prime motivation for being in his bed. Even so, she had to admit there was something about him, about the two of them together, that worked. He never, ever gave a thought to her pleasure. But in a perverse way, that pleased her.
Duke looked at her smeared, disheveled face with satisfaction. He was an old man now and he knew it. Sure, he was in good shape, he took care of himself. But so many of his old buddies were already gone—heart attacks, lung cancer, God only knew what else. He reached over to the bedside table for a Lucky Strike and lit it.
Death did not preoccupy him unduly, although he missed his youth, the adrenaline rush of mass adulation that had fueled him through his twenties and thirties, already a movie legend.
What an incredible, fantastic life it had been.
With the exception of a few terrible incidents in Japan during the war, and the painful breakdown of his marriage, it had been a life crammed with enjoyment, excitement, and excess. Duke had lived it greedily, relishing every second, and he intended to see out the last days of his life with the same energy, the same pursuit of his own pleasure, that he always had.
He had learned long ago to block out the pain of losing Minnie’s love. Without her, he had abandoned all hope of becoming a “better” man and ruthlessly stamped down any finer feelings of selflessness, honor, or decency whenever they threatened to limit his rampant, hedonistic lifestyle.
He looked at Caroline again and felt a wave of satisfaction. How many men in their sixties had mind-blowing sex on tap from a girl as utterly desirable as this? Gazing down at her, inhaling deeply on his cigarette, he felt like a fucking king.
Without taking her eyes from his, she bent her head once again and began slowly licking his balls.
“Good girl,” he purred, stroking her hair more tenderly now. “That’s a good girl.” She wrapped her arms around his thighs, laying her head comfortably between them while her tongue got to work.
“Welcome to the family.”
CHAPTER THREE
In snagging Duke McMahon, Caroline Berkeley felt she had finally achieved her destiny.
The fourth child and only daughter of Sebastian and Elizabeth Berkeley of Amhurst Manor, Oxfordshire, she had been born into a world of postwar optimism in 1946. Her privileged parents were still wealthy at that time, although a lot of money had been lost by the previous generation of Berkeleys, grandparents and great-aunts whom Caroline never knew, through alcoholism and heavy gambling debts. After her mother died in Caroline’s infancy—Elizabeth had never recovered from the death of her eldest son, Lionel, on the Normandy beaches—the family’s financial decline had gone from bad to worse.
Unsurprisingly, Caroline’s dissolute grandfather Alexander had done nothing to prepare her father in the fine arts of investment or estate management. Sebastian’s resulting financial ineptitude, combined with his debilitating grief over the loss of both his wife and son, were to prove fatal to the great old estate.
By the time Caroline turned fifteen, Sebastian had lost Amhurst, along with the bulk of his children’s inheritance. This sudden reversal of the family fortunes was the single most formative event in her childhood.
She could remember the day her father had driven to school to break the terrible news to her, could see his ashen face as though it were yesterday. As soon as they sat down on an old stone bench, in the rose garden at Massingham Hall, she had known something was very wrong.
“For heaven’s sake, Pa, what is it?” She heard the panic rising in her voice. She had never seen her beloved father in such a state. “Is it George or William? Are they all right?”
Actually, her older brothers were the last thing Caroline was concerned about, but she couldn’t think of anything else that would make Sebastian look so terrible. If he were ill himself, she was sure, he would tend to make light of it rather than turn
Duke looked at her smeared, disheveled face with satisfaction. He was an old man now and he knew it. Sure, he was in good shape, he took care of himself. But so many of his old buddies were already gone—heart attacks, lung cancer, God only knew what else. He reached over to the bedside table for a Lucky Strike and lit it.
Death did not preoccupy him unduly, although he missed his youth, the adrenaline rush of mass adulation that had fueled him through his twenties and thirties, already a movie legend.
What an incredible, fantastic life it had been.
With the exception of a few terrible incidents in Japan during the war, and the painful breakdown of his marriage, it had been a life crammed with enjoyment, excitement, and excess. Duke had lived it greedily, relishing every second, and he intended to see out the last days of his life with the same energy, the same pursuit of his own pleasure, that he always had.
He had learned long ago to block out the pain of losing Minnie’s love. Without her, he had abandoned all hope of becoming a “better” man and ruthlessly stamped down any finer feelings of selflessness, honor, or decency whenever they threatened to limit his rampant, hedonistic lifestyle.
He looked at Caroline again and felt a wave of satisfaction. How many men in their sixties had mind-blowing sex on tap from a girl as utterly desirable as this? Gazing down at her, inhaling deeply on his cigarette, he felt like a fucking king.
Without taking her eyes from his, she bent her head once again and began slowly licking his balls.
“Good girl,” he purred, stroking her hair more tenderly now. “That’s a good girl.” She wrapped her arms around his thighs, laying her head comfortably between them while her tongue got to work.
“Welcome to the family.”
CHAPTER THREE
In snagging Duke McMahon, Caroline Berkeley felt she had finally achieved her destiny.
The fourth child and only daughter of Sebastian and Elizabeth Berkeley of Amhurst Manor, Oxfordshire, she had been born into a world of postwar optimism in 1946. Her privileged parents were still wealthy at that time, although a lot of money had been lost by the previous generation of Berkeleys, grandparents and great-aunts whom Caroline never knew, through alcoholism and heavy gambling debts. After her mother died in Caroline’s infancy—Elizabeth had never recovered from the death of her eldest son, Lionel, on the Normandy beaches—the family’s financial decline had gone from bad to worse.
Unsurprisingly, Caroline’s dissolute grandfather Alexander had done nothing to prepare her father in the fine arts of investment or estate management. Sebastian’s resulting financial ineptitude, combined with his debilitating grief over the loss of both his wife and son, were to prove fatal to the great old estate.
By the time Caroline turned fifteen, Sebastian had lost Amhurst, along with the bulk of his children’s inheritance. This sudden reversal of the family fortunes was the single most formative event in her childhood.
She could remember the day her father had driven to school to break the terrible news to her, could see his ashen face as though it were yesterday. As soon as they sat down on an old stone bench, in the rose garden at Massingham Hall, she had known something was very wrong.
“For heaven’s sake, Pa, what is it?” She heard the panic rising in her voice. She had never seen her beloved father in such a state. “Is it George or William? Are they all right?”
Actually, her older brothers were the last thing Caroline was concerned about, but she couldn’t think of anything else that would make Sebastian look so terrible. If he were ill himself, she was sure, he would tend to make light of it rather than turn
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