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Slowly, sounds came back to him, the smell of sweat and sex permeated his senses, and the stickiness of his cum coated his hand and shirt.
Son of a bitch!
Disgust wasn’t far behind as he yanked several tissues from the box he kept on his desk and cleaned himself up. He stood and refilled his tumbler with scotch.
The depths he’d sunk to, having a wank to videos of the woman staying in his house.
He was no better than his father.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING,Jameson sat at the dining room table and cradled a cup of hot tea in his hands. He kept his eyelids almost closed, the weak morning light beaming in through the windows too much for his splitting head to endure.
If this was his punishment for last night’s actions, so be it.
“Can I get you anything else, sir?” his housekeeper, Margery, asked.
Jameson sent an unsteady smile up at the woman who’d been with his family since he was a young boy. Although his mother had left Primrose Park years ago to move into an apartment at Kensington Palace, he’d be forever grateful to her for allowing Margery to remain here with him.
“This is fine,” he said, looking at the platters of fried eggs, sausages, bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes, and fried bread placed on the table in front of him and trying not to vomit. “It’s more than I usually eat, but there’s something to be said for variety.”
“I made a little extra for our guest.”
Alittleextra? There wasn’t much missing from a traditional English breakfast.
“I didn’t include blood pudding. She just arrived. Didn’t want to scare her off.”
He pressed the back of his hand to his lips. Thank God Margery hadn’t added that fare, though not because it might have appalled Duchess.
No, he’d handled that all by himself the day before.
“I have no idea what she likes,” he said, his lack of hospitality on display.
What did they eat in the States? He’d detected a slight southern accent. Wasn’t their cuisine culturally specific? Lots of carbs, like pancakes and pastries? Or did she live in Los Angeles? Maybe she’d want that god-awful avocado toast everyone seemed to rave about.
If his mother were here, she’d know what to do, but she was off on her annual trip to Monaco. And he was glad for it. The press had been relentless in dredging up the story of his father’s affair and subsequent death. The Palace had kept their word and provided protection for her, but that meant only that the photographers couldn’t physically touch her. It didn’t stop them from following her car when she left palace grounds or accompanying her in a throng when she went shopping, shouting shameful and embarrassing questions.
It wasn’t as if Jameson hadn’t been taught about entertainingcompany, but he’d never cared about his lack in that area, until now. Having a houseguest might not have been his choice, but that wasn’t Duchess’s fault. She’d shown up expecting quiet and privacy for two weeks. Instead, she’d walked into his self-flagellation over his unprecedented lust.
He looked at his housekeeper. “What would you suggest in this situation?”
She smiled. “How about I talk to her and find out what she likes?”
“That’s perfect. Thank you.”
Margery would take care of ensuring his guest’s comfort while he took care of his raging hangover and got himself under control. The next time he saw Duchess, he’d be levelheaded and composed.
Coolly distant but pleasant.
Not nauseous with a semi-stiffy anytime thoughts of the night before whispered across his brain.
“Good morning.”
Duchess’s husky voice caught him off guard, especially since he hadn’t anticipated hearing it for a while.
The last bite he took lodged in his throat and set up camp, causing him to choke.
Margery gasped and moments later took to battering his body.
The housekeeper had strong hands. Great for homemade bread. Not so much for his aching back.
