Restored to Love by Anna Rockwell Page B

‘Isn’t this what the Mistress requested this night just gone? And didn’t her invisible lover reject her resoundly on hearing of her wishes?’
    Daniel, less brawny, but with an athlete’s wiry physique, tilted his head slightly to one side. ‘And did we not both agree this sunrise not to discuss this matter in front of her? Sometimes I think it would be best if your mouth kept itself to a simple diet of manhoods and doxies.’
    Gillian looked at the two of them in disbelief. ‘This is about Malcolm and that stupid fantasy I told him about the other night? Oh, now it starts making sense!’ She snatched her jeans and pumps up off the floor, and without stopping to put them back on, stormed out of the library almost in tears.
    Marcus Quiltillus, having re-dressed himself instantly in a flowing Empirical toga, glared out of the dirty window. ‘I swear to the Gods that the Spartans were right. Women are for procreation, and men are for pleasure!’
    Daniel, still naked, walked up behind him and put his chin on Marcus’s shoulder. ‘You shouldn’t have told her about our eavesdropping. She is still obviously fragile and in need of some comfort before we can move on. Give her time for her pain to ebb. Time is something we still have on our side, after all.’
    Marcus sighed. ‘I suppose you are, as usual, right.’
    Daniel grinned. ‘Yes, as usual, I am. Now, I feel it’s time for some pleasure.’ Marcus felt Daniel’s hand slide up his thigh and over his hip, bringing the toga up with it.
    For three days, Gillian retreated into a world of chocolate, white wine and self-loathing. Drifting from one possible repair to another, she wandered around Dashambly Hall until, running out of sympathy, Mrs Newly had reminded her she was now well behind with her restoration projects.
    She had entered the library several times in her aimless travels, though she had not heard the whispering again. The dusty floor still showed only her own footprints, and although she’d tried to blot out all thoughts of the fantasy she’d had, it was easier said than done.
    Whenever she closed her eyes, she found her memories were strong and sensual enough to get her aroused, and more than a little wet. Though any time she felt she was on the verge of coming, she’d remember what Malcolm had said, which brought her painfully back down to earth.
    It had happened on the previous Saturday evening. Alone, with Malcolm still away working on a major contract, she had filled the old Victorian enamel bathtub, dropped in several fizzy bombs, lit a few candles, then settled down into the glorious, fragrant water before calling him on her iPhone.
    When the video link had sprung to life she’d been a little disappointed to see he was already lying naked on the hotel bed, and in the back of her mind had wondered why she’d made the effort, if he himself so obviously couldn’t be bothered to wait for her. Still, not wanting to be a killjoy, she’d kept quiet about it.
    He had propped his phone up on the bedside cabinet to allow her to watch as he’d grasped himself and started working his fist up and down the shaft of his cock. Then she’d started talking dirty to him, encouraging him on while her other hand slipped beneath the water.
    She stroked at herself with a fingertip at first, softly and gently across her sensitive labia. Then it slid between her lips and brushed up against her engorged clitoris. The bathwater made it slippery, and she’d massaged it by squeezing it between her thumb and forefinger – letting it almost slip free before pushing back down on it again.
    Her breathing had become excited and rapid, and she had mentally tuned the physical Malcolm out, replacing him with the beautiful fantasy that had been turning her on so much recently. Then his cries had broken through her own imagination and she’d been treated – to use the