Chapter 8 - Maddy
Eight
Maddy
The rest of the day crawls by at a snail’s pace. After hurrying back across the grounds, sneaking up to my attic bedroom to swap out my underwear and clean up a little, then slipping back to my abandoned vacuum cleaner… the world grinds to a halt.
Every second lasts a minute.
Each minute lasts an hour.
And each passing hour takes a whole damn year.
I’m trapped in this wing of the manor, dusting and vacuuming and polishing, my clumsy limbs going through the motions even as my mind replays our greenhouse encounter over and over again.
The soft tickle of Lord Westmore’s beard against my inner thighs. His hot breath wafting against my panties. The mischievous gleam in his eyes, the salt and pepper at his temples, the possessive way he gripped my ass as he tilted his magnificent head up and—
“‘Scuse me.”
Another housemaid scuttles past me through the dining room doorway, carrying a huge armful of folded linens.
She’s one of the day workers who walks to work across the land bridge every morning; blue eyed and red haired with a lilting local accent.
We’ve chatted before a couple of times, mostly about the grumpy cats that live in the manor or the weather outside, but we’re not close or anything.
The mainland girls tend to keep to their own.
A few weeks ago, that fact would have left me so hollow and lonely.
Cursing my own flighty personality, and the way it’s kept me from putting down roots and making real connections.
The way I’ll leave here soon too, drawn away by the constant call to adventure, only to start over somewhere else, always the lonely stranger.
But today, I smile briefly at the other girl, then turn back to polishing the mantelpiece, lost once again in daydreams of our reclusive employer. Maybe this is temporary, but it’s intoxicating while it lasts. And…
What is West doing right now?
Is he thinking of me too?
Did he enjoy what we did in the greenhouse as much as I did? Or did he come away frustrated, still wound too tight for comfort?
I know he was being all gentlemanly when he told me not to touch him back. Probably he could read the apprehension in my eyes, the panic at trying something else so new—but I was only scared because I wanted to be good at it. To make him feel as blissful as I felt.
I want to wrap that man around my little finger and keep him there. I want to be an instant sex goddess, and I want him so desperate for me that he can’t focus on a single page of his notes. I want to freaking ruin that man.
And hey, I’ve always been a quick learner. Smirking to myself, I run a cloth along the mantelpiece.
* * *
“Maddy,” West grits out, his deep voice almost pained. “Fuck. Maddy.”
My knees throb against the woven rug in his study, and my jaw aches from sucking on his lordship’s girthy shaft like a lollipop.
At the back of the room, a fire pops in the grate, while stars wink outside the half-fogged window.
The room is warm and quiet except for the rustle of fabric, West’s grunts and cut-off moans, and the little wet noises my lips make against his cock.
I’m really doing it! I’m kneeling between Lord Westmore’s spread thighs, the top of my head brushing against the underside of his desk whenever I come up to breathe. It’s a little dusty down here, and I make a mental note to clean in here tomorrow.
Of course, I didn’t need to crawl beneath West’s desk and hide like a dirty little secret, not when it’s well after midnight and the whole manor is sound asleep, but hey… sometimes you need to commit to the aesthetic.
“Your mouth,” West mutters, sliding his fingers through my hair, “Your fucking mouth, Maddy. You have no idea how good this feels.”
I hum and bob my head, slurping my way up and down a few thick inches. The noises I’m making would make me blush bright red normally, but in this moment, I can’t bring myself to care.
West doesn’t seem to mind, either. His dark eyes glint hungrily in the firelit study, and his fingertips scratch gently against my scalp, his hands cradling my head to his lap like he’s scared I might slip away.
Every now and then, his hips jerk up, his thigh muscles rock solid with tension, like he just can’t help thrusting up into the wet heat of my mouth.
A couple of times it makes me cough, but even then I don’t mind.
I love him like this. Jaw clenched, control frayed. Fixated on me with dilated pupils, his whole body taut with arousal as I lick and suck at his cock.
And what a cock. Jeez Louise.
Okay, admittedly, I have nothing to compare it to. No frame of reference beyond the internet, and everyone knows that is mostly fake anyway. No, I’m completely green, but from where I’m kneeling…
Lord Westmore has the best equipment a man could have.
It’s thick but not weird-thick, long but not too long.
A substantial weight against my tongue, and girthy enough that my fingers can’t fit all the way around.
There’s a prominent vein running up one side, and the skin is surprisingly silky as it slides up and down beneath my pumping hand.
The head is flushed red with arousal, and when I tongue the slit, West tips his head back and groans.
“And to think,” I say brightly, licking a stripe from root to tip. “You weren’t sure if you wanted to do this tonight.”
West chokes out a laugh, his chair creaking beneath his shifting weight. His thighs are so strong, bracketing my body. With his clothes on, you’d never know which is his bad leg—not until you saw him limp with his cane.
“Oh, I knew I wanted this.” West gathers a fistful of my hair and uses it to guide my head back down over his length.
It’s both gentle and domineering, and that combination makes my skin heat and my lower belly pulse with desire.
“Don’t doubt that for a second, darling.
I just didn’t want to rush you into anything. ”
My mouth is too full to reply, so I hum and bob my head in agreement.
It’s true. When I tapped on the study door just past midnight, bundled up again in my sweatpants, fisherman’s jumper and scarf, I found a perfect gentleman waiting for me at his desk.
West called me in, then offered to fetch me a drink or some other refreshment.
He seemed ready to spend the whole night talking like polite strangers.
Honestly, it felt kinda weird to be waited on by an aristocrat when I was dressed like a hobo snowman.
Still, when I threw myself at his chest, arms wrapping around his neck, West got the picture pretty fast. He kissed me back with the same dark, ravenous hunger that plagued me all day, stroking and squeezing at my body with shameless possession.
When I shoved him back toward the desk, he toppled into his chair happily enough.
And when I dropped down to crawl beneath the wooden table, the sound West made—like he’d been punched in the gut—made me smile wide down there in the dusty gloom. Before I even got his belt open, my mouth was already watering.
Now my older boss grips my hair in his fist, guiding my mouth up and down, and I can’t help but moan and dig my fingernails into his thighs. My scarf is strewn somewhere behind me on the rug, and I’m overheating in this knitted sweater. Burning up from the inside.
I want this man. Doesn’t he get it yet?
Bare skin against bare skin.
Our limbs entwined, chests pressed together.
The thick press of him inside me.
For the next few weeks, for however much longer I stay on this island, I want Lord Westmore plastered to my body non-stop. Want him first thing in the morning and last thing at night. Want him to mold my body to his, so that when I inevitably move on, I can still feel him—
“Am I hurting you?” West pulls me up off his shaft and cups my face, so tender that it steals what’s left of my breath. “Maddy? Are you crying?”
“No,” I lie, swiping at my eyes with my forearm. “It’s, like, a gag reflex thing. Or whatever. Don’t make it weird.”
“But—”
“West.” I grip him tight in one hand, squeezing a little too hard. He sucks in a deep breath, his chest shifting above me, but doesn’t react otherwise. “I want this. I really, really want this. Now are you gonna let me make you come or not?”
He frowns down at me, still unsure, so I play dirty. I lean forward, keeping steady eye contact, and rub the head slowly over my mouth like I’m putting on lipstick. The tip of my tongue darts out, but only enough to taste and tease. Not enough to get him all worked up again.
Another deep breath; another heave of his muscled chest. Does West know how good he looks in those shirts and waistcoats? Does he realize how they accentuate his broad shoulders and trim waist? Is he deliberately giving half the staff a vest fetish?
“Maddy,” West grits out. His eyes are still narrowed with concern, but his hand slides back into my hair. “Are you sure that—”
“Mm.”
My hum vibrates against his shaft as I take it deep into my mouth.
Hand pumping, tongue stroking, breathing steadily through my nose, I force myself to live in this moment once again: West’s woodsy scent, his salt-clean taste, the heat and vibrancy of him sprawled in his chair, every muscle tensed to lunge for me at any moment.
Why fret about the future when I can focus on this?
Why miss this man before I’ve even gone?
And why torture myself with impossible thoughts—of things like older, wealthy, experienced aristocrats falling for nobodies like me?
Sure, I’ve been a nomad for all my adult life, but the thing is, no one has ever much cared whether I stayed or left. It’s easy to pick up and keep moving when there’s nothing keeping you tethered. And it’s never bothered me before, but suddenly…
Suddenly I want someone to care.
Someone to keep me close, and worry about whether I’m safe. Someone who could feel like home.
But I have no idea how to inspire feelings like that in another person, let alone someone like West, so I settle for making him jerk and thrash and curse up at the ceiling.
It may be my first time, but hey, it’s not rocket science.
And when he taps my shoulder in warning, I shake my head slightly and ignore it, then drink down a hot gush of West’s desire for me.
My toes curl in my hiking socks, and my belly quivers with satisfaction.
I want it.
Every ounce that this man will give me.