Read Online Lessons and Lovers by Portia Da Costa - Free Book Online
Authors: Portia Da Costa
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presence was becoming more and more imprinted on her consciousness? She glanced at her companion and felt the sharpest pang. He was astonishingly desirable, but acknowledging that desire felt painfully like a betrayal.
And not of her dead husband. Of someone all too living.
Frowning slightly, she watched as Darryl rose smoothly to his feet and held out his arm to her, “Lady Henrietta,” he said, his voice formal yet velvety, “May I escort you to dinner?”
Hettie had to smile back at him. He was such a gem. “Of course, Signor di Angeli, I’d be honored.”
And with that she stood up, took his arm, and let herself be escorted to the dining room.
Starr fell back against the mat, his breathing heavy and his near-naked body streaming with sweat. How many sit-ups had he done? He couldn’t remember. He only knew that no amount of hard physical exercise could purge his mind this time.
He lay there for a moment, centering himself, then rose quickly and reached for the bottle of mineral water on the tallboy. Drinking deep, he attempted to focus on his body and gauge his levels of energy and fitness, but all he could really think about was Hettie and what she might be doing with—and saying to—the Italian.
“You’re jealous, man,” he whispered to himself, then smiled grimly at the enormity of the understatement. He’d seen the way his adored Hettie had looked at di Angeli. And while he’d told himself ferociously that it was not his place to even have an opinion on the matter, he couldn’t suppress the gouging surge of sexual envy he experienced each time he’d seen Hettie cast an interested glance at her new houseguest.
Don’t be a bloody fool! He took another long drag at the water bottle, then put it aside and peeled off the thin, perspiration-soaked jersey trunks he’d been working out in.
In his tiny bathroom, he spun the showerhead and bared his teeth as he stepped beneath the punishing, brutally ice-cold flow. The water should have dowsed his turbulent emotions and calmed his wayward body, as it so often had before when his longing for Hettie had become unmanageable. But this time the regime was ineffective. His mind and his heart whirled, and despite the confusion of his thoughts and the freezing shower, his cock grew rigid.
“Fuck!” he growled, then spun the dial to a more comfortable temperature. Why suffer when the prescription wasn’t working? Why suffer any more than he already was? Than he always did.
In his fantasy, the woman he loved, the woman he would do anything for, endure anything for, give anything for, stepped into the cubicle and drew close to him. The now-warm water streamed over her lush but slender body and plastered her lovely mane of golden hair against her skull. Starr groaned like a martyr in torment as a hand closed around his penis. In his dream it was her hand but in reality it was his own.
He had loved Henrietta Miller from the instant he’d first set eyes on her, but if he were to remain an honorable man and worthy of the trust that Piers Miller had placed in him, he could never claim her. He was sworn to protect Hettie and to take care of her—even service her libido when it was required of him—but no more than that. He was her servant and she was his mistress. He knew that his rigid adherence to his role might seem archaic in the twenty-first century, but he’d made a pledge to himself. A pledge in honor of the man who had raised him from the gutter—and from the easy slide into petty, then more serious crime—which he could not break.
The vow was that he would never take advantage of what he and Hettie shared. Never pressure her for more. He wanted and needed her love. It was a glittering prize that shimmered constantly in his imagination. But to pursue it so soon after the death of Piers Miller was to insult his mentor’s memory and exploit Hettie’s confused emotions and her grief at the loss of her husband. She’d loved Piers deeply, and still
And not of her dead husband. Of someone all too living.
Frowning slightly, she watched as Darryl rose smoothly to his feet and held out his arm to her, “Lady Henrietta,” he said, his voice formal yet velvety, “May I escort you to dinner?”
Hettie had to smile back at him. He was such a gem. “Of course, Signor di Angeli, I’d be honored.”
And with that she stood up, took his arm, and let herself be escorted to the dining room.
Starr fell back against the mat, his breathing heavy and his near-naked body streaming with sweat. How many sit-ups had he done? He couldn’t remember. He only knew that no amount of hard physical exercise could purge his mind this time.
He lay there for a moment, centering himself, then rose quickly and reached for the bottle of mineral water on the tallboy. Drinking deep, he attempted to focus on his body and gauge his levels of energy and fitness, but all he could really think about was Hettie and what she might be doing with—and saying to—the Italian.
“You’re jealous, man,” he whispered to himself, then smiled grimly at the enormity of the understatement. He’d seen the way his adored Hettie had looked at di Angeli. And while he’d told himself ferociously that it was not his place to even have an opinion on the matter, he couldn’t suppress the gouging surge of sexual envy he experienced each time he’d seen Hettie cast an interested glance at her new houseguest.
Don’t be a bloody fool! He took another long drag at the water bottle, then put it aside and peeled off the thin, perspiration-soaked jersey trunks he’d been working out in.
In his tiny bathroom, he spun the showerhead and bared his teeth as he stepped beneath the punishing, brutally ice-cold flow. The water should have dowsed his turbulent emotions and calmed his wayward body, as it so often had before when his longing for Hettie had become unmanageable. But this time the regime was ineffective. His mind and his heart whirled, and despite the confusion of his thoughts and the freezing shower, his cock grew rigid.
“Fuck!” he growled, then spun the dial to a more comfortable temperature. Why suffer when the prescription wasn’t working? Why suffer any more than he already was? Than he always did.
In his fantasy, the woman he loved, the woman he would do anything for, endure anything for, give anything for, stepped into the cubicle and drew close to him. The now-warm water streamed over her lush but slender body and plastered her lovely mane of golden hair against her skull. Starr groaned like a martyr in torment as a hand closed around his penis. In his dream it was her hand but in reality it was his own.
He had loved Henrietta Miller from the instant he’d first set eyes on her, but if he were to remain an honorable man and worthy of the trust that Piers Miller had placed in him, he could never claim her. He was sworn to protect Hettie and to take care of her—even service her libido when it was required of him—but no more than that. He was her servant and she was his mistress. He knew that his rigid adherence to his role might seem archaic in the twenty-first century, but he’d made a pledge to himself. A pledge in honor of the man who had raised him from the gutter—and from the easy slide into petty, then more serious crime—which he could not break.
The vow was that he would never take advantage of what he and Hettie shared. Never pressure her for more. He wanted and needed her love. It was a glittering prize that shimmered constantly in his imagination. But to pursue it so soon after the death of Piers Miller was to insult his mentor’s memory and exploit Hettie’s confused emotions and her grief at the loss of her husband. She’d loved Piers deeply, and still
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