The hard, thick ridge of his cock met the soft plane of her belly through their clothes and the shock of it ripped a sharp, involuntary sound from her lungs.

He swallowed the sound and kissed her harder, deeper, tongue stroking hers in a rhythm that promised ruin. 𝒻𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝘯𝘰𝑣ℯ𝑙.𝘤𝑜𝘮

While his other hand slipped inside the plunging back of her gown.

The heat was searing, almost shocking after cool silk. His fingers traced each vertebra with maddening care, mapping her like he had decades to memorize every inch.

When his hand dipped lower and cupped the curve of her ass through lace, she jerked against him, thighs clenching around a sudden, throbbing ache that felt like punishment and salvation at once.

He soothed her with slow, drugging kisses while his fingers learned the shape of her through soaked silk and delicate lace—pressing, circling, coaxing more wetness until it drenched every layer and cooled in treacherous trails down her inner thighs.

She was drowning in it, mortified and incandescent at once.

He felt how ready she was, groaned into her mouth like a man breaking, and slid his hand beneath the lace.

Skin on slick, swollen skin.

Two fingers glided through her folds, spreading wetness upward, circling her clit with exactly the right pressure, the perfect, merciless speed.

Her head fell back against the panelled wall with a soft thud she didn’t feel.

He watched her face with dark, reverent hunger while he pressed one finger inside her, then two, curling them slow and perfect, stretching her open with exquisite, devastating care.

Her hips rolled without permission, chasing the burn, the impossible fullness, the relentless, relentless thrust of his hand.

"Look at you," he whispered, voice shredded, lips brushing hers with every syllable. "Soaked and trembling and fucking perfect for the man you came here to destroy."

She couldn’t answer.

Could only feel the slow, deliberate drag of his fingers, the pad of his thumb circling, circling, the coil winding tighter and tighter low in her belly until her thighs shook and her breath came in silent, shattered sobs.

She was going to come—right here, still fully dressed except for his hand buried deep inside her, while her son’s wedding laughter drifted down the hall like the cruellest taunt.

The thought crashed over her like ice water poured straight into her veins.

Eleanor wrenched herself backward with a violence that sent her stumbling until her shoulders slammed the opposite wall.

Her chest heaved in great, frantic gulps.

Her lips were swollen and wet, hair half-loose and wild, thighs slick and trembling beneath ruined silk that clung to her like evidence.

Devon followed instantly, eyes black with raw need, breath sawing in and out, hands already reaching for the concealed zipper at her side, ready to peel the gown from her body and finish what they had started right there on the corridor floor if she let him.

She slapped his wrists away so hard the crack echoed like a gunshot.

"This is wrong," she rasped, voice cracked and shaking and barely her own. "This shouldn’t happen, I’m married, I have a child. This is wrong."

Before he could speak, before he could touch her again and reduce the last pieces of her to ash, she spun and fled.