“Annabelle,” he whispers. “You are too good.”
Given that I am sucking his cock in church, I think God would disagree.
But I will not argue with him.
I suck him, trying to keep my movements rhythmic and restrained, but finding it difficult given my enthusiasm.
When he touches the back of my throat, he cries out.
“Alfred,” I whisper. “You must be quiet.”
“Yes, yes, I will be. Just don’t stop.”
I don’t trifle withhim.
I suck him in long, deep strokes.
“You are going to make me come,” he says. “I haven’t spent all week.”
“Good boy,” I murmur before putting my mouth back on him.
And then he comes, his seed filling my mouth, and I swallow it happily.
“Annabelle,” he repeats. “Fuck. I love you.”
I love you.
The words are clear in the small antechamber.
And I have no idea what to say.
But it turns out that I don’t have to formulate a response.
Because someone else speaks.
“I hate to interrupt a lover’s tryst,” says a deadly voice.
I spring up, whirling around.
And I find myself facing Mr. Thompson.
He is standing at the threshold of the door I just came through. He is a neat and tidy man, his waistcoat is fresh and impeccable, and his smile is that of a school master who has caught his charges in the kitchen after hours.
He gives me the look that weeks ago in my study he tried to honey over with flattery and a servile manner.
Of all the people to discover us, he is perhaps the worst.
“Well,” he says, “The archbishop, I am sure, would like to hear of this development.”
I glance at Alfred. He is blinking at Mr. Thompson, clearly stunned.
Then it dawns on me.
Mr. Alfred Saintsbury is ruined.
He is compromised.
His virtue, so important to his profession, is shattered. And I have shattered it.
