Lady: Impossible (42 page)

‘You like that, huh?’

‘Yes. God, yes.’

‘Then admit you’re mine.’

I try to soothe his anger. ‘Ssh. Just enjoy this.’

Silenced but still frustrated, he punishes me with a relentless pace. I can hardly take it, with not even a second of recovery between each thrust. Gone is the patience he had before. My climax gathers in intensity, the tension coiled and burning as he fucks me with his hard cock. I gasp in the darkness and open my eyes wide with astonishment while I struggle for air.
 

‘I want you more than he does,’ he utters between guttural groans, the tone nothing short of accusatory.
 

I cry out, too overwhelmed for words or anything remotely articulate. I see stars, my head spinning and heart palpitating from the absolute pounding I’m taking. He’s probably right – maybe he does want me more – but this is all we can have. The unfairness makes me yearn for him even more intensely in this moment.
 

My release cuts through the guilt, and soon I’m swimming in a haze of unadulterated joy. Blair finally relents, collapsing onto me and nuzzling my neck as he returns to a slower pace, his movements enough to prolong my orgasm. I feel like I’m floating with him, soaring and then falling together.
 

I seem to land with a thud, desperately gasping for air as the high recedes. Blair was completely unforgiving. I almost resent him, as if his haste short-changed us both. We could’ve made it last had he not become so impatient. This is probably our last time.

He might actually know this, as he’s now very quiet, refusing to roll off of me and groaning in what I think is approval when I caress his back soothingly. I wipe the sweat from my brow, the cool-down likely to take a lot longer than the previous two occasions. If I hold him for a decent amount of time, he should be able to tell that I’m trying to comfort him, not pity him.
 

How can I let go of him when the mere thought of doing so makes me want to cry? I worry that if he’s not in my arms, he’s going to feel sorry for himself, hate himself for being in the circumstances he’s in. It’s awful that he has it so tough. If he wasn’t a servant, we wouldn’t be in this struggle.

Though my estimation of time has obviously been off tonight, my best guess is that it’s fifteen minutes before he speaks.
 

‘Can I still stay the night?’

‘Of course you can.’ It sounds like I’m telling him off for being ridiculous.

‘I wasn’t sure.’

He kisses my neck, then my cheek, before finding my lips and giving me a slow, gentle reminder of how tender he can be. It’s like an apology for being so dominant earlier. He lets me push my tongue past his lips, ceding control and allowing me to savour the sweet moment for as long as I like.

‘I’ll let you sleep now,’ he whispers when the kiss ends and he rolls off of me.
 

Seconds later, I feel the covers being replaced. He’s tucking me in.
 

It kills me that he’s looking after me like this. At first, I want him to keep his distance, to stay on his side of the bed. But the more I realise this is supposed to be our last time together, the more I think it cruel to be so close yet so far away.

I fall asleep in his arms, convinced that we’re an irresistible but nonetheless foolish mistake.

***

I’m woken up by the sound of my phone ringing. Instinct tells me to reach for it straight away, but the unfamiliar feeling of waking up in a man’s arms stops me short.
 

Blair. He’s naked. I’m naked. We’re snuggling, our legs tangled up and his groin pressed against me. It’s been a long time since I felt this safe, this wanted. If it wasn’t for the infernal racket of my phone ringing, the experience would be pretty much perfect.

Blair stirs with a groan. ‘Don’t answer that.’

‘What time is it?’ I open my eyes and make a quick judgement based on the amount of light creeping through the slight gap in the curtains – a scientific method if there ever was one – and conclude that it is actually morning.

The phone continues to ring. It’s probably my conscience calling. Or the family decorator with a quote for a new set of curtains.

‘Not time to get up, that’s for sure.’

By the time I reach over, the person calling has already hung up. I wait a little longer and surmise that no voice message has been left.
 

‘I should call them back,’ I say, rubbing my eyes.
 

‘No.’ Next thing I know, his hand is on my breast and he’s kissing my shoulder. ‘How about round two instead?’

I could, but at the same time, I can’t. This is the morning after. I’m going to have to shake him off and he’s going to hate me, and I’m going to hate me too. It’s easy when you’re in the dark and you don’t have to immediately deal with everything else that’s going on. It’s so much harder when it’s impossible to run away from the fact that a situation is royally fucked.

‘I can’t.’

He persists, not quite getting the seriousness of my protest. ‘Aw, come on. I’ll do all the work. Promise.’

My phone beeps with a text message.

I frantically reach for my phone. If I can deflect for a few seconds more, I might just get the courage to tell Blair we can’t do this. We’ll never amount to anything beyond Lady and butler, and it’s not healthy to be so caught up in each other. I’m not supposed to miss him when we’re not together, yet at any given moment, I’m wondering about him, obsessing over him. And he’s demanding exclusivity already.
 

We’re mad about one another. It has to end, otherwise the next time I’m held by a man, all I’m going to think of is how much I miss Blair.
 

I pick up the phone and read the text, not even bothering to cover myself when I sit up:

Morning, Millie! You must be sleeping. Bad news – disaster at work, so this business trip is being extended. Good news – I’m planning a trip for the two of us. How does Dubai next weekend sound? I’ll call you after work to discuss.

Fuck. I missed an eight o’clock call from Oliver because I’m in bed with my butler.
 

Oliver needs to rearrange. And rearranging has apparently resulted in a weekend away to Dubai.
 

‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.’

I turn my head to see that Blair has sat up and read the message over my shoulder. The expression on his face is one I can only describe as poisonous.
 

‘I’m sorry, Blair.’
 

‘Sorry your gentleman caller is so minted that he’s taking you to Dubai?’ He runs a hand through his hair, tugging at its ends. ‘Fuck.’

He turns away and shrugs me off when I touch his shoulder, obviously not interested in a deep and meaningful conversation. The next victims of his rage are the covers, which get thrown off unceremoniously. Scrounging around for his clothes, he swears again and again, each word making my heart ache to the point of pain.

‘I haven’t spoken to him about it yet,’ I say, attempting to calm him down.

‘What’s the use in talking? He’s not planning a trip so he can
talk
to you. It’s fine, Millie. I know my place. I’m just an errand boy.’

‘No, you’re not.’

‘Fine. How about your dirty little secret?’ He takes a deep breath and exhales, as if he’s able to purge the bitterness that way. ‘I deserve this. I asked for what I couldn’t have.’

I watch helplessly as pulls his t-shirt over his head, his fingers shaking when he reaches for his trousers. I have to wring my own hands so I don’t reach over to put my hand on his cheek in a gesture of comfort.

I shuffle towards him anyway. ‘Please –’

‘I’ll be back with your breakfast in twenty minutes.’

I could strangle him for wanting to return to duty. ‘Don’t worry about that. It’s not important. I’m worried about
you
.’

Again, he ignores me, jumping off the bed when he’s fully dressed. He even picks up my discarded clothing on the way to the door.
 

‘I’ll wash these, too.’

I hop off the bed and wrap a sheet around me, racing after him as he darts out of the door and heads to the stairs.
 

‘Blair!’

‘Don’t follow me.’
 

His command echoes in my ears. I make it halfway down the first flight before I realise I shouldn’t run after him if he really needs space. Nothing I say will make him feel any better – it’ll just sound hollow and cruel. I welcome him into my bed one minute, accepting his advances, and the next morning I’m back to being courted by my suitor.

Only once does Blair look up from the stairs below, and that’s when the tears start pricking my eyes.

Tears are unacceptable. Tears are for sorrow and grief, for happiness and elation. They’re not for selfish women and their mistakes. I don’t need to cry. I need to fix this.

Chapter 21:

The truth is I’m at a loss as to how to fix this.
 

It’s been hours and hours since Blair left the house. He bolted straight after breakfast, telling me in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t returning to the house until he’d calmed down, and that he was exercising his legal right to take a sick day. Considering that he packed a rucksack and turned his phone off, he could be gone until my mother gets back, which would be Sunday at the earliest.

I understand that he needs space. He’s angry. But the more I think about it, the more I feel like I can’t promise him anything. I’m obviously attracted to him – that’s undeniable. However, our attraction can’t amount to anything more than casual sex and witty conversations held in secret and, ultimately, that’s not what I want. I want someone who I can be with permanently. Flings are for the young with nothing better to do, or the middle-aged under the guise of yet another life crisis. Blair deserves more than to be hidden away like a dirty little secret.
 

Of course, that’s probably the key reason he’s so infuriated. If he wasn’t my employee, he’d be free to chase me openly. If he had money, I’d tell Polly that I’m already attracted to someone who can take care of me, and my family.
 

He works so hard and takes care of his family, after all. But Lady Luck screwed him over, and now he gets to watch as I’m courted by someone who works just as hard, but was given a better deal.

It may be fatalistic of me to think this way, but maybe leaving things be is the best course of action. It’s a dose of reality. I’ve slept with him three times in six weeks… I can’t continue this fling and expect good things to come of it. Oliver wants to take me away for the weekend so, as much as I hate seeing Blair this upset, perhaps it’s the proverbial plaster that needs to be ripped off.

Some plaster. It’s currently feeling like a thousand Brazilian waxes at once. I hug myself as I circle the front garden for the umpteenth time, the overcast sky reflecting my gloomy mood. Mrs Skene from next door has already checked on me twice, probably thinking I’m a madwoman because of the way I’ve been pacing around in my pyjamas and glancing at the front gate like I’m expecting someone. I just want Blair to come back so I can say I’m sorry again. I am sorry. I wish I could be with him, but I can’t.

I sigh as I check my phone. No new messages. I’ve heard from Abby, who was excited about Dubai, and Mother, who said that the valuation was ‘routine yet complex’. But there have been no replies from Blair. And although it’s almost seven in Berlin, there’s been no word from Oliver either, meaning he’s probably still too tied up with work to discuss Dubai. Not that I can really complain about the latter. I suppose it’s fair that everything goes according to his schedule – he’s the one paying for the trip.

I think I’m just going to sit here on the grass next to this bird fountain and wait. Wait and wonder about other subjects, like how the valuation at the estate went, whether my parents are tolerating each other at the moment and whether Al is roaming around the countryside, laughing at all the problems he left behind.

In my depressed state, it’s hardly surprising that I don’t quite believe my eyes when I see two people step out of a silver Mercedes and approach the gate. And, in my anguished state, it’s hardly surprising that I’m not terribly enthused when I recognise them as the marchioness and Eliza. This is not what I need right now. I wonder if Mrs Skene called them. If she did, then I need to revise the emergency contact list we leave for our neighbours. Cross off ‘Marchioness of Beresford’ and replace with ‘Graham Norton’ or ‘Bill Bailey’ – someone who will make me laugh in times of trouble. Heck, why not skip the comedians altogether and go for the jokes themselves: Peter Andre, anyone from Big Brother, all football WAGs, Lauren Pope, Camilla Parker-Bowles… the list goes on.
 

The clip-clopping of their heels disturbs my thoughts and I look up to see that the marchioness is waving at me. The odds of successfully pretending that I’ve developed glaucoma and can’t see properly are probably slim to none – I knew I should’ve walked into a table at the fundraiser. I really should try and think ahead.

I get up and skip over to the gate. If there’s ever a sign of hysteria, skipping barefoot while pyjama-clad in a London front garden is one of them. Eliza isn’t even bothering to hide her concern, reaching her arm through the gate as if she’s trying to save me from the clutches of death.

‘Millie, you look terrible,’ she says. ‘Open this gate right now. You haven’t responded to any of my texts this week, and nobody has seen you out for eons. Except for Gillian, who thinks she saw you at Selfridges all dazed and confused.’

Her mother is calmer about the attempted rescue, speaking to me as if I’m a traumatised child who has no idea where she is. ‘Let us in, dear. We’re worried about you.’

Oh yes, this is an intervention all right. No wonder they’re dressed in their Sunday best, which for them is vintage Chanel and this season’s Prada. You have to look good if you want to lecture people who are ranked beneath you in old-fashioned British society (something Eliza has made clear on many an occasion).