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My eyes held his as I fisted him tightly and lowered my head. I watched amusement turn into lust, turn into pleasure.
“You’ve gotten into me,” I murmured, licking the broad head of his shaft, slick with the evidence of his excitement. Salty like the Mediterranean. Like tears. I traced the slit with the tip of my tongue and heard a strangle moan surge out of him. His hands gripped the steering wheel hard enough to bend steel, his fingers flexing repeatedly. I took him down my throat, and watched his head fall back on the headrest, his eyes drunkenly flutter shut. I cupped and stroked and squeezed his sac, heavy and velvety and warm in my hand.
“Fuuuck me,” he mumbled, the words barely comprehensible.
I intend to, I thought. And went about doing just that.
We followed an endless gravel driveway that led to a late eighteenth century manor abutting Lake Geneva. The car hadn’t even come to a full stop and three very large and very intimidating men were already on the front steps. As soon as we parked, they began opening car doors, the trunk, unloading our bags. The bulge in their closely tailored black suits was easy enough to spot from a mile away. I glanced at Sebastian and caught the cautious look in his eyes, the heightened sense of awareness reinforcing his posture.
“My dear boy!” The jovial greeting caused both our heads to turn in the direction of the open doorway. Charles stood with his arms stretched out, looking like a character in The Great Gatsby. His white linen suit was without a wrinkle, the grin he wore infectious. Sebastian smiled back tenderly. Some of the concern that only moments ago was stamped on his features faded. “Come in, come in. Lunch will be ready in ten.”
Charles walked back into the house with us trailing close behind. Catching Sebastian’s attention, I mouthed ‘dear boy’ and raised an eyebrow indicating my delight at this. He shrugged, and the side of his mouth hooked up.
“I was expecting you half an hour ago.” Charles threw the remark over his shoulder.
“Yeah, we…uh––took in the scenery,” Sebastian answered.
Charles glanced directly at me and said, “And how was it?”
The second I caught the twinkle in his eyes I turned cherry red. Pursing my lips to stop from laughing, I said, “Majestic.”
The interior of the manor looked like a world class museum. Artwork worthy of the Hermitage, spanning from the fourteenth to the twenty first, covered the aged stucco walls. Furniture that looked too precious to sit on crowded every room. Fabrics in jewel tones, emerald green to royal blue, from the most luxurious mills in northern Italy, covered every chair and sofa. I was afraid to touch anything.
“Your home is amazing,” I said as we walked from room to room, looking around with an awed expression I couldn’t have concealed even if I wanted to.
“My dear girl, this is just the summer house. My home is in England.”
Shocked, my eyes slammed into Sebastian’s while a small smile played on his sensual lips.
Lunch was served on the veranda. The table was adorned with heirloom quality crystal and silverware complete with food you could only find at a Michelin rated restaurant. Bordering the lake, the patio was trimmed by stone balustrades topped with vases overflowing with shocking pink geraniums and purple petunias.
It was a scene out of a movie and I, the spectator. That’s how I felt most of the time anyway. I cupped my fingers over my eyes and looked out at the horizon, the water as smooth as glass, the sun blinding. One of the butlers unspooled the candy-striped awning over the table, shielding us from the steady glare.
“Any news on the foundation?” Charles inquired. The butler brought him a bottle of wine, which Charles inspected before giving him a curt nod. Charles tasted it and gave him the green light to pour.
A strange melancholy washed over me. Here we sat, exchanging pleasantries while overlooking a small slice of heaven, when in just a short period of time everything would change.
I turned to watch my husband. He could never hide anything from me and this moment was no different. Even though he wore a smile, even though his countenance was relaxed, all I saw was sorrow.
“The girls school in Zambia is finally done, thanks in part to George Bush. Bono brought him in and we got the additional funding needed when it ran over budget.
“Bono and Bush. What strange bedfellows,” Charles remarked with a saucy grin.
“Effective ones,” Sebastian countered.
“I’m traveling there at the end of October. I’ll swing by and take a look.”
“Do you go there often?” I asked Charles.
“Not as much as I used to when Hen, Sebastian’s father, was around,” he responded, his features swamped by an unambiguous longing. “Africa––” he continued, looking out over the postcard scenery. “She’s a seductive mistress.”
