Aunt Ivy swivels her fork slowly, toasting her breadevenly in the low flame, firelight shadows dancing on the faded green living room walls.
‘He’s not a snob. That’s all it means.’
‘But he didn’t even tell me about his son or show me upstairs.’He sniffed me ...‘I have a bad feeling about him. I don’t think I should work there.’
Aunt Ivy gives me an incredulous look. ‘Turn down an offer of a live-in position and a good salary? He’s a doctor. A respectable man.’
I stare silently at my toasted bread, which is starting to blacken around the edges. Am I being silly? I can’t help how I feel. My gut is telling me that there’s something not right.
‘He chose you because you’re special,’ Aunt Ivy continues, transferring the steaming toast to her plate with nimble fingers. ‘Like I chose you from your ten brothers and sisters in Whitechapel. If I hadn’t, where do you think you’d be now?’
I shrug.
‘Dead or selling your body on the streets, no doubt. My sister married for love, and she’s suffering for it. Last I heard, she’d taken up with the gin—and that never ends well.’ She scrapes butter onto her toast angrily to make her point. ‘So I won’t hear another word. You’re going to him, Florence, and that’s final. It will be the making of you, mark my words.’
My bread is now more char than toast, but I hardly notice. A knot of fear lodges in my stomach.
But what other choice do I have other than to marry well? However, even that is proving impossible. I have looks enough, but I lack money and connections, and prosperous men don’t marry for beauty alone. No, Aunt Ivy is right: beggars can’t be choosers, and I’d be a fool to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Chapter 6
Damian | Edinburgh, present day
Florence’s bedroom could be a museum display—apart from the fact there’s no explanatory sign telling you about the occupant’s life or the date they lived there.She wasn’t joking when she said she was interested in the past ...
I’ve read about people who feel like they belong in another era, but I’ve never met anyone who believes it to such an extent. Until now.
To the left is a fireplace with a black lead grate filled with glowing white candles, and in front of it sit two squat leather armchairs. To the right stands a bookcase stocked with leather-bound books. A plush crimson-and-gold oriental rug covers the dark polished floorboards, and atop it, next to the bookcase, rests a four-poster bed with thick, carved wooden posts. A freestanding armoire with a changing screen stands on the far left-hand side. The entire room is painted deep red, even the ceiling.
The flickering candles, the tick of the antique clock on the mantel, and the shifting shadows in the corners aregiving me serious Edgar Allan Poe vibes.
‘This is ... dedicated,’ I say, looking around.And slightly spooky. Who lives like this in the twenty-first century?
‘Do you like it?’ Florence is standing right in front of me, and I blink. Wasn’t she over by the fireplace a second ago? She’s watching me carefully, as if to gauge my reaction.
‘I do. But I feel underdressed, like I should be wearing an evening suit or something,’ I joke.
Florence looks at me steadily and says deadpan, ‘Or you could wear your birthday suit.’
There’s no mistakingthatas a come-on, and my cock thickens in my jeans. But I simply smirk at her, and she gives me a coy smile.
Yes, I’m playing the age-old ‘hard to get’ game, which is my fail-safe method when it comes to women (but I also want to keep my clothes on for as long as possible, as it’s freaking cold in here). However, I have a box of condoms in my coat pocket, and cold or not, I’m itching to kiss her glossy lips and roll around naked in that cool four-poster. And chat some more about books afterwards, of course ...
‘Would you like something to drink? I have some port.’ Florence swishes over to the sideboard and uncaps a crystal decanter, and I catch a whiff of plums and spice. The scent of dried roses is also more potent in here, and it’s making me think of graveyards and church altars. She must have adish of potpourri stashed somewhere.
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ I say, looking for somewhere to put my coat.
Suddenly, it’s removed from my arms, and a hand snakes around my waist. I glance down to see purple fingernails stroking my rock-hard length. How on earth Florence managed to get behind me so quickly, I don’t know. But her hand on my dick feels amazing. OK, she’s a bit quirky, and she lives in a museum. But if she wants to move things along, that’s fine with me.
Her other hand tugs gently at my hair, and my head lolls back as if my spine were Plasticine. I feel like I’m drunk, though I’m sure I declined the port. Or did I? Did we sit in the armchairs by the fireside candles and talk? My head is all fuzzy, and I can’t remember. Florence is kissing and licking at my neck as she strokes me, and I groan at how good it all feels.
‘Shall we lie down, Dr Rhodes?’ she asks, massaging my straining cock.
The friction is too pleasurable, and my balls start tightening.Do not come in your jeans, Damian.Premature ejaculation is not appreciated on a first date.
I glance at the four-poster with its red satin cover and array of plump white pillows and nod quickly, hoping I can hold out until we’re in bed.
To my relief, she removes her magical fingers, and I gain a semblance of control.
