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. please, John..." she groaned, raising her head to plead with her sodomizer as he labored up between her cruelly stretched thighs, "Please stop!" she begged him, realizing with horror that she had completely lost control of herself and was at his mercy, a mere object to be humiliated and further disgraced... ruined. But it was useless to appeal; he licked insanely on and on at her gaping wet loins until the unbelievable pleasure had reduced the young bride to a state of raw, pulsating passion that was beyond the bounds of any reason or thought of right or wrong. She knew, dimly, that she was committing adultery... but she could no longer fight the lover who was giving her an intense physical rapture that she had never before felt or even dreamed could exist in this world."Oooooh... ooooh, John... it feels so good!" The shameful admission burst from her tortured lips before she could choke it back. "It feels so good... oh, my God... more... more!" she begged him, thrusting her hips. The fourth Marquis of Hertford was snoring in front of a dying fire, a newspaper puddled at his feet. Smiling, she eased back to pull the door closed. Hurtling down the last flight of stairs, she sped into the downstairs drawing room and yanked on the bell. ‘My lady?’ When Stevens, the butler, appeared, one frantic hair-patting, dress-righting, breath-steadying minute later, Sophie was seated with some long forgotten needle work. She looked up, trying her best to appear as if she always sat sewing in a room she’d once described to Cole as a worse than a tomb, tombs weren’t usually painted salmon pink and hung with dyspeptic looking ancestors. Crammed with mismatched furniture and usually deathly cold, it was very different from Sophie’s own cosy chamber. It had, however, been her grandmother’s favourite, a private domain from which she had ruled the local matrons since leaving the opera stage to marry her patron, Sophie’s grandfather. Her death two years ago had shocked everyone..
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