family, he’d found out the reason. Fausto, who’d hated him on sight and didn’t even seem to like Renata all that much. The two of them had frequent and very noisy bouts of lovemaking that drove Darryl’s fingers irresistibly to his crotch. But even though he was concerned for Renata and hated leaving her, he’d also been relieved when she’d halting told him it’d be better if he were to live somewhere else for a while.
Which had led him here, to 17 Pengilley Gardens, London, England, the home of Lady Henrietta Miller, Renata’s recently bereaved and astoundingly beautiful English friend. Another rare and sensual woman who already had a lover.
Things were different in this house though. He could sense it. There were currents of sadness and loss from the death of the late Sir Piers, but on the whole Darryl already felt much more relaxed than he had at the palazzo.
What’d happened in the car with Lady Henrietta—or Hettie as she insisted he call her—had made his head spin and his groin feel like bursting, but afterward he’d sensed no animosity in her. Quite the contrary. Hettie was confused like her friend Renata, but she also found him attractive. She’d suffered a devastating bereavement but at heart she was fighting her grief with a vibrancy and love of life that fired Darryl’s blood and made him hopeful for his own future happiness.
And Lady Hettie’s lover was far less hostile than Fausto.
It was obvious that Signor Starr and Hettie fucked. Darryl had felt the vibes immediately, the palpable erotic current that arced between the lady and her servant even when they were yards apart. Darryl’s heart had at sunk at first, expecting polite animosity from the tall blond, but after a few moments of chatting with Starr he realized his fears were unfounded. True, the man was somewhat cool and remote, but that seemed to be his nature rather than anything specifically directed at Darryl. Starr seemed to adhere to a very old-fashioned standard of discreet, unobtrusive service in public. It was only in private that Darryl suspected that things were very, very different.
The book he was studying was not one of the ones Mrs. Phillips had pointed him to when he’d first come down to the library.
When he’d woken up after a long refreshing sleep he’d dressed and wandered downstairs. The brisk but kindly housekeeper had provided him with tea and a snack and then had shown him briefly around the house. She hadn’t mentioned the whereabouts of Hettie and Starr, and Darryl hadn’t asked.
After his tour, Mrs. P had settled him in the cozy wood-paneled library and shown him roughly how the vast assembly of books was arranged. She’d pointed out history, geography and various classics. She’d also shown him Hettie’s selection of contemporary novels, science fiction and thrillers. What she hadn’t shown him, but what he’d found for himself was what seemed to be an extensive collection of extremely explicit erotica. The book he’d finally chosen was a superb photographic anthology bound in white leather. The theme was sexual intercourse.
He flicked the pages slowly, frowning at his frustrating lack of knowledge yet at the same simmering with excitement. The broad idea of fucking was familiar to him, it was coded into the genes and so basic to life that instruction was unnecessary. But it was the refinements that Darryl was curious about. Where did women like to be touched? What gave them pleasure? How could he make it better for a woman without exciting himself so much that he came immediately?
Studying a picture of a man holding a woman’s breasts, he could see that she was enjoying the sensations. Her face was distorted and her teeth bared, but he could tell it was pleasure she was feeling not pain. He imagined what Hettie’s breasts might look like with a man’s hands upon them. The image of her was clear and beautiful, but in his imagination, all he saw was her, not the man.
Hettie had gorgeous
Which had led him here, to 17 Pengilley Gardens, London, England, the home of Lady Henrietta Miller, Renata’s recently bereaved and astoundingly beautiful English friend. Another rare and sensual woman who already had a lover.
Things were different in this house though. He could sense it. There were currents of sadness and loss from the death of the late Sir Piers, but on the whole Darryl already felt much more relaxed than he had at the palazzo.
What’d happened in the car with Lady Henrietta—or Hettie as she insisted he call her—had made his head spin and his groin feel like bursting, but afterward he’d sensed no animosity in her. Quite the contrary. Hettie was confused like her friend Renata, but she also found him attractive. She’d suffered a devastating bereavement but at heart she was fighting her grief with a vibrancy and love of life that fired Darryl’s blood and made him hopeful for his own future happiness.
And Lady Hettie’s lover was far less hostile than Fausto.
It was obvious that Signor Starr and Hettie fucked. Darryl had felt the vibes immediately, the palpable erotic current that arced between the lady and her servant even when they were yards apart. Darryl’s heart had at sunk at first, expecting polite animosity from the tall blond, but after a few moments of chatting with Starr he realized his fears were unfounded. True, the man was somewhat cool and remote, but that seemed to be his nature rather than anything specifically directed at Darryl. Starr seemed to adhere to a very old-fashioned standard of discreet, unobtrusive service in public. It was only in private that Darryl suspected that things were very, very different.
The book he was studying was not one of the ones Mrs. Phillips had pointed him to when he’d first come down to the library.
When he’d woken up after a long refreshing sleep he’d dressed and wandered downstairs. The brisk but kindly housekeeper had provided him with tea and a snack and then had shown him briefly around the house. She hadn’t mentioned the whereabouts of Hettie and Starr, and Darryl hadn’t asked.
After his tour, Mrs. P had settled him in the cozy wood-paneled library and shown him roughly how the vast assembly of books was arranged. She’d pointed out history, geography and various classics. She’d also shown him Hettie’s selection of contemporary novels, science fiction and thrillers. What she hadn’t shown him, but what he’d found for himself was what seemed to be an extensive collection of extremely explicit erotica. The book he’d finally chosen was a superb photographic anthology bound in white leather. The theme was sexual intercourse.
He flicked the pages slowly, frowning at his frustrating lack of knowledge yet at the same simmering with excitement. The broad idea of fucking was familiar to him, it was coded into the genes and so basic to life that instruction was unnecessary. But it was the refinements that Darryl was curious about. Where did women like to be touched? What gave them pleasure? How could he make it better for a woman without exciting himself so much that he came immediately?
Studying a picture of a man holding a woman’s breasts, he could see that she was enjoying the sensations. Her face was distorted and her teeth bared, but he could tell it was pleasure she was feeling not pain. He imagined what Hettie’s breasts might look like with a man’s hands upon them. The image of her was clear and beautiful, but in his imagination, all he saw was her, not the man.
Hettie had gorgeous
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