When I go up to the library a few hours after dinner, Rosalia is already there. She's sitting on a velvet chaise, and I'm relieved to see that she's wearing leggings and a tank top—while it's far from being unsexy, I'd been half afraid she'd show up in wedding night lingerie. She has a book balanced on her knees as she reads, and there's a fire leaping in the fireplace, the heavy velvet drapes at the windows drawn. It might be less intimate than one of our bedrooms, but only barely.

There's a glass of wine on the small table at her elbow, half-empty, and I have a feeling she's had a drink to calm her nerves. I wanted one myself, but I couldn't risk lowering my inhibitions. It will be hard enough to keep myself from touching her in any way that I shouldn't, even entirely sober.


'So," Rosalia says softly, setting the book aside and sitting up. 'What are you going to teach me?"

My entire body tightens, hearing her say it like that, soft and curious, looking up at me with so much trust in her eyes. I want to teach her everything, in reality, not just theory, and my entire body aches before even a single word has come out of my mouth.

'It depends on your questions." I sink into one of the leather wing chairs near the fireplace, feeling the pleasant prickle of the heat over my legs. Even in early summer, a house this large can be chilly at night, and the fire provides a welcome ambiance, if nothing else. 'What do you want to know, Rosalia?"


'What happens on my wedding night?" She sits up completely, facing me cross-legged on the couch. I force myself not to look down at where the tight material of her leggings is pressed between her thighs, not to imagine touching her there, stroking her—not to wonder if she's already wet with the anticipation of what I might tell her.

'That could be a vast topic, too." I chuckle lightly, trying to keep some humor in my voice, so I don't lose my mind altogether. 'You'll need to be more specific. What parts of it don't you know about?"


'Any of it." Rosalia presses her lips together, her hands knotting in her lap. 'Where will we go after the reception?"

'Well, that depends. Your husband might have a plan already, or he might ask you what you prefer. He might want to take you to a luxurious hotel, or bring you back here for your wedding night. You should decide where you want to stay as a married couple, before then. I imagine you'll want a nicer suite than your childhood room, but maybe not the one your father occupied. That could feel—a bit strange."

'I don't think I would want a strange man in there." Rosalia's teeth graze her lower lip, and I don't miss the innuendo behind her words, the way she leans onstrange. I haven't been sleeping in the master suite, but I know full well what she's implying—that if it was me, a man she knew and trusted, she'd take me to bed in the room meant for the lord and lady of the house, as it were. 'I'd probably prefer a hotel, I think. Somewhere—neutral."

'That's something you can tell them, you know," I reassure her. 'The point of all of this—hosting a dinner party, letting them court you before you make your decision, is so you can get to know each other a little better than a strictly arranged marriage might allow. So you have a chance to express the things you might want and see how these men react."Boys,I want to say. Not a single one of them is a man, not in my estimation. All are only a little older than Rosalia, mid-twenties at most. Appropriate for her, but not in any sense of the word experienced or worldly enough to be calledmen.

'It's not—wrong for me to talk about my wedding night with them?" Rosalia's cheeks flush, and it's a struggle to keep my breathing even, to not think about what she must be feeling right now. Her anticipation, her nervousness, the possibility of her arousal—it all feels like a drug that I want to revel in.

'Well, I wouldn't go into great detail. But if you would feel more comfortable spending it in a hotel, that's certainly a preference I think you could express, just like any other preference about your wedding."

Rosalia nods, taking a slow breath. 'And after? Say we—go to a hotel. What then?"

My cock twitches against my thigh, and I can't help but wonder how in the hell I'm going to get through this.

'It depends," I say slowly. 'Your husband almost certainly won't be inexperienced, but it depends on how much he—values your pleasure over his." I swallow hard. 'What he might ask for, or—demand."

Rosalia shifts slightly on the chair when I saydemand, and I feel that pulse of blood in my cock again.God help me, if she starts asking me about demands—

'What do you mean by my pleasure over his? Won't he want to—touch me?" Her voice trembles a little with nervousness.

'Yes, I'm sure he will. But to what extent—" I breathe in, trying to find the right words. 'Likely, if he's not in too much of a hurry, he'll want to help you out of your wedding dress himself. If he knows what he's doing and has the patience to take his time, he'll go slowly—try to arouse you before he takes you to bed. He'll kiss you, touch you—"

'Where?" There's a sudden breathiness to Rosalia's voice that makes me ache. 'Here?"

She reaches up, her fingers curling around the curve of her breast, and my mouth goes dry. I hadn't realized it until just that moment, but as the fabric of her tank top presses against her breast, her fingers moving over her nipple as it hardens, I can see that she's not wearing a bra.

'Like this?" she whispers, reaching up with both hands, cupping her breasts as she softly rubs her nipples at the same time, and for a moment, I can't speak. I can't breathe. I should have anticipated something like this, but I'm not sure anything could have prepared me for the sight of Rosalia touching herself, running her hands over her breasts as I watch, her lips slightly parted as she feels the pleasure of the friction over her nipples.

'Yes." I clear my throat. 'Rosalia, you don't need to demonstrate—"

'How else will I know for sure that's what you mean?" She pouts slightly, her head cocking to one side. 'I just want to make sure I understand—"

'Not everything needs to be demonstrated." I swallow hard. 'For instance, once your husband undresses you, he may want to pleasure you first, to make sure that you're ready for him. To help make the first time less painful."

'With his fingers?" Rosalia asks curiously, and thankfully, this time, she doesn't move her hand between her thighs along with the question. I'm not sure I could bear the sight of her touching herself in front of me—not like that.

'Yes. Or his tongue." I nearly choke on the last word, because the idea of another man with his mouth on Rosalia's pussy inflames me with jealous frustration, at the same time that an image of my own mouth between her thighs fills my mind, my mouth practically watering at the idea of her taste on my lips. I have no doubt she would be the sweetest I've ever tasted.

Rosalia's cheeks flush a bright pink. 'His tongue?" she whispers, shifting on the couch again, her eyes shining with curiosity. 'He'll put his mouth on me there?" Her teeth sink into her lower lip again, worrying at it. 'And men enjoy that?"

'If they're good lovers, they do," I retort before I can think about it—and the obvious implication that if it were me in her bed, I would waste no time making her come with my tongue. I see that recognition in her eyes instantly, the curious way her gaze slides over me, and I shift in the chair, hoping to hide my half-hard cock. It's all I can do to keep myself from slipping over into full, throbbing arousal. 'He might be too—eager, the first night. But most men will want to repay the favor in time."

'What do you mean?" Rosalia frowns, a small line appearing between her eyebrows. 'He'll want me to do that? Put my mouth on his—"

There's no help for it. The moment Rosalia innocently inquires about giving a blowjob, I'm hard as a rock. My cock lurches upwards, straining against my fly, aching as I feel a trickle of pre-cum sliding down my shaft. Days of on-and-off arousal have left me so sensitive that even that slow slide of moisture feels good, like the wet flick of a tongue. Even jerking off every night, as I've been doing lately, hasn't done nearly enough to take the edge off.

'Yes," I affirm, trying not to sound as choked as my voice feels. 'I can't think of any man who won't want that, Rosalia. In fact, most will insist on it. Hopefully, the husband you choose will be gentle about it at first—allow you to learn."

'And he'll want that the first night?" She sounds faintly terrified. 'I—"

'He may be in such a hurry to have you in bed that he won't insist on it the first night," I try to soothe her, but I'm not entirely sure it's an honest answer. I can't imagine any man seeing Rosalia, having her as his wife, and not taking the opportunity to see those pretty lips wrapped around his cock.

'How would I—" She bites her lip. 'On my knees?"

My arousal is verging on pain. I'm not sure my cock has ever been so hard, so achingly swollen, as it is at that moment. Pre-cum drips freely down the shaft, trickling over my balls and soaking my boxer briefs, and I know if I so much as adjust myself, I won't be able to stop myself from stroking it. I'm not sure there's a drop of blood left in my brain.

'He might ask for that," I manage. 'Or on his back, with you between his—thighs."

'Will you show me?" Rosalia asks, and my blood rushes in my ears, almost too loudly to hear her. 'Where to touch, I mean. Yourself. On your—"

The idea of stroking myself in front of her is nearly enough to make me come on the spot. 'No," I manage, even as my cock throbs in protest, desperate for release. 'Absolutely not. Theoretical, you said. I will—explain, as best as I'm able, but as far as anything else—"

'I won't touch. You can sit over there. But I want to see." Rosalia's mouth is taking on that stubborn pout again. I have the sudden, wild urge to stride across the room and take her over my knee for her attitude, spanking her until her ass blushes as red as her cheeks.

The fantasy is immediate and sharp in my mind—her skin is hot under my palm, the way she would squirm in my lap, her panties tugged down to her knees. The way, if she were good enough, I would rub her clit until she came after taking her punishment, feeling her writhe against me, before putting her on her knees to take my cock in her mouth like the good girl that she would learn to be. I can imagine her soft lips wrapped around my cockhead, sucking it until I was on the verge, and how I'd rest it against her lower lip, that one she's always biting, watching my creamy white cum spurt over her lips and drip down her chin—

My cock pulses with a warning, enough pre-cum dripping down my shaft that I almost think I've lost control and come in my trousers. There will be a wet spot regardless if I'm not careful, and I shift in the seat, even that friction almost too much as my cock rubs against my fly.

'No, Rosalia," I tell her firmly. 'That's too far. And I think this is enough instruction for tonight. You should go to bed."

'But—" Her eyes narrow, her chin tipping up as if to argue, and I put a bit of authority in my voice, more than I've used with her before.

'Go to bed, Rosalia."

I seethe way her entire body softens, the way her thighs clench as she nods, that lip still pushed out in a pout even as she stands up gracefully. And in that instant, I know.

At least part of the reason I've resisted marrying her is that I couldn't justify exposing her to my desires—to the things I want, the things that I would desire in a wife, if I were to marry and stay faithful to one woman. To take advantage of Rosalia's innocence in such a way, especially, felt wrong.

It still does, for all the reasons I've told myself—and her—time and again. But in that one moment, when I tell her to go to bed and see the desire that ripples through her, I know that she's perfect for me in every way. The woman of my dreams—innocent and submissive to her very core, a woman I could instruct and mold for my desires, and mine alone. A submissive to cherish and praise and spoil, to punish when she disobeyed, and pleasure when she was good. Everything I want—and she could be mine, if I only say the word.

It's torture like nothing I've ever imagined.

The door has barely closed behind her before I jerk open my fly, nearly breaking my zipper in my haste. My cock is slick and swollen as I wrap my fist around it, spreading my legs as I fuck my fist with hard, reckless abandon; any chance of taking my time with it is long gone. I clench my hand around my length, as tight as I imagine Rosalia's virgin pussy would be. I stroke it with such a fierce, relentless rhythm that I think I might be rubbed raw tomorrow, but I don't care. I need to fucking come, and I do—in seconds, spurts of thick, hot cum spilling out over my hand and thighs as I groan aloud, fucking my hand as hard as I wish I could fuck her. My thighs almost cramp with the force of my climax, harder than any orgasm I've had in a long time—certainly harder than I've ever come by my own hand. My lap is soaked with it, my cock still spurting long past when I would normally be finished, my balls aching with the intensity of it. I stare down at the mess, fingers still twitching along my length, rubbing out the last shocks of pleasure as I lean my head back against the chair, biting back another frustrated groan at the state of my suit.

My dry-cleaning bill is going to be ridiculous, if this continues much longer.