A rich scent rose from the small piece of paper she clutched and her heart leaped in excited expectation of the satisfaction to come. Beneath the skirt of her dressing gown, a dull ache started between her legs and a warm flow of fluid signaled the beginnings of her excitement. Mercy, all she had to do was think of him—his prick inside her, pounding away while his hands cupped her bottom so she could feel every last, blessed inch of him—and she became aroused. And heaven help her, there was a lot of him. Perching on the stool, she read over the message again in the flickering light from the candle on her dressing table, admiring the way the handwriting covered the paper in a sprawling but neat script. She shivered in delight, recalling the power of his hands. Soon those hands would be on her, stroking, teasing, tweaking until he had her screaming to use something more than his hands to finish their coupling. Would it be hard and fast, or slow and agonizingly delicious? Or both? Meet me at the appointed place tonight at eight o’clock.
