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her brain. Henry thrust and shuddered with her, his ‘I love you’s soft in her ears. Their sexual dance ended in a slow waltz of limbs and sighs as they reclaimed the bed, pulled up the sheet and spooned together to doze.
    Henry’s gentle snores continued after Mortlock woke her. He was back again, behind her. He slid his fingers down the hollow in her back, between her buttocks and into her sex. He moved his supple hand deeper to push his fingers into her, stroking, pressing, searching until once again she became wet and his erection pressed into her back.
    “My turn,” he said.
    He moved lower to gently grip her hips with both his hands and pull her down. His erection slid in, filling her with his hardness.
    They made love slowly. Henry slept through it all. Mortlock pleasured her with snail-paced pulses, so slow she almost screamed with frustration, but she didn’t want to wake Henry.
    Mortlock stretched up and manoeuvred one hand under her chest, his arms locked around her. He cupped a breast in each of his strong hands, massaging her. Each upward slide of his cock, he matched with a downward pull on her breasts. Pinioned by his lust, she circled her buttocks against him, silently requesting more speed. He ignored her and kept up the steady pace. Her sex began to ache and she thought to say ‘stop’ but at that moment he shuddered and climaxed. He stayed deep in her for a moment longer.
    He withdrew with a playful slap on her rump and once more she heard the door click shut as he left.
    What a success today had been. Being a voyeur had ignited Henry’s sexual drive and had awakened the response in his body. The ménage à trois had allowed them to consummate their love, before the impotency. She hoped today spelt a new beginning, the reigniting of their sex life. She appreciated Mortlock and his skills, but she only loved Henry.
    She fell into a sound sleep snuggled against her husband’s back, her arm over his paunch, her hand cupped over his warm cock.

Chapter Six
     
     
     
    The following week, Henry went to the city, and she went with him to meet Charlotte. On any Thursdays when she wasn’t available, which didn’t happen often, Mortlock spent the day gardening.
    Ascot was this coming Saturday. The forecast promised a sunny day and she intended to find something special to wear. Henry’s day at the House of Lords would be arduous and he planned to spend the night at his club.
    By late afternoon, their expedition over, she bade goodbye to Charlotte and took a taxi home. She wandered around the back lawn in her new dress, enjoying the soft flow of the lightweight liberty fabric. Its bodice was unbuttoned to her cleavage and the long, full sleeves kept her arms protected from the sun. The full skirt was gathered at the waist and finished with a matching belt. It emphasised her figure and the skirt floated around her ankles as she walked. She loved it so much she’d insisted on wearing it out of the salon. Charlotte thought it suited her admirably and they had spent most of the afternoon looking, without success, for a hat to match.
    Admiring Mortlock’s handiwork, she strolled the garden picking and eating the new peas. Some of the roses needed to be deadheaded and she walked to the garden shed to get the secateurs, presuming Mortlock would have left for the day.
    A gasp escaped her, more of surprise than shock, to see him working at the bench sharpening a garden hoe. They nodded to each other.
    She squeezed past him to reach the pruners hanging on the wall just as he bent down to put something under the bench. His musk tickled her senses and she stopped moving, concerned she may step back on him. The hem of her dress was lifted and she felt his body bump against her legs as he came up under the front of her skirt. He caressed the back of her legs, moving his fingertips to linger on her hips before inching to her waist. His hands met and he hooked his fingers into the elastic of her underwear. In a