“I don’t understand,” he protests.
I do not feel like explaining. And I do not half know what I am saying. I am losing myself in sweet nothings. I must stop.
“How does that feel?” I ask, keeping my voice gentle despite the violence of my thoughts. I continue to stroke him.
“So—so good. Like heaven. It shouldn’t bethisgood. Not when I am meant to refuse it. But I am weak.”
He is raving now. He is near his climax.
“If you thinkthisis heaven, wait until I ride you.”
“Oh God,” he moans, shutting his eyes.
“No, look at me,” I say, continuing my slightly rougher pace.
His eyes fly open.
I want him to look at me. Toseeme.
“Iam the one who gives you this pleasure, do you understand?”
“Oh God—I am—please?—”
“No, not God. Only me. Say it.”
“Yes, yes,” he says. “Only you. Annabelle, I am going to spend.”
I stroke him once and then againand again.
“I—I—” his arse is nearly off the cushion seat.
“Come, Alfred,” I murmur, hating myself for this display of tenderness, but unable to stop. “It’s all right. I have you.”
And he does, his seed spurting up with force.
He continues to spill, warm and copious, into my hand and all over his trousers and my mantle.
Chapter 12
Alfred
“Iam sorry,” I pant, my pleasure fading quickly to distress.
With mortification, I realize that I have come all over her mantle. And her hand. And myself.
But Annabelle—Annabelle,as she asked me to call her—already has a handkerchief in her hand, wiping away the evidence of my spend.
“There is no need to apologize,” she says quietly, her voice softer than I have heard it before.
We are at my door. I quickly right myself, rebuttoning the placket of my trousers and doing what I can with my own handkerchief.
But once I am decent enough to leave the carriage, I still don’t move. It feels ungentlemanly to depart after she has given me pleasure and I have provided none in return. Even though I am well aware thatIdo not determine the parameters of our encounters.
“May I—could I?—”
I cannot finish the sentence.
She shakes herhead.
