And, when she asked me, I held her from behind, my hands on her tits as I played with her nipples through a pair of volcanic orgasms. Later, after she’d retired to her room, I jerked off to the image of her sitting in the wicker chair, her heels on the table as she climaxed in my arms...The next day I dropped her off right after breakfast. Her and her small suitcase which no longer held everything she owned, so she left a few things in my… her… the closet in the spare bedroom.“I’ll write you.”“Promise?”“Every day. I’ll tell you everything. Don’t be sad.”“I’m not sad.”“You are,” she said, laughing softly and then kissing me tenderly on the mouth.And just like that, she was gone.I admit that I sulked for a day or two and drank a little more than I should have, but it was hard to keep it up, especially when Summer seemed determined to keep her promise, writing me emails every day, sometimes just short bursts of words telling me where she was, but most much longer, talking about what. To make things worse, I knew how to race horses (none of the side-saddle nonsense, mind you) and was well read than most of my father’s colleagues . Six years away at the convent had done nothing but to teach me to be a proud social outcast. All in all, I was the reason of the grey streaks in my father’s hair. That was not all though, when I reached the very worrying age of 25, another problem hit home- who was going to marry me? My father could live with a social outcast but to live with an unmarried daughter…He would rather kill himself. So, the biggest question arises…why would the most eligible bachelor of the century-Micheal Aramis, MP and owner of great wealth would want to marry me? Well, the reason was simple-He was not as perfect as he seemed. You see readers, fate loves irony-He had lost his voice to the scarlet fever when he was 10 and I instead was gifted with such a voice, which no one wanted to hear. So, to put it simply, he wanted a permanent speaker for himself whose.
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