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Authors: Portia Da Costa
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loved him. She’d been faithful to him emotionally, even while she’d shared her body with Starr. And that was why he could not claim her.
And yet there was a primitive, territorial part of him that raged to make her his in every way. Heart and soul as well as body. His ancient brain, where instinct held sway, told him that she was his woman and he must imprint himself on every part of her.
I am not a fucking caveman!
He still felt guilt at giving in to his needs the other night. But the urge to show her some physical tenderness after the long months of their mutual celibacy had become too great. And it had finally driven him back to her bed.
His fingers stilled for a moment on his cock at the recollection. He’d barely been able to contain the bittersweet joy he’d experienced when she’d welcomed him. He’d hidden it scrupulously, but as he’d entered her exquisite body, his heart had been singing.
Yes, he was proud of his iron self-discipline, and it never failed him. He couldn’t allow it to. Except at private moments like these, when there was nobody but himself and his aching cock to witness his internal agony.
“Oh Hettie, I love you!”
His voice was a ragged, falling cry of longing as her phantom hand rode smoothly back and forth along his engorged rod. His heart twisted as he imagined—remembered—her delicate yet intoxicating touch on his flesh and the way she always and unerringly found the sweetest and most responsive spots. Time after time he’d had to pry her warm fingers off him for fear that he might come in selfishness and not pleasure her at the same time. He’d made yet another oath to himself that his agenda in bed would always be to focus solely on her experience, her satisfaction and her orgasms, even at the expense of his own. If he came in the process, it was a treasured by-product, not the object of the exercise.
But here in this secret zone where wishes could be real, he allowed himself what he denied elsewhere. Here in his imagination, his naked, adorable mistress sank to her knees beneath the cascading water and took his heavy flesh between her moist, caressing lips. Here, it was all right to give in to his every desire and urge and grasp her head, fingers digging into her sensuously coiling hair as he thrust unrestrainedly into the welcoming heat and wetness of her mouth. Here, it was all right to fuck that beautiful mouth, possess that loving, accommodating cavern and then empty his silky load of semen right down her throat.
“Oh Hettie,” he cried again, the words a sound of worship, of desperation and of resignation as his creamy tribute hit the shower wall and mingled with the water trickling down it.
“Doesn’t Signor Starr dine with you?” Darryl asked suddenly over coffee. He’d asked questions. Lots of questions. But Hettie had been both charmed and amused by the subtle way he’d brought her out of herself and finessed information from her. She’d ended up telling him about most of her life, up to and including her marriage to Piers, and was touched by his gentle condolences.
And she didn’t mind telling him things. After all, his well of experience had been cruelly emptied. The only way he could find out about life and the world was to hear what’d happened to others.
But this latest question troubled her. As a lot of things about her relationship with Starr did. More and more. Since Piers’ death, the dining arrangements had become an issue. She wanted the handsome blond to eat with her. He had insisted—with immaculate but unshakeable politeness—that it was inappropriate and he’d continue to eat alone in his room or in the kitchen.
“He’s just ‘Starr’, and no, he doesn’t.” She shrugged, wondering for perhaps the hundredth time since they’d sat down just what exactly her cool-eyed protector was doing all this time. “But it’s not for want of me asking him.” She took a sip of her Amaretto, and savored its fiery almond bite,
And yet there was a primitive, territorial part of him that raged to make her his in every way. Heart and soul as well as body. His ancient brain, where instinct held sway, told him that she was his woman and he must imprint himself on every part of her.
I am not a fucking caveman!
He still felt guilt at giving in to his needs the other night. But the urge to show her some physical tenderness after the long months of their mutual celibacy had become too great. And it had finally driven him back to her bed.
His fingers stilled for a moment on his cock at the recollection. He’d barely been able to contain the bittersweet joy he’d experienced when she’d welcomed him. He’d hidden it scrupulously, but as he’d entered her exquisite body, his heart had been singing.
Yes, he was proud of his iron self-discipline, and it never failed him. He couldn’t allow it to. Except at private moments like these, when there was nobody but himself and his aching cock to witness his internal agony.
“Oh Hettie, I love you!”
His voice was a ragged, falling cry of longing as her phantom hand rode smoothly back and forth along his engorged rod. His heart twisted as he imagined—remembered—her delicate yet intoxicating touch on his flesh and the way she always and unerringly found the sweetest and most responsive spots. Time after time he’d had to pry her warm fingers off him for fear that he might come in selfishness and not pleasure her at the same time. He’d made yet another oath to himself that his agenda in bed would always be to focus solely on her experience, her satisfaction and her orgasms, even at the expense of his own. If he came in the process, it was a treasured by-product, not the object of the exercise.
But here in this secret zone where wishes could be real, he allowed himself what he denied elsewhere. Here in his imagination, his naked, adorable mistress sank to her knees beneath the cascading water and took his heavy flesh between her moist, caressing lips. Here, it was all right to give in to his every desire and urge and grasp her head, fingers digging into her sensuously coiling hair as he thrust unrestrainedly into the welcoming heat and wetness of her mouth. Here, it was all right to fuck that beautiful mouth, possess that loving, accommodating cavern and then empty his silky load of semen right down her throat.
“Oh Hettie,” he cried again, the words a sound of worship, of desperation and of resignation as his creamy tribute hit the shower wall and mingled with the water trickling down it.
“Doesn’t Signor Starr dine with you?” Darryl asked suddenly over coffee. He’d asked questions. Lots of questions. But Hettie had been both charmed and amused by the subtle way he’d brought her out of herself and finessed information from her. She’d ended up telling him about most of her life, up to and including her marriage to Piers, and was touched by his gentle condolences.
And she didn’t mind telling him things. After all, his well of experience had been cruelly emptied. The only way he could find out about life and the world was to hear what’d happened to others.
But this latest question troubled her. As a lot of things about her relationship with Starr did. More and more. Since Piers’ death, the dining arrangements had become an issue. She wanted the handsome blond to eat with her. He had insisted—with immaculate but unshakeable politeness—that it was inappropriate and he’d continue to eat alone in his room or in the kitchen.
“He’s just ‘Starr’, and no, he doesn’t.” She shrugged, wondering for perhaps the hundredth time since they’d sat down just what exactly her cool-eyed protector was doing all this time. “But it’s not for want of me asking him.” She took a sip of her Amaretto, and savored its fiery almond bite,
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