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And probably hadn't known where he was.Friar Geoffrey nodded and then the two of them went so Kennedy could join the Grand Marshal's muster. Duke Roger pinned on her holly leaves and she stood tall and proud as usual."You're looking well, Kennedy," the duke told her after the ceremony. "I'm glad, after that mess at New Year's."She shrugged. She was about to say something about how this time there would be no Agent Larkin, when she saw a man with a holly sprig not far off, his side to her, talking to another of the constables.Deja vu! It slammed into her, shaking her to her core."What?" the duke asked softly.She waved at the man. "Do you know who he is?" He's a US Marshal, from the Philly office. Why?" I saw him once before. I can't believe I've been this stupid!" What, Lady Kennedy?" Friar Geoffrey asked."I told you I saw Larkin headed up towards the camp, last summer," she told them. "Until this second, I forgot that he wasn't driving." She waved at the US Marshal. "That man was. Jimar used his flexibility to take my father’s shaft. The boy’s legs were wrapped around my father’s buttocks, his heels dug into the man’s mounds, and the boy’s hands gripped my father’s biceps. They were kissing as Jimar raised and lowered his pelvis, taking my father deep. My father was partially clothed. His britches were undone and pulled down to his upper thighs, having allowed his cock to escape the codpiece, the laces of which dangled down, tickling the small, ebony slave’s thighs as they slapped against them. His broadcloth shirt laces were also undone and the two wings of his shirt hung down.My father was still a fine figure of a man, of average height of an English plantation owner in Jamaica, barrel chested and slim waisted, with a shock of reddish hair on his head and in tuffs elsewhere on his hard, muscular body. His cock was of proud proportions, although not near what our West African field slaves were swinging.Jimar had been uppity ever since my father took him to.
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