I shouldn’t have been this wet.
The tray in my hands trembled as I stood outside Mr. Blackwood’s study door, the crystal glasses clinking softly against each other. My white maid’s uniform clung to my skin in the humid summer air of the mansion. The short skirt barely covered the tops of my thighs. The little white apron sat high on my waist, drawing attention to how small I was compared to the man waiting on the other side of that door.
I was twenty. Still a virgin. Still the quiet girl from the village who had never been kissed properly, never had a man’s hands under her clothes. And yet every night for the past three months I had gone to bed with my fingers buried between my legs, biting the pillow so the other staff wouldn’t hear me moan his name.
Logan Blackwood.
Thirty-eight. Col
