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marquess deftly unbuckles his belt and then unfastens his jeans. But just as he’s about to reveal himself, and allow me to feast my eyes on that which I’ve been fantasizing about since the moment he cordially and quite impersonally welcomed me to the manor and the work team, he lets out a lurid, agonized curse.
    Then says, “I don’t have a condom. I wasn’t expecting to need one.”
    A part of me thinks, whoa, he really did mean all that stuff about not fucking! But another part of me gives thanks for the fact that hope always springs eternal.
    â€œEr…I’ve got one. It’s in the pocket of my skirt.”
    He gives me a look that says he thinks I’m a saucy, forward minx, but he’s more than glad of the fact, and then he scoots gracefully across to where my skirt landed, and locates the contraceptive in my pocket.
    Back close again, he hesitates, and gives me a beautiful,complex look, full of hunger, compassion, yearning again…and a strange fear. I nod. I feel just the same.
    And then he reaches into his jeans and reveals himself.
    Involuntarily, I make a little “ooh” sound.
    He’s big. Stunning. Delicious. His cock is as handsome and patrician as his face, magnificently hard and finely sculpted. He’s circumcised and his glans is moist and stretched and shiny. I’ve never seen a prettier one, and it’s almost a shame when he swiftly robes it in latex.
    I reach for him, expecting him to move between my splayed thighs. But with all the authority of his centuries-old title, he takes hold of me and moves me into his preferred position. With his arm around my waist, he scoops me up and places me on my hands and knees and moves in behind me.
    It’s not what I would have chosen, but I’ll take what I can get. And I understand his reasons. This way is more impersonal, not too intimate and less dangerous to his emotions and to mine.
    At least I think so, until he 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 marquess’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