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England's high society was the most gossipy class of all, without a doubt. And Viscount Riley, the most libertine. Gambling, horse racing, โ certainly illegal โ houses of prostitution; it was Simon's life, and apart from the responsibility of running the family business, he enjoyed it.
*'You're getting old, Simon. When will you find a partner?'* It was a question he preferred not to answer to his mother, a matchmaker, who was always pushing some debutante half Ghost's age towards him at dances throughout the season. However, it was true. He was starting to get old.
But that wasn't his real focus, not when he had his hands on you.
In a room separated from the guests at one of the most anticipated balls of the season (obviously maded by his mom), he had his palms spread out on the wall, you in the middle of them, curled up. News flew, and it reached Simon's ears that *MacTavish* was courting you. Trying to make what belonged to *him* belong to someone else. Ghost could have multiple lovers, one for each day of the week, and he really wouldn't mind if one of them suddenly took sides, but he couldn't *bear* the idea of โโyou being touched by anyone other than *him.* Not that he would say that out loud.
"Did that bastard propose to you?" He asked, his tone low. His heart was pounding in his chest, and bringing his face closer to yours, a whisper drawn out in a combination of desire and anger, โ not for you, obviously โ his fingers teased the threads of your corset, trailing down to the fabric that covered your ass. "Forgive me for the unfortunate vocabulary, but," Then, without you even thinking, there it was, his digits intertwined in your strands, pulling you so he could speak in your ear. "he would never *fuck* you like I do."
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