The glasshouse had become their secret altar of sin and lust. On top of the long table, still draped with the cloth from a gathering just hours ago Demian and Valerie's bodies tangled, merging into one in a relentless wave of pleasure.
The lingering scents of tea and the perfumes of noblewomen, who had sat here so elegantly before, now mingled with sweat, sex, and the sticky traces of spilled desire.
This very table, once a symbol of grace and power for the aristocratic ladies, was now defiled by the guttural moans and shameless cries of Valerie, utterly humiliated and possessed by Demian.
He pressed her down, his large hands gripping her waist so she couldn't wriggle away, not that she wanted to. With every savage thrust of Demian's hips, the remaining teacups rattled silent witnesses to the complete destruction of decorum and dignity happening right there.
"What would those prim little bitches say if they knew, Val?" Demian growled low into her ear, his voice thick and rough.
