Falling for Sir

by Cat Kelly

  "Yeah, she is that," laughed Mike. "Never know what she'll do next." And he winked at Marianne. When he started whistling the Bond theme, she was forced to kick him under the table.

  The snow started falling at some point during the meal and no one noticed until the kids ran outside and came back in coated in a fat layer of white.

  "We should make a move," she exclaimed.

  At once Veronica piped up, blowing a puff of smoke. "You can use the attic room. Take clean sheets from the closet in my room."

  Jack looked at Marianne and hurriedly agreed with her. "I think we'd better get back, Mrs. Miller. Thank you for the offer, but I need to be back in the city."

  She was intensely grateful that he didn't drag out the visit just to torment her.

  "It's Shelton," Veronica corrected him. "I never took my husband's name."

  Marianne glared at the woman standing between them and the door, every ounce of that old hatred coming back in a flash—the hurt she'd witnessed taking physical shape as it crumpled her father's face a little further whenever Veronica made a similar comment in public. "You mean, you never took my dad's name," she said, the words bubbling out of her on a wave of anger.

  Veronica looked at her blankly and took another drag on her cigarette. "That's what I just said."

  "No, it isn't. You referred to him as your husband." She would have said more but stopped herself, curling her tongue against the roof of her mouth.

  "Take some pie back with you," her sister-in-law chirped, trying to ease the tension.

  Marianne shook her head, but Jack, still playing the part of honored guest, accepted a Tupperware container with two large slices of pumpkin pie. They made their way out into the fast falling snow and got into his car.

  "You really don't like your mother too much, do you," he observed drily, clicking his seatbelt.

  "She's not my mother. She's Veronica." Just like she wasn't a wife.

  "Where are your gloves?"

  She realized she'd been blowing on her fingers to warm them up. "Oops, I left them behind."

  "I'll go get them."

  "No." She put her hand on his arm. "Don't worry about it. I just want to go. The duty visit is over for another year. Her coins just ran out in the meter."

  He looked at her for a long moment, the windscreen wipers swishing and the heater fan whirring softly. Then he said, "Whatever happened in the past, leave it there. You've got your whole future ahead of you—a very bright one. Don't let her, or anything, drag you down."

  Suddenly she wanted to cry. "I'm not," she snapped.

  Jack reached across, pushed back her woolly hat and kissed her forehead. "You miss your dad. It's tough, I know."

  Marianne caught her breath. "He wasn't my dad."

  "What?"

  She licked her lips where they felt dry and cracked in the cold weather. "The man I called my dad...wasn't. It was his brother, my Uncle Stan."

  Jack kept his hands around her face, warming it. "How do you know?"

  "She told me once when she was drunk. No one else knew. She burdened me with that information, knowing that every time he told me he loved me and how proud he was of me, I would hear her voice whispering the truth in my ear. I couldn't tell him. It would have broken his heart. I was the only thing he had. So I kept that secret festering inside me for years. We both lied to him, she and I."

  Slowly his hands drifted down to find hers, but she pulled them away, clasping her fingers in her lap.

  "At his funeral she walked up to me and said, Well, now he knows, doesn't he?" She'd never told anyone else all that and unleashing it now to Jack was like taking off a tight belt, kicking off some uncomfortable shoes and falling into a soft chair.

  He didn't speak. Didn't try any words of sympathy. Instead he turned the car in the snow and they headed off down the long driveway, leaving the dilapidated farmhouse in his rearview mirror.

  Marianne felt a heaviness in her heart and wondered if, with all the talk of death, he was thinking about his wife. "I hate fucking pumpkin pie," she sputtered. "And I hate fucking Thanksgiving."

  He gave her a double take and then laughed gently. "Me too."

  How lucky that she'd left her gloves behind, because it gave her a perfect excuse to tuck her hands under his arm and hitch a little closer.

  "But I have to say," he added, "I'm enjoying it this year."

  She wriggled her cold toes in her boots, waiting for the hot air to thaw them out. '"How do you usually spend the day?"

  "Working."

  "I've distracted you then."

  "Yes," he sighed. "Very much."

  Unable to tell whether that was good or bad—afraid it might be the latter, she stayed silent and stared at the snowy scenery as they crawled along the unplowed road.

  After a few minutes and several more turns, she suddenly began to realize they were not going the right way. "Jack! You missed the exit for 787."

  "No, I didn't."

  "Yes, you did! Oh my god, we're going to be stranded out here in a snow drift."

  When she finally took her eyes off the snowy road, he was smiling and smug.

  Her pulse skipped. "Where are you taking me, Marchetti?"

  "You'll find out."

  They came to a gate and passed through to a large, sprawling white building with pillars and a grand double door. It was an exclusive hotel she'd driven by in the past and gazed at with longing. "You won't get a room," she warned.

  His lips curved. "I already did."

  Chapter Fifteen

  A Good Slave is Hard to Find

  Jack had Mrs. B make the reservation two days ago. If Marianne didn't accept his offer to drive her to Vermont he'd be stuck, of course, but he took the chance.

  They had a large suite on the second floor, overlooking a horse paddock and a pond. It was that or a golf course and, as Mr. B had said, Marianne Miller seemed to be the sort that would appreciate a more natural view.

  "I've driven by this place before, but never stayed," she exclaimed, wide-eyed. "Couldn't afford it."

  There was a silver ice bucket on a fancy stand and two bottles of champagne cooling.

  "Two bottles? Trying to get me smashed?"

  He slipped out of his jacket. "Do I need to?"

  "No." Marianne took a running leap onto the large bed. "Pour, Marchetti."

  At first he thought she was referring to him as "Poor, Marchetti." But then she held out a champagne flute. So he poured. "Tonight, Ms. Miller, I'll be your slave."

  "What can you mean?" Her eyes were two big, dewy pools of lush green. He wanted to dive in.

  "Tonight, I'll be your sub."

  She licked her lips. "Submarine?" Her brows arched.

  Jack began unlacing her boots. "You know very well what I mean, Ms. Miller."

  "I think you mistake me for someone else. Hey, that tickles!"

  He tossed her boots to the floor and began kissing his way up her black, thigh-high stockings and under her skirt. Jack couldn't even express how much he loved that she always wore the sexiest panties and lace-topped stockings under her prim Victorian attire. Unwrapping her was like unwrapping a Christmas present. Other women didn't get that. They thought they had to let it all show, or else a man was too stupid to know where it was. But part of the pleasure was being the one who peeled away the layers. The one who found the treasure beneath.

  "Oh, I know what you're doing, Marchetti!" She exhaled with a giggle. "You think I'm that girl— Claudia. That's who you think I am."

  With her skirt wriggled up to her hips. He moved her panties aside with his teeth and nuzzled her soft, sweet pussy. He wanted to make love to her for the rest of his life, to hold her and protect her and make her smile. To make her scream when necessary. "Claudia can't hide from her Sir," he murmured, kissing her on those pink, excitable lips. Above him he heard her sigh happily and then she spread her thighs, making room for him to lie on his stomach between her legs. "Enjoy your champagne, sweetheart," he whispered, "And I'll e
njoy mine."

  * * * *

  She lay back in the tub of bubbles and let him bathe her with his lovely hands, as if he truly was a slave and she some Roman empress. He was very diligent, very thorough, even washing between her toes.

  Through half closed eyes she dreamily surveyed the man kneeling beside the large oval bath. He was totally naked, his skin gleaming slightly from the heat that had built up in the bathroom. Every lean muscle was accentuated every hard plane and taut tendon. She couldn't imagine him working out in a gym, but evidently he kept in shape. Yet he'd never made any comment about her figure being plump and needing a little tone up. Instead he worshipped her with his hands, his eyes, his lips, his cock. Every part of him.

  "You're a very good slave," she purred, stretching in the water, holding her arms up to watch the bubbles slide down her skin.

  "Thank you, mistress," he muttered, his hand cupping her sex, his forefinger slipping inside her to gently tease her clit.

  "Did I say you could do that, slave?"

  He bowed his head. "No mistress."

  "Then why are you doing it?" She let her knees fall against the sides of the wide bath, opening herself for more exploration, even as her voice rose querulous.

  "I cannot resist, mistress," he replied huskily. "Please may I use another finger?"

  She closed her eyes as the tremors started. "No."

  "I cannot help myself," he whispered and she felt his breath on her cheek as he leaned closer and his finger moved inside her cunt. "I have to touch you, taste you, fuck you." His tongue brushed her cheek, licking up her perspiration. "When can I fuck you, mistress?"

  "Not yet," she managed tightly. "Take your finger out of me, slave. Wait until you have permission in future."

  He wriggled it one last time, causing an explosive shiver of orgasm that made her bang her knees on the tub. Then he obeyed her, sliding his finger out of her quaking pussy.

  Once she had her breath back, Marianne sat up, moving to the middle of the bath. "Now you may wash my hair. And don't get shampoo in my eyes."

  He grabbed a plastic cup from the mini-bar and came back to kneel beside the tub again. She had let out some of the water and now it barely covered her feet. Jack turned on the faucet, adjusted the temperature and, using the cup, began to wet her long hair. Marianne tipped her head back, eyes closed. The soft floral scent of the hotel shampoo filled the air and then she felt him rubbing it in with his firm, masterful fingers. She moaned, her entire body falling into a state of relaxation and contentment. Oh, he was damn good with those hands.

  "I might have to ask you to wash my hair more often."

  "Your every wish is my command, mistress."

  She opened one eye. "Are you a genie or a slave?"

  Jack laughed. "Both."

  Suddenly his soapy hand slid down to hold her breast. His palm and then his thumb passed over the erect nipple.

  "You're so beautiful, mistress. May I suck you here?"

  "What about my hair?"

  "I'll rinse it off, but first...please...I need this," he tweaked her nipple between the pads of his fingers, "in my mouth."

  Faking a sigh of irritation, Marianne leaned back, her palms resting on the bottom of the tub behind her. "Very well." She arched her spine, thrusting her bosom out and up. "You may."

  She heard his grunt of excitement and then felt his lips and tongue quickly close over the full mound she offered. He sucked in an alternating rhythm—one moment hard and slow, then quick and soft, his tongue flicking, like a butterfly's wing, over her throbbing nipple. It started that steady low hum in her belly again and renewed the heat in her cunt.

  "That's enough, slave," she gasped out.

  Again he was slow to obey, giving her nipple another sneaky tug, before he backed off. She opened her eyes and saw him staring at her naked body in that half-drained bath. His eyes were hot and hungry.

  Glancing down she saw he had one hand around his thick, tall cock and was slowly masturbating. Her pussy clenched, yearning to feel that length and breadth. His erection reached his navel as he knelt there at her side. The plum-like head was ripe and juicy.

  "Rinse me off, slave," she commanded, her voice deepened with need. "And then I want you to put that in my mouth."

  A vein stood out on his perspiring forehead. "I'll come in your throat if you do that to me now."

  "No you won't, boy," she snapped, getting into her stride. "You will spend only when I say you may—and where. Now...rinse my hair."

  He turned on the faucet again and began using the cup to rinse off the shampoo. She felt his hands trembling this time and to torment him a little more, she lifted her hands to her breasts and played with them, squeezing and bouncing them in her palms. The poor slave's partiality for her tits had been quite evident from the first encounter. His breathing grew louder and faster until it was very nearly a panting sound.

  When the last of the shampoo had whirled away down the drain, she commanded that he give her his cock to suckle. He stood and raised one leg, resting his heel on the far side of the tub. She got on her knees, slicked her hair back and took just the head in her mouth. Above her he moaned. His hips swayed, rocking his groin. She nibbled and licked around the hole through which his glistening pre-cum already hovered.

  "Please, mistress," he growled. "I need to fuck you."

  Marianne gently pressed a kiss to his cockhead. "You've been a very good slave."

  "Yes," he hissed, gazing down at her, wild-eyed.

  A salty, silken thread of cum stuck to her lips and since she didn't lick it off, it trailed from his crest to her mouth until she spoke again. "What would you like to have, slave. Your mistress’s pussy or her ass?"

  "Both," he ground out, his prick arching as he thrust his hips toward her again. "At the same time." Then he added, "All of her."

  Sighing and stretching again, she told him to carry her to the bed. Jack wound her in a huge, soft, warm towel first and transported her back into the bedroom, where he laid her down and unwrapped her all over again.

  He fucked her the way a good slave should, filling her with devoted care for her happiness. And when he had his fingers sunk deep into her ass, his mouth on her breast and his splendid cock balls deep in her pussy, only then did she give him permission to come.

  But it wasn't the end.

  For hours they lay entwined on the bed, covered only by the towel. They talked and caressed and kissed. Mistress and slave gradually transformed back into Marianne and Jack. Then they made love once more, tenderly, sweetly and without words.

  * * * *

  He woke to a ringing sound that, for some reason, he mistook for a bell between boxing fights.

  "Phone." she murmured sleepily into his shoulder.

  And she was right. He sat up and reached for the room phone, wondering who on earth would be calling him at this hour and ready to ream them out.

  The hotel receptionist hastily put the call through. It was Alana's father. "Finally got through to you! About time. Do you know what you've done to my daughter?"

  Beside him, Marianne rolled over and pulled the sheets up over her head.

  "Dr. Shepherd, it's—"

  "Time you paid that girl some attention, that's what it is. She's in the Presbyterian. I suggest you visit her if you can tear yourself away."

  Still only half-awake, he muttered down the phone, "Alana's in hospital?"

  "Of course she's in damned hospital. She took a ton of pills last night. Apparently she tried to call you and you didn't answer."

  He groaned, glancing over at his IPhone, which was still turned off. "Shit! I mean...I'm sorry."

  "Just get your ass down here, Marchetti." He hung up. Shepherd liked to call the shots. Alana idolized her father, but she'd actually be far better off if she got out from under his control. Not that she ever listen to Jack's advice on that score.

  Now what?

  He looked down at the gorgeous, naked woman curled up beside him. All he wanted was to
stay there with her, wrap his arms around her and go back to sleep.

  But he couldn't help being worried about Alana. He'd known her too long to ignore this had happened. Evidently Dr. Shepherd wasn't going to give him any details and deliberately left him to imagine the worst. Why the fuck would Alana do something this stupid? He knew she was a drama queen, but this was beyond the pale, even for her. When he last spoke to her on the phone and made it clear that he had plans for Marianne, she'd seemed resigned to it. She wasn't thrilled, of course, but as his brother had said to him, she'd begun to see the light and realize that she'd hitched her wagon to the wrong horse. They'd said their goodbyes quite civilly.

  Then she made this desperate cry for help and Jack felt like a prize ass for not seeing it coming. Swinging his feet out of bed, he sat there, rubbing his head and softly cursing. If he didn't go back to New York today and visit her in hospital he'd be a bad friend and uncaring. He didn't want to be either of those things.

  "What is it?" Marianne was waking up again, yawning and sitting up.

  He sighed. "Bad news. I have to go back to New York."

  "Oh." She hugged her knees, looking crestfallen. And simply beautiful. "Already?"

  Jack knew he had to be honest. No good trying to hide anything for that only led to trouble and he wanted to do this right with Marianne. No mistakes. No cock-ups. "It's Alana. She took an overdose last night and she's in hospital."

  Her eyes flew wide open. "Oh my god. I'm so sorry."

  "Apparently she tried to reach out to me and my phone was off."

  Marianne nodded, sucking on her lips, her face pale. He waited, expecting a little anger at least, but she merely looked worried. Surely most women would make some terse comment about his divided loyalties and he'd expected to spend a while reassuring Marianne that his friendship with Alana was not a threat to her.

  It seemed as if she didn't require any explanation. "Is she going to be ok?"

  "I don't know. I hate cutting this short...our time together," he added tentatively.

  "Please don't worry about that." She managed a shy smile. "We had a great night."