The pond water broke around his shoulders as he scooped her up, and Lady Salma committed to her performance with the full discipline of a woman who had toppled kings with worse acting.
"Miss! Madam! Can you hear me?" His voice carried exactly the right measure of panic. His arms carried her exactly the way a hero should. Everything about him was precisely, suspiciously perfect at the job.
She lay limp across his forearms, lashes lowered to slits, watching him through them. Her soaked commoner dress clung to her like a second skin, milk white flesh printed through the wet fabric in obscene detail. The cleft of her pussy drew a dark line down the cloth. Her big breasts rode each of his strides, nipples standing out thick as pebbles under the thin drenched weave, and she felt his heartbeat accelerate against her side.
'Look at that. Hard already, silly boy. Half my work is done before I even open my legs.'
