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“Well, no.”
“Good, then. Now, about Michael leaving Balliol.”
Teddy held up his hands for silence. Few people could stop Alexia De Vere midsentence, but her husband was one of them. “Absolutely not,” he said firmly. “We are not talking about either of the children anymore tonight. This was supposed to be your night. Let’s go to bed and you can tell me everything about your first day in delicious, minute detail. Home Secretary.” He gave her bottom a playful squeeze.
Alexia laughed. “All right. Bed it is.”
Not for the first time, she thanked her lucky stars that she had such a wonderful, supportive husband.
If only I didn’t have to lie to him.
The CCTV footage was poor quality. But it wasn’t blank.
Tomorrow she would show the tape to Edward Manning.
Edward would know what to do.
Chapter Ten
Sir Edward Manning was excited.
“Put your face on the table, you little bitch.”
Having sex in the House of Lords always turned him on. There was something so deliciously illicit about having his way with the pliable, young serving staff in such an ancient, august setting. Tonight’s twenty-year-old Romanian had been particularly accommodating, locking the door and stripping off to order as soon as the dinner was finished and the dull Chinese diplomatic party had returned to the embassy.
“Spread your legs.”
Fine Waterford crystal wine goblets etched with House of Lords shook perilously on the table as it rocked back and forth. Sir Edward Manning, his trousers around his ankles but his black tie still perfect, thrust harder and faster till wet patches appeared through his starched dress shirt.
“Not so rough, Edward, please! It hurts.”
“ ‘Sir Edward’ to you, my dear. And I want it to hurt. That’s the whole point.”
Pushing the young Romanian farther onto the table, Edward hoisted himself up onto the polished wood, squatting over his lover like a toad as he forced himself inside the deliciously soft, twent
y-year-old body. Sir Edward Manning didn’t pine for his own youth, but he still appreciated the delights of youthful flesh, especially when it was so freely offered. A crystal goblet fell and shattered loudly on the parquet floor. Then another. Sir Edward quickened his pace. It was one in the morning and the door was locked, but they didn’t want to be disturbed.
At last, with a stifled cry of pleasure, he came, liberally spilling semen all over the Romanian’s smooth bare buttocks before sliding off onto the floor. Pulling up his trousers and straightening his hair, he admired his conquest, still spread-eagled on the table.
“Don’t worry about sweeping up the mess, Sergei. The stewards will do it in the morning.”
Sergei Milescu turned and looked up at the old man he’d just serviced. Sergei Milescu hated Sir Edward Manning with a burning, murderous intensity. But he hated himself more for the huge erection between his legs. The things the Englishman did to him were disgusting and painful and shaming. But Sergei had come to enjoy them almost as much as his abuser did.
Not that he was with Sir Edward Manning for the sex. Manning was a powerful man with powerful contacts. He was also wealthy, wealthy beyond Sergei Milescu’s wildest dreams. One day Manning would pay for the humiliation he’d inflicted on Sergei over the last six months, for the bruises and tears to his body that would never fully heal.
“Come here.”
Sir Edward Manning stroked his hair, petting him like a dog, his bony, old man’s fingers tracing languid lines along Sergei’s smooth cheeks.
“You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”
Sergei nodded. “You know I did. But must it always be in here, where I work? Can’t we go to your place sometimes? I feel like such a . . .”
“Such a what?” Sir Edward purred, his hand reaching down for the boy’s rock-hard cock.
“You know what,” Sergei moaned. “A whore.”
“Ah, but my dear boy, that is the whole point of the matter. You are my little whore.”
