“Wonderful.” He hums, slipping his fore and middle fingers under the foreskin as well, increasing the pressure and friction and… Jesus. Fuck. Christ.
“As I was saying, my parents are the Duke and Duchess of West Shropshire, whom you will address as Your Grace. After that is my eldest sibling, Robert, though what you call the viscount matters not as he will not be there. My sister, Beatrice, is lovely and she will laugh at you if you call her anything other than Bea.”
His voice never wavers through this entire explanation, even as his thumb and fingers have colluded to separate my soul from reality.
“Oh, dear. You are getting rather noisy,” he says, taking the remaining washcloth and pressing the tightly rolled, pleasantly hot, damp material to my lips. I open my mouth, allowing him to tuck it into place as he ruthlessly twists his slick thumb and fingers under my foreskin.
When his free hand goes back to my throat, I come so hard I’m grateful for the cloth. Water spills down my chin as I bite down to prevent myself from screaming. White cum dribbles down his lightly tanned knuckles, which he licks delicately before removing the cloth from my mouth to finish the cleanup.
“Now, to review—what will you call my father?”
I look up at him, wrung out and barely able to lift my arms. “Your Grace?”
He smiles down at me, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Excellent. You’ll do just fine.”
7
TOLLY
By the time we land, I don’t even know who I am anymore. I’ve never quite taken control like that in an intimate situation, but I loved it. I was filthy with him, telling him all about peerage and entitled lands whilst playing with his nipples or having him suck my cock. I even had him trap his cum in his foreskin again, this time holding it until I could position myself to swallow it while tonguing those delicate parts of him. Whatever I wanted, he followed my every whim, like an instrument in human form, making music only for me.
Oh, dear. Somewhere over the Atlantic I’ve become a bad poet.
Wellesley is waiting for us on the tarmac next to the Rolls. I wrap my arm around a warm and sleepy Gael.
“Darling, we’ve landed.”
He blinks up at me, stretching like a cat in my lap. “We’re here already?”
“We are. Someone slept rather soundly for the last half of the trip.”
“That’s because someone edged me with all of his dirty little tricks and made me come three times. Then put me into a coma,” he snaps back, his beautiful brown eyes twinkling.
“Guilty.”
“I like it,” he whispers as we make our way to the Rolls. “You turning the tables on me.”
“So do I. I wouldn’t say I need to be in control one hundred percent of the time, to be sure, but I’d happily explore more of that once we’re back in the States.”
A flush darkens his cheeks. “Yes, my Lord.”
Oh, damn. That’s quite…mm.
We settle into the back of the Rolls and I remove my mobile, shooting off a text to my father.
Me: We’ve landed. Should be at the estate in thirty minutes or so.
Father: Excellent. I’ll see you tomorrow at Christmas lunch.
I snarl at the phone and send off a quick message to my land manager. He texts me back immediately.
“Wellesley, change of plans. Take me to Adrian’s house.”
Having been the estate’s driver for nearly twenty years now, I recognise the sharpening of his jaw. He’s as familiar with my father’s patrician ways as I am.
“Of course, my Lord. Shall I deliver the packages to the manor house?”
“No, Wellesley. Thank you. I’ll store them at Adrian’s.”
