Alexander Delemere, fifth Lord of Stowe, thought his cock was about to explode. Molly Sinclair sat astride him, grinding her hips into his, the muscles of her pussy tightening exquisitely around his shaft, dipping her body so she lowered a sweet brown nipple into his mouth. Molly leant back, her spine arched, her rounded breast pointing skywards.
‘Yes, yes,’ she screamed, feeling the sweet pulse of orgasm swell around her body. ‘Hell yes!’ shouted Alex in reply, before collapsing on the crumpled linen of the hotel sheets.
‘Good Lord,’ he whispered, as Molly slid herself off his cock and lay down beside him to light a cigarette.
She propped herself up on a pillow and looked at Lord Alexander Delemere through a haze of grey smoke. Ever since Marcus had come on the scene, Molly had cut down her current list of lovers, but Alexander Delemere was one fix she was not prepared to give up, no matter how serious things were getting with Marcus. It never ceased to amaze Molly how good sex with Alexander Delemere could be. Age was not an issue when it came to Molly’s lovers: but enjoying sex, not having to fake orgasm, certainly was. Men over sixty were so soft – their crepe-textured skin, their blancmangey buttocks and their baggy balls could be quite off-putting unless she was drunk, but Alex was in fine shape for a man his age.
They had been meeting once a week at the Basil Street hotel ever since Evie Delemere’s christening, and the pattern was always the same. They would meet for a quiet lunch in Mayfair in dusty restaurants so far off the social scene they might as well have been in Scotland. Alex would have fish or pheasant. They would take a black cab to the Basil Street hotel where the concierge would pretend each time not to know them. They would undress, have sex, a little conversation, each time getting to know one another a little better. Sometimes Alex would present her with a gift. He was not a generous man. So far she had received an obvious red satin camisole that was too big, a box of chocolates and a small butterfly-shaped brooch with coloured stones that Molly thought were rubies but later discovered were merely crystal.
She was realistic enough to know that at this point she was no threat to his marriage, and that although Alex seemed to crave her body like some infatuated teenager it was going to take a good deal more than a handful of fucks in a Mayfair hotel to break up his marriage to Lady Vivian. He was old money, and that meant golden handcuffs and traditional values. But Molly wanted to keep this iron in her fire to see what would happen. And there were worse things to be than the mistress of one of the richest men in the country, after all.
She watched him get out of bed and put on a towelling robe.
‘Shall I order a little room service?’
Molly shook her head. ‘I assume you have to be going soon.’
‘You assume correctly,’ he replied, glancing at his watch. ‘Although I might ring down for a pot of tea.’
Molly had to suppress a smile. Rock and roll.
He sat back on the edge of the bed and Molly knelt behind him to give his shoulders a rub.
‘How’s Evie?’ she asked playfully. ‘As gorgeous as her granddad?’
Alexander turned to face her. ‘Do you have to remind me of my advancing years?’
She wrapped her arms around his body, her fingers probing between the fold of his robe. ‘You’re only as young as the woman you feel Alex.’
‘Since you ask, Evie is a delight. Donna on the other hand …’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry, she is a friend of yours, I’m being rude.’
Molly sat back on the bed and took a drag of her cigarette to stop herself smiling. Do-gooder Donna was no friend, just someone useful. ‘Please, be my guest and continue,’ she said, lying back on the pillow.
‘It’s just her plans for the estate,’ he said, pacing around the floor with visible irritation. ‘I assume you’ve been?’
Molly nodded. The Delemere estate comprised two main parcels: the main house, a vast Queen Anne mansion often described as an ‘architectural national treasure,’ where Alexander and Vivian lived, and a smaller manor house on the edge of the grounds, where Donna and Daniel resided and where Donna had spent the best part of last year renovating the barns to create the Delemere farm store and spa.
‘She spent the better half of two million pounds on her little alternative health and farming fantasy. Two million pounds,’ continued Alexander, his eyes blazing like dark coals. Molly knew that, while she could reduce him to a purring kitten in the bedroom, Alexander Delemere had not built up one of the country’s foremost industrial empires by being soft.
‘That she is spending my son’s money as if it were water is one thing, but the fact that she has hoodwinked my wife into this New Age mumbo-jumbo folly is another. They are partners now apparently in this ridiculous New Age business. Vivian,’ he paused, seemingly embarrassed to utter his wife’s name, as if it might summon up her physical presence in the room. ‘Vivian is now insisting she use our money, my money to expand.’
Molly didn’t like to point out that the Delemere shop and spa was probably a very good business investment where London’s social elite flocked to buy overpriced sausages and organic cheese or pick up an expensive facial. Organic ‘natural food’ destinations were hot, but she suspected Alexander didn’t want to hear that point of view. ‘It is a rather absurd notion,’ agreed Molly, pulling a sheet around her body. ‘Then again, Donna has always been – how can I put this politely? – on the make.’
‘Really,’ said Alex coolly, suspecting she was a sympathizer. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘Oh nothing,’ replied Molly, taking a lengthy drag of cigarette. ‘Just things I hear.’
She really had his attention now.
‘Well, if you ever hear anything else, please let me know immediately,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I will not have that woman go through my son’s money, my wife’s money, my money as if it were her own. I won’t have it.’
The doorbell rang. It was a bellboy with tea.
‘Mmm … why don’t we have our Earl Grey in bed, Alex?’ purred Molly. ‘Shame to let it get cold.’