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 itâs pure instinct or something? Because, judging by the way heâs gasping and growling, heâs just as out of it as I am.
Sublime and miraculous as all this is, I canât hold out for long. And I donât. Within moments, Iâm growling, too, like some kind of she-wolf, and climaxing furiously. Dimly, I sense the marquess trying to contain himself, conserve himself as long as he can, to increase my pleasure. But Iâm not having any of thatâI want his pleasure, too!
I milk him hard with my inner muscles, and he lets out such a string of profanitiesâin his immaculate upper-crust accentâthat I find myself laughing just as wildly as Iâm coming.
Then he laughs, too, pumps hard and fast and shoots insideme. 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 wasnât 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 marquesses 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-styleâhis still partly clothed body warm and protective against mineâI fight with a huge case of genuine postcoital 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 youâre 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.
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Two weeks later, itâs still raining. In fact, thereâs a raging thunderstorm outside and itâs really scaring me.
But in a way, this is a good thing. Itâs taking my mind off the fact that tomorrow, Iâm supposed to be leaving. And though I wonât miss this cold, English rain one bit, there are a lot of things I am finding very hard to leave.
This funny old house has really grown on me, and I wish I was going to be here to see it finished.
Iâm going to really miss being spanked and tied up and given mock orders in a mock-stern, beautiful cut-glass English voice. Oh, Iâm sure thereâll be a man somewhere in the Caribbean whoâll oblige me, but it wonât be the same. It wonât be the same.
And pleasure, oh, how Iâll miss the pleasure. Not just anypleasure, but the bliss gifted to me by a man who seems to know my every thought, my every response, inside out.
Iâll miss the sex, too, even if I never do get to see his glorious face as he comes inside me. But even if he wonât face me, I still donât think Iâll ever find anyone with his finesse, his strength, his sweetness, his considerationâ¦and his mastery.
Yes, itâs the marquess. I fear heâs irreplaceable.
And itâs our last night.
Lights flicker along the passage as I make my way to the little sitting room, and just as I knock on the door, as I always do now, the lights dim and then go out. Thereâs still some rewiring to do and this happens now and again, but this is the first time the powerâs gone out in a storm.
Thereâs a loud crack of thunder, and lightning flashes almost simultaneously.
I shriek with fear and the door to the study flies open.
If I wasnât so terrified of the storm outside, I would laugh out loud. Itâs just like a Dracula movie, with a venerable old house, a wild storm and a beautiful, dramatic aristocrat dressed from head to foot in black.
I squeak again as he gathers me to him and hustles me into the softly