expect domineering hunger and passion, but it’s soft, light and sweet, almost a zephyr.
He wants me. He’s hard, I can feel it beneath my bottom. But as if his own erection means nothing to him, he sets me on my feet then stands up beside me.
“Much as it pains me to leave so much undone and unsaid at this moment, Rose, I have to go.” His eyes are dark. Is it lust? Regret? Something more complex? “I need to go to London, and I’m going to have to get a bloody taxi because I’ve just left my car at the garage.” He pauses, then leans down to kiss me on the lips again, a little harder this time. “But when I get back, we’ll reconvene. If that’s agreeable?” He tilts his head to one side as he looks down on me, and his exquisite hair slides sideways like silk.
I nod and mutter something incomprehensible that doesn’t make sense even to me, and then he pats me on the bottom again and strides away across the room.
At the door, he gives me a wink, his dark eyes twinkling with mischief.
“Enjoy the rest of the video,” he says, then suddenly he’s gone.
* * *
But I don’t watch it. After he’s gone, I just shoot off to my room, tucked up in the eyrie of the old servants’ quarters, feeling strange and weird and disoriented, as if I’ve been in a really vivid dream, and I’ve just woken up. Then I sort of snivel a bit, not sure of my emotions.
The marquis is our boss, and up until now, he’s been a sort of admire/adore from afar type man. I’m not into all this hero worship or celebs and aristos for the sake of it, but he’s got genuine charisma and blue-blood charm. He’s also got some weird history. Apparently in the army at some time, then a dropout, and now getting his act together and sorting out the manor on behalf of his father, the duke. The whole family is strapped for cash, but Blaystock Manor is just the right size for a deluxe, high-end hotel or conference center, and the marquis has thrown just about every penny he possesses, and some he doesn’t, into restoring it and bringing it up to standard.
And somewhere along the line in this convoluted story of his, he was married, but she died and now he’s alone. No doubt his dad is pressuring him for progeny, to continue the family line, but so far it seems he’s resisted, and there’s no marchioness.
Some very silly thoughts drift into my mind as I get ready for bed and I push them smartly back out again. I’ve got my dream job waiting for me in the Caribbean. I won’t be here all that long.
Although I would love to see what the manor looks like when it’s finished.
I suppose all this pondering is to avoid thinking about the fact that the marquis has seen me masturbate, and almost, but not quite, spanked me.
Do I really want to be spanked, though?
In the video, he was doing it for real, and that woman—whoever she was, surely not his wife—was squealing and crying out. So obviously it hurt like hell. Lying in bed later, I tug down my pajama bottom and give myself a slap on the thigh. It’s a pretty halfhearted effort but it makes me squawk and rub the place to take the sting away.
Immediately though, I’m drifting into fantasy.
In my mind I’m back in the little sitting room, and this time the phone stays silent. And the marquis bares my bottom and starts to caress, caress, caress it, then lands a blow.
I slap myself again, trying to recreate the feeling. It bloody hurts, but I do it again, moaning, “My lord…”
I slap and slap and moan and moan, and suddenly I just have to play with my clitoris. I’m so turned on imagining him spanking me that my wet sex aches.
Within a few seconds I come, softly crying his name, seeing his face.
* * *
The next day, I worry. What’s going to happen? Is anything going to happen? Or has the marquis quite sensibly decided to dismiss our stolen interlude as an aberration. Something of no consequence. It must be bred in his blue English blood to dally with underlings for his pleasure without a second thought.
I certainly don’t see him for the next couple of days, and the cleaning, dusting and polishing goes on without incident. I work cheerfully with the rest of the team, as if nothing has happened.
But then, after a long day, when the others are all off to the pub, I slip back to my room to change, and find a little note upon my mat.
I’m sorry we were so rudely interrupted, it says in a fine, almost copperplate handwriting. Would you care to join me in the small sitting room, at seven o’clock
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
