Chance of a Lifetime. Portia Da Costa

or celebs and aristos for the sake of it, but he’s got genuine charisma and blue-blood charm. He’s also got some weird history. Apparently in the army at some time, then a dropout, and now getting his act together and sorting out the manor on behalf of his father, the duke. The whole family is strapped for cash, but Blaystock Manor is just the right size for a deluxe, high-end hotel or conference center, and the marquis has thrown just about every penny he possesses, and some he doesn’t, into restoring it and bringing it up to standard.

      And somewhere along the line in this convoluted story of his, he was married, but she died and now he’s alone. No doubt his dad is pressuring him for progeny, to continue the family line, but so far it seems he’s resisted, and there’s no marchioness.

      Some very silly thoughts drift into my mind as I get ready for bed and I push them smartly back out again. I’ve got my dream job waiting for me in the Caribbean. I won’t be here all that long.

      Although I would love to see what the manor looks like when it’s finished.

      I suppose all this pondering is to avoid thinking about the fact that the marquis has seen me masturbate, and almost, but not quite, spanked me.

      Do I really want to be spanked, though?

      In the video, he was doing it for real, and that woman—whoever she was, surely not his wife—was squealing and crying out. So obviously it hurt like hell. Lying in bed later, I tug down my pajama bottom and give myself a slap on the thigh. It’s a pretty halfhearted effort but it makes me squawk and rub the place to take the sting away.

      Immediately though, I’m drifting into fantasy.

      In my mind I’m back in the little sitting room, and this time the phone stays silent. And the marquis bares my bottom and starts to caress, caress, caress it, then lands a blow.

      I slap myself again, trying to recreate the feeling. It bloody hurts, but I do it again, moaning, “My lord…”

      I slap and slap and moan and moan, and suddenly I just have to play with my clitoris. I’m so turned on imagining him spanking me that my wet sex aches.

      Within a few seconds I come, softly crying his name, seeing his face.

      * * *

      The next day, I worry. What’s going to happen? Is anything going to happen? Or has the marquis quite sensibly decided to dismiss our stolen interlude as an aberration. Something of no consequence. It must be bred in his blue English blood to dally with underlings for his pleasure without a second thought.

      I certainly don’t see him for the next couple of days, and the cleaning, dusting and polishing goes on without incident. I work cheerfully with the rest of the team, as if nothing has happened.

      But then, after a long day, when the others are all off to the pub, I slip back to my room to change, and find a little note upon my mat.

      I’m sorry we were so rudely interrupted, it says in a fine, almost copperplate handwriting. Would you care to join me in the small sitting room, at seven o’clock