“Yes.”
“Good.” And he walks away, leaving me so hot and distracted that I can barely focus on selecting an outfit for the day.
At noon, I meet Mrs. Nanterre, a red-cheeked, middle-aged woman with a strong frame, bold features, and a loud, brisk manner of speaking. She serves as both the cook and the supervisor for the house staff. Her welcome seems genuine and I like her at once.
The rest of the servants and stable hands seem pleasant as well, though it will take me a while to match all the names with the correct faces. A couple of them mention to me how pleased they are to have a place at Valenkirk and how generous Beresford is to them, which is gratifying. Knowing that the servants are well compensated makes me feel less guilty about letting them do all the tasks I’m used to doing for myself, like laundry, cooking, and cleaning.
While the house staff do their work, Beresford takes me out to the conservatory. Apparently he handles the care of the plants himself, laboring there for at least a few hours each day to ensure that every plant has what it needs to thrive. I bring along a book, but watching him work proves to be so interesting that I barely open it. When he notices my interest, he begins introducing me to each type of plant, describing its origins and its needs with a quiet thoroughness that I find utterly charming.
Who would have thought that a mangardeningwould make me so wildly aroused? By the end of the afternoon, I’m so needy for him I can hardly stand it. I follow him into the workroom of the greenhouse, where most of the tools are stored. There’s a large sink and a big table where he can bring plants that need special attention. The surface of the table is mostly clear, apart from a tray that contains a few tiny sprouts in little boxes.
“Do you think the servants are still cleaning?” I ask him, running my fingertips along the edge of the table.
“Most likely. It’s a big house, and there is much to do. They usually stay until dinner is served. No need to dress for the meal, though—I prefer to keep it informal unless we have guests.”
“Could they leave early today? Give us a little privacy?” I suggest.
Beresford looks up from the shears he’s wiping down with a cloth. The corner of his mouth tugs upward, and his eyes glint. “You feel the need for privacy, wife?”
I bite my lip and give him a naughty little smile.
He sets down the shears, and I notice with a thrill that his large hands are seamed with dirt from working with his plants all afternoon. I can’t explain the fascination I have with those big, veined hands and thick fingers.
Beresford stalks around the table and comes to stand behind me. I start to turn toward him, but he takes hold of my hips with those filthy hands, keeping my front against the table. “Bend over.”
I lean forward, not far enough apparently, because he places a palm between my shoulder blades and pushes me down until my breasts are pressed to the wooden surface.
“Pull up your skirts, wife,” he orders. “Let me see if you followed my instructions.”
Bent over the table, I gather the skirts of my dress around my hips, revealing my bare bottom. I know he can see the gleaming wetness of my pussy, and I get even wetter while he stands there, inspecting me.
I hear the rustle and shift of his clothing, the faint click of a fingernail against a button. Then the hot, blunt head of his cock forges straight into my slit. Its girth stretches me abruptly, and I let out a faint squeal.
“Easy, love,” he murmurs. “Relax that pretty cunt for me.”
I release a long, slow breath and focus on loosening my muscles. Once he senses that I’m more at ease, he begins a steady rhythm, so forceful that I have to hold onto the table to stay in place. My clit rubs against the table’s edge so perfectly that I swear my eyes roll up in my head. I’m lust-drunk, sex-dazed, dizzy with the need to come.
Just as my arousal is building to a frenzy, my husband pulls out. “Stay there, exactly like that.”
Quietly he returns to his duties as the greenhouse keeper, leaving me bent across the table with my wet cunt exposed and waiting.
For a few minutes he occupies himself with various small tasks. Then he returns, grabs one cheek of my ass, and fucks me again, casually, like I’m a chore on his list of tasks to do.
I’m nearly at the peak when he abandons me to trim a few twigs off a miniature tree. He ignores my whimper of protest, but I’m actually enjoying every minute of his teasing. There’s a careless arrogance and a triumphant possession in the way he’s claiming me, and I can’t explain why I find it so fucking erotic.
Beresford returns to sheath himself in my slickness, giving a few slow thrusts before pulling out again.
“It’s such a pleasure having a willing cunt open to my use,” he comments, with a light smack on my rear. “What a pleasant diversion from my duties.”
“How long are you going to make me wait?” I whine.
“Just a little longer.” He throws me a naughty sidelong look. “Soon Chezney, my valet, will come down from the house to tell me that dinner is nearly ready so that I can wash up. It’s a habit of his. I wonder if you will still be quivering and begging for release when he arrives.”
“Oh fuck,” I whisper, half terrified and half aroused by the idea of us being interrupted.
Beresford laughs wickedly. “Shall I look out the north window and see if he’s on his way?”
“Yes,” I gasp.
