One Final Night Read Free Page A

watched as I have been taken, especially not this crudely, with my rear end thrust out to be slammed against. I am still mystified as to why I found this public rudeness so utterly arousing. The maid obviously felt the same. She was rubbing herself with blurring speed and still that was not enough; her other hand had kept a grasp on the mop handle and she began feeding her fat, wet quim with the wooden pole.
    I would have sped toward a climax anyway but the sight of her just made it faster and bigger and noisier and messier. He was nearing his own finish and I wanted to feel the burning hit of it inside me, but instead he withdrew at the last moment. I could see a flash of him in the mirror, holding it, squeezing the thick girth like you might squeeze a hose to stop the gush. I wanted it on my back and rump, splashing the skin, but he let his spray go all over her, and she dropped the mop and held herself open to take it. I felt a little pang of envy that he had brought her in fully at the climax, but the electrifying vulgarity of his action quickly blanked it out. Anyway, perhaps he was just treating me with due respect.
    He stuffed a couple of notes into the maid’s hand, presumably to buy her discretion, but in essence he was simply making a whore of her. She didn’t seem to mind. Our exit was more controlled this time, him leading us down, giggling, out into the sunshine. That should have been that. I should have saved my heart some future pain. I should have better protected it, my most vital of organs, after the last time had left it so battered and shocked, but I didn’t. Instead, I held his hand even when he tried to release the grip and I told him I had to see him again; my second bold demand of him that hour.
    He took my number and even my name. If he hadn’t done the latter I’d never have bothered languishing around my apartment for the next few days, waiting for the phone to ring.

Chapter Two
    I hadn’t guessed that his knowledge of the internal layouts of Capetian châteaux came from owning one himself. Because of his position I was only ever going to be invited there a handful of times. At first, I presumed he would prefer the secrecy of my apartment, but this never seemed to be the case. In fact, he owned similar himself within a kilometre of mine, but we never went there. While I was to be kept away from certain obvious people at his grand home, others, both guests and staff, he was perfectly comfortable to have me around. As time went on, I realised he actually preferred us not to be alone, regardless of how intimate we wished to be.
    On my first visit, his man, Patrick, was there to help greet me with a glass of champagne on a salver. He told Patrick to “make sure my good friend always has anything she needs”. That’s how he always introduced me, as his “good friend”. It was never as his “lover” or his “mistress”, but then to some this epithet would become completely unnecessary. I told him the champagne was delicious. He was glad I approved; Salon is his favourite brand, the finest blanc de blanc to be had and made only in precious quantities. Two days later, three cases of it were delivered to my apartment. That is him all over. He wants to share good things. I’m sure he never called me “lover” because he thought that made me too much his possession, when he could never be mine in return.
    The frantic dirtiness of our first coupling was not repeated on the second or the third time, nor even the next few times thereafter. It would take me a while to learn the prerequisites for him to behave thus. Instead, our passion was gentle; a slow, attentive build toward a hard release. I like to think we were cultivating something like love between us. For my part, the glow inside that wouldn’t stop quickly made him essential, and dependency on another is surely one definition of love? After my last ruined relationship I was sure I needed something less superficial this time, something