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moves in closer, pressing his condom-clad penis against my still-tingling buttocks while he leans over me and molds his bare chest against my back so he can reach to give the side of my neck a soft kiss.
    I sway against him, loving the kiss, loving his skin, loving his scent…and loving him. His weight is on one hand, and with the other he strokes me gently and soothingly, hot fingertips traveling over my breasts and my rib cage, then skimming my waist before finally settling over my sex. He cups me there, not in a sexual sense, but in a vaguely possessive way that’s almost more intimate than a blatant attempt to stimulate me.
    Then his long finger divides my labia and settles on my clit.
    I moan, long and low, already fluttering as he rubs in a delicate, measured rhythm. He’s trying to make me come first, I realize, and perversely I resist for a few seconds, holding out for our union. But he’s far too clever and too skilled, and I crumble, coming heavily and with an uncouth, broken cry.
    As I’m still pulsating, he pushes in, the head of his cock finding my entrance with perfect ease.
    Oh God! He’s big! He feels even bigger than he looks, so hot and imposing. I pitch forward onto my folded arms as he ploughs into me, making a firm foundation from which to push back at him.
    The impact of his penetration shocks my senses for a moment, and pleasure ebbs while I assimilate what’s happened to me.
    I’ve got the marquis’s cock inside me. I’m possessed by this strange, elegant, deeply personal and mysterious man that I work for. We are one, for the moment; joined by flesh.
    But when he starts to move, I’m back in my body and the pleasure reasserts itself.
    We rock against each other and he thrusts in long, easy, assured strokes. At first he grips my still-tingly bottom cheeks, but as things get more intense, he inclines right over me, taking his weight on one hand again while with the other, he returns his loving attention to my clit.
    Somehow he manages to stroke me in exactly the way that suits me, a firm rhythm, devilishly circling, but not too rough. God alone knows how he manages it. Maybe it’s pure instinct or something? Because, judging by the way he’s gasping and growling, he’s just as out of it as I am.
    Sublime and miraculous as all this is, I can’t hold out for long. And I don’t. Within moments, I’m growling too, like some kind of she-wolf, and climaxing furiously. Dimly, I sense the marquis trying to contain himself, conserve himself as long as he can, to increase my pleasure. But I’m not having any of that—I want his pleasure too!
    I milk him hard with my inner muscles, and he lets out such a string of profanities—in his immaculate upper-crust accent—that I find myself laughing just as wildly as I’m coming.
    Then he laughs too, pumps hard and fast and shoots inside me. I feel the little bursts of his spurting semen even through the condom, and despite it being very stupid, I suddenly wish the rubber protection wasn’t there. As we both tumble forward in a gasping, sweating, laughing, climaxing heap, I have fleeting but dangerous thoughts about one or two or three little marquises or honorables or whatever, all running around the place looking as dark and aristocratic and beautiful as their daddy.
    Lying on the rug, wrapped in his arms as he cradles me spoon-style—his still partly clothed body warm and protective against mine—I fight with a huge case of genuine post- coital tristesse this time.
    This is all there is, Rose, I tell myself. A couple of weeks of this. A bit of naughty spanking and sex play by mutual consent. Maybe a friendly, but not too personal, fuck or two.
    And then you’re off to your lovely new job and a new life of opportunity.
    While he stays here, in the heart of England, tending to his great house.
    Outside, I hear it start to rain again.
     
    Two weeks later, it’s still raining. In fact, there’s a raging thunderstorm outside and it’s really