Free Chance of a Lifetime by Portia Da Costa Page B

my life. It goes on and on, so extreme it’s almost pain, and afterward I feel tears fill my eyes.
    Talk about le petit mort and post-coital tristesse. I’ve got tristesse by the bucketful, but without any coitus.
    My face as crimson as the buttocks of the spanked woman in the video, I drag my panties and jeans back into place and lie gasping in the chair. I scrabble for a tissue. I’m going to cry properly now, not just a few teardrops, and I know I should just run from the room, but somehow I just can’t seem to move.
    Something soft and folded is put gently into my hand, and as I steal a glance at it, I discover it’s the marquis’s immaculately laundered handkerchief. Still gulping and sniffing, I rub my face with it, breathing in the faint, mouthwatering fragrance of his cologne.
    Shit, I fancy this man something rotten, and I’ve been fantasizing about him fancying me back, and falling for me, and now this has happened. I’m so embarrassed, I wish I could burrow into the leather upholstery and disappear out of sight.
    A strong arm settles around my shoulders, and the great chair creaks as he sits down on the arm beside me.
    “Hey, there’s no harm done,” the marquis says softly. “Now we both know each other’s dirty little secrets.” He squeezes my shoulders. “I get off spanking girls’ bottoms and having them wriggling on my lap. And you get off watching videos of it and playing with yourself.” He pauses, and I sense him smiling that slow, wicked smile again. “And quite beautifully, I must admit. Quite exquisitely….”
    I beg your pardon?
    Hell, I must have looked awful. Crude. Ungainly. Like a complete slapper.
    I try to wriggle free, but he holds me. He even puts up a hand to gently stroke my hair. I still can’t look at him, even though part of me really wants to.
    “I’m so embarrassed. I’m so sorry. I had no business coming in here and prying into your private things.”
    One long finger strokes down the side of my face, slips under my chin and gently lifts it. Nervously, I open my eyes and look into his. They’re large and dark and brown and merry, and I feel as if I’m drowning, but suddenly that’s a good thing.
    All the embarrassment and mortification disappears, just as if it were the rain puddles outside evaporating in the sun. Indeed, beyond the window, the sky outside is brightening.
    Suddenly I see mischief and sex and a sense of adventure in those fabulous eyes, and I feel turned on again, and somehow scared, but not in a way that has anything to do with an awkward situation with my employer. It’s a new feeling, and it’s erotic, but so much more.
    “Indeed you didn’t. That was rather naughty of you.” His face is perfectly impassive, almost stern, but those eyes, oh those eyes—they’re mad with dangerous fun. “Do you think we should do something about that?”
    I feel as if I’m about to cross a line. Jump off a cliff. Ford some peculiar kind of Rubicon. This is the chance of a lifetime, and I’m a perfect novice in the world portrayed in his video, but I understand him completely without any further hint or education.
    “Um…yes, my lord.”
    Should I stand? Then kneel? Or curtsy or something? He’s still sitting on the arm of the chair, a huge masculine presence because he’s tall and broad-shouldered. Everything a man and a master should be.
    I’m just about to stand, and I feel him just about to reach for me, when suddenly and shockingly his mobile rings, and he lets out a lurid curse.
    “Ack, I must take this. Money stuff,” he growls, and nods to me to mute the television as he flips open his phone.
    I make as if to leave, but he catches me by the arm and makes me stand in front of him. With almost serpentine grace, he slides into the armchair and pulls me across his lap. Then, as he has a terse conversation that I don’t think he’s enjoying much, he explores the shape of my bottom through my jeans.
    He doesn’t slap or smack or hit. He just