Dear Miss Carmichael,

Based on the reference supplied by your uncle, I am delighted to invite you to my family’s second home in Normandy, France, in order to assist with the appraisal and organisation of my late grandmother’s art collection. Please present yourself promptly at 5pm next Wednesday, when I will explain in more detail what will be required of you.

Yours sincerely,

Anthony Halstead

So I did. The following Wednesday saw me nervously ascending the great stone staircase leading to the front door of the magnificent chateau recently inherited by my uncle’s friend. Not that I was any kind of art specialist. My job was to simply listen, take notes, and catalogue the collection, which consisted of artworks collated over decades by various members of the Halstead family.

Even I could appreciate the splendour of my surroundings, though. Having driven down a tree-lined avenue, through tall double gates, my car tyres crunching over the gravelled driveway, I was instantly captivated by the beauty of the building before me. A double staircase curved upwards left and right into a paved area before the huge wooden front door. The symmetry of the stairs was echoed by a tower to either side of the chateau, each topped with a turret. Long windows with leaded glass twinkled in the early evening sunlight, and ivy trailing over the stone walls only added to the fairytale atmosphere.

The door swung inwards as I raised my hand to lift the iron lion’s head knocker, and I stumbled in surprise, only to be steadied against a warm body, with arms wrapped around me, setting me back on my feet. And there was Anthony Halstead. The third. I think.

Of course he was gorgeous and intimidating. Older than me, short salt-and-pepper hair, tall, muscular. Designer stubble. Of course the images I’d googled didn’t do him justice. So of course his first impression of me would be that I was a total klutz. A blushing klutz.

“Wren?” Even his voice was gorgeous. Deep, rich, cultured without being pretentious. How typical. How cliché that I should be in the beautiful French countryside, in this exquisite building, alone, with this mouth-watering…

Shit. I suppose I should actually answer him.

“Ummm… yes!” I said brightly.

“You look like a Wren. A little bird. I’m Anthony. It’s good to meet you. Thank you so much for coming all this way to help me out. Your uncle was adamant that you’re exactly the person I need.”

His smile and his eyes were warm, and his handshake grip firm and dry. And he didn’t do that annoying thing men do when they try to turn your hand over as if they’re going to kiss it.

“I’ll try to live up to those expectations! I’m really looking forward to working with you,” I replied. That was a good reply, I was pleased with that. Much more professional than tripping over the doorstep. I wasn’t sure what to make of the bird comment. Ok, so I was petite and curvy, and my long brown hair was feathered around my face. Maybe it did make sense.

“Come on in,” he invited. “I’ll show you to your room. Let me take your bag.”

I handed over my luggage and followed him up the grand staircase. The man was just as fine from behind, and I couldn’t help…

“You have your own suite in the west tower. Mine is next door in the main west wing. I’m trying to disturb as little as possible until I know exactly what we’re dealing with here,” he explained, as we turned left at the top of the stairs and walked along a balcony corridor. He gestured to a door on the right as being his quarters, and stopped at the end, in front of a smaller door.

“I’ll leave you to get settled in - I hope you’ll be comfortable, little bird. Come down and find me in the kitchen when you’re ready.”

“Thank you so much. I’ll pop down in a bit!” I replied, pushing open the door to my new temporary home.

The room was so beautiful, I actually stopped thinking about its owner for a minute. Those long, leaded windows gave a triple aspect, and were each lined with duck-egg blue curtains that pooled on the polished, wooden floorboards. The furniture - bedside tables, a tallboy, dressing table, and huge wardrobe  - was dark wood. I couldn’t have told you how old it was, but it fitted the room as if it had been there for decades. The centrepiece was the four-poster bed, with quilts and pillows the same soft blue as the curtains. Another door led into the bathroom, where modern convenience met old-fashioned luxury with a claw-foot bathtub as well as a double-sized shower enclosure. I was in heaven.

I decided to unpack, but then shower off the journey before putting away my clothes, luxuriating in the fluffy white towels and bathrobe provided. Wandering around the bedroom again, enveloped in clouds of softness, I began to take in more of the details. It looked as though I’d be cataloguing artwork even in here. There were several small sculptures on the tallboy, an oversized porcelain vase on one windowsill, and several paintings of various sizes on the walls. Most were watercolours, in a style that even my untrained eye recognised as Impressionist, à la Monet. One, however, directly opposite the bed, seemed to be painted in oils, and didn’t really match the rest.

It depicted a hedge maze on a stormy night, with a full moon above. It was eerily beautiful; enticing, but somehow ominous. The detail was extraordinary - every leaf seemed moonlit, every shadow had depth. I could imagine myself in there, cool breeze on my skin and damp grass beneath my bare feet. In the centre of the maze was some kind of stone sculpture - maybe a table, or an altar of some sort. Something about it sent a frisson down my spine. Excitement, fear, arousal… maybe all three. I’m not sure how long I gazed at the painting, drinking in the detail, but eventually I shook off the trance I seemed to have fallen into.

I finished putting everything away, then dried myself, threw on denim shorts and a white camisole, with my favourite red, lacy underwear (did you know if you wear a red bra under a white top, it doesn’t show through? You’re welcome) and some sandals, and headed back downstairs to see Mr Tall, Dark and Handsome.

He was still breathtaking. I tried so hard to concentrate on what he was saying about the art collection and the history of the castle, but most of it went over my head. I was looking at the sculpture of his nose and lips; the shades of azure and cerulean in his eyes; the precision of movement of those strong hands and long fingers as he gestured to prove a point; the drape of his white shirt over that muscled torso. Now, that was my kind of art. If I were a sculptor… but then again no…

“… the maze,” he concluded.

“Sorry, maze?” Dammit, I should have been listening.

“Yes, my great-grandfather had it planted for my great-grandmother, and then my grandfather painted it in oils.”

“It was a real maze?”

“Still is. It’s beyond the kitchen-garden, with the forest beyond it.”

“Oh, wow! It’s a beautiful painting - I’d love to see the real maze.”

“I’ll show you tomorrow, little bird,” he promised. “You must be tired after your day of travelling. How about dinner, some local vin blanc, and a fairly early night?”

As he said it, I realised how tired I really was, and smiled gratefully. “That sounds perfect, thank you.”

It was a lovely, relaxed evening. He cooked like a god, and the wine was ambrosial. This really was paradise. I made a mental note to send a really nice hamper to my uncle in thanks. We talked about everything from tv and childhood pets, to our favourite foods and where we’d like to travel. Sometimes our eyes met and it felt like we wanted to say more, but we didn’t. After three glasses of the wine though, I could feel my attraction to him starting to show. I was laughing a little more, holding his gaze a little longer. I had to resist the urge to play with my hair or touch my lips. I knew I needed to stop before this became embarrassing, inappropriate, or both.

“Thank you for a gorgeous evening,” I said, standing up. His eyes swept over me. That was all it took to make me tinglingly aware that my nipples were peaking beneath my red lace bra, and my pussy was already slick with juices. This man hadn’t even touched me, and I was so aroused by him that breathing evenly was an effort.

He stood up too. “My pleasure. Sweet dreams, little bird.”

He moved closer to me, and I could feel myself sway slightly. He placed his hands on my bare upper arms and leaned in so I was inhaling his scent -  cedar and herbs and leather. My head was already reeling before he leant in and kissed me lightly on each cheek.

“The French way!” he said teasingly, as he released me. I could feel myself blushing, my eyes widening.

“Merci!” I answered, trying to smile in a way that showed I was totally unaffected by his proximity to me. I knew I’d failed. Just as I knew he could tell by the speed at which I left the room that I was actually running away.

Back in my room, I could see in the mirror that I was flushed with desire and my pupils were dilated. How was I going to get through these next few days? I opened two of the long windows to create a breeze, noticing as I did so that the moon shining into the one to the right of the bed was full. This window looked out over the kitchen-garden, towards the forest.

I stripped down to my red lace panties, enjoying the freedom from the matching bra, but decided it was too warm for pjs. The full-length mirror reflected the supple heaviness of my breasts with their dark nipples, the thickness of my hips and thighs, the soft curve of my belly. My dark hair tumbled down my back, wanton and untamed.  Running my hands over my warm skin, I imagined Anthony was touching me, and a frustrated moan escaped me. I climbed into bed and snuggled into the downy pillows. I had left the curtains open to make the most of the cooler air coming through, and I could see clouds starting to gather around the moon as sleep claimed me.

Despite being so tired, I slept fitfully. Shattered fragments of images skittered through my brain. A man who had the look of Anthony, daubing oil onto a canvas. A woman tending to rows of hedges, trimming and training them into shape with precision. Moonlight on leaves. Dark corners hiding who knew what secrets. The brush strokes building into an image of such detail it was almost photographic.

When next I  became fully aware, the breeze was still cool on my skin, but there was dewy grass beneath my feet. Silvery light illuminated every leaf of the hedges all around me, although the shadowy corners were dark and deep. I inhaled the scent of cedar, herbs and leather, and shivered with that potent mix of excitement, fear, and arousal. This time, when my nipples peaked, there was no lace to cover them, but my panties were already soaked with desire and need.

Sensing movement behind me, I spun around, and there he was, a few steps away in the silver light. Shirtless. That chest was even more glorious than I’d imagined. He wore only a pair of jeans that looked worn and soft enough to shape to his every plane. His eyes raked over me, taking in my flushed face and messy hair, my bare, heaving breasts with their tight nipples, and sweeping down over my soft tummy, to the damp stain I could already feel darkening my panties, and further to my red-painted toenails, my toes curling on the damp grass.

“You have thirty seconds,” he rasped, his voice gravelly, as if he too had only just awoken. “Fly, little bird.”

“What if you catch me?” I whispered, intrigued and wary in equal measure.

“Then I fuck you,” he replied, simply, as if it should have been obvious. “I fuck you like your eyes have been begging me to, ever since you first fell into my arms.”

That was all I needed to hear. Whipping around, I flew into the myriad of dark pathways, panic and desire throwing my brain into a frenzy. The grass was soft beneath my feet, but twigs threatened to rip at my bare flesh if I didn’t keep to the centre of the paths, so this slowed me down. I could feel the breeze in my hair and hear my own panting breath over my soft footfalls. My imagination told me he was hiding in every shadowed corner, but I kept running, desperate for… I didn’t even know. To escape, or to be caught?

Pausing momentarily, I tried to quieten my breaths and listen. Would I even hear him? Something told me he not only knew this labyrinth by heart, but was also moving with the stealth of a tiger. Adrenaline coursed through me, zapping like tiny lightning bolts through my body. The anticipation was electric, and I knew the outcome was inevitable.

A rustling somewhere behind me had me taking flight again, around a corner, straight into a solid wall of flesh and muscle. I turned instantly, but a band of steel wrapped around my waist and another, more gently over my mouth.

“Little bird, you’ve been trapped,” a voice breathed into my ear, even as I registered the warmth of his chest against my back, and that his arm was almost brushing the underside of my breasts. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

A rush of desire skimmed down my spine, leading me to melt into him. I nodded, a needy whine escaping me and humming against his hand across my mouth. He released me so he could turn me around, and guided my chin up with one finger until my gaze met his. Satisfied at the acceptance and permission in my eyes, he swooped in and captured my lips in a kiss I’d been waiting for my entire life.

He ravaged my mouth, hard and deep, like he wanted to possess me, to ruin me for anyone else forever. A hand at the nape of my neck controlled my head; the other skimmed up my thigh, warm, and sure of its destination. I held on to him desperately, not trusting my knees to keep me upright, and moaned into his mouth. His hand moved higher, cupping my mound through my panties, but it wasn’t enough. I rocked against his palm, desperate for more.

“Such a needy little bird,” he growled, his lips still brushing mine. Fingers slipped inside my panties, brushing over my wetness. “Jesus. Being my prey got you so wet, didn’t it? Good girl, dripping all over my fingers already.”

I was throbbing now, desperate to feel the pressure of something inside me, but his finger just circled my clit delicately, teasing, promising more but not delivering. Round and round, just enough to drive me crazy, not enough to get me off. I attempted to grind down onto his finger, but he moved with me, maintaining that light touch.

“No, no, little bird. We do this at my pace. Greedy girls have to wait.” His words sent another gush of liquid through me, and he groaned as his hand was soaked. “Fuck, I can’t wait to feel that on my cock. This pussy was made for me, wasn’t it, baby? All mine.”

I couldn’t find the words to answer as his fingers slipped inside me, instantly finding the pace that I needed, curling and rubbing that spot that had me teetering right on the edge. Then his thumb found my clit, stroking over the tip, and I whimpered in need and frustration.

“Are you going to cum, little bird? Cum on my hand right now, with that greedy cunt squeezing my fingers? Is that hot pussy going to flood my hand?” His lips found mine again, this time a slow, measured kiss, at total odds to his fingers moving faster and more firmly inside me. It was like he was stimulating me with caffeine while soothing me with milk and honey; the contrast was nothing I’d ever imagined, and I knew I was going to shatter any second.

And then he stopped. His fingers slipped out of me, his lips left mine. I gazed up at him, mutely beseeching, and he chuckled, dropping a kiss on my forehead.

“Don’t worry, little bird, I’ve got you. Just want to do this right.” His hand enveloped mine, and he guided me around the corner to a place where the path forked.

“You choose. The left fork leads back home, where I will make love to you gently for hours on soft pillows. The right fork leads to the centre of the maze, where I will fuck you until you beg for mercy, and you will live out every depraved fantasy you never knew you had.”

I stood for a moment as if in thought, and then tugged his hand towards the left path, watching his face. He was impassive, apart from the tiniest hook up of one eyebrow. When I switched direction, making my true goal clear, he resisted for a second, pulling me back towards him.

“Brat,” he murmured. “You’ll pay for that.”

I widened my eyes innocently. “Are you threatening me with a good time?”

His hand tangled in my hair, tugging until I whimpered in delight at the slight sting.

“Oh, little bird. You have no idea. Say it. Say you want me to fuck you until you forget your own name, and the only word you can scream out is mine.”

“Yes. Anthony, please. Yes.”

The centre of the labyrinth was glowing in the silvery moonlight, the altar table in the middle luminous white, like a beacon. He stood me at the foot of it, and stepped back, devouring me with his eyes as my body thrummed for his touch. Then he placed his hand around my throat, applying just enough pressure to make me gasp in anticipation, before trailing his fingers down, over my collarbone, skimming a nipple, cupping my breast, over my belly, to where that red triangle of lace concealed my throbbing pussy. Almost reverently, he knelt, sliding them down over my hips and thighs, lifting one ankle and then the other so I could step out of them.

He lifted them to his face and inhaled deeply. “Fuck, little bird. You smell so fucking good. I can’t wait to taste you.”

With that, he dropped them onto the floor and placed his hands between my thick thighs, spreading them so he could bury his face in my soaked pussy. The first touch of his tongue on my clit sent a jolt right through me, but I barely had time to react before he was lapping and sucking at me like a starving man who’d been denied sweet nectar for too long. He hooked one of my legs over his shoulder, steadying me before I fell. The stone of the altar grazed my back, mirroring his rough stubble against my pussy lips, and when he used a thumb and finger to open me fully so his lips could seal around my clit and suck it into his mouth, I thought I’d die of sensation. I was wild, aching, breathless with desire.

“Look at this gorgeous sweet pussy, just begging for my tongue,” he breathed, feathering warm air over my clit. “You’re so wet and needy for me, little bird. Aching for me to make you cum over and over until you see stars.”

I buried my hands in his hair, trying to guide his mouth and tongue to exactly where I needed the pressure to make me explode, but he refused, taking the time to explore every fold, circling my clit, teasing, edging me mercilessly before retreating. Every nerve in my body was wired, just waiting for that connection to spark.

“Scream for me, little bird,” he commanded. “Cum all over my face and scream. No one can hear you, but scream and tell the world you’re mine.”

He grazed his teeth over my clit and bit down lightly, and that was exactly what I needed. I shattered, screaming his name up to the stars, barely aware that he was still suckling on my tender nub, nursing me through the uncontrollable tremors that wracked me, his hands holding my hips.

Tenderly, he laid me down on the altar, the smooth marble surface cooling my heated skin.

“Tell me you’re ready for my cock,” he demanded.

“Fuck, yes. Please…” I moaned.

“Good girl.”

Placing one hand on my mound, as if to anchor me there, he used the other to undo his jeans and push them down. I couldn’t help gasping at the sight of him in all his naked glory. His cock was beautiful. And huge. The swollen head was already glistening with precum. It was long and thick, and I was aching to feel it inside me. I raised my hips beneath his hand, showing him I was ready.

“My greedy girl,” he murmured. “Look you, desperate for my cock. Needing me to fill you up, to bury myself in you, to stretch you until you can’t take any more.” His voice was rough, and I knew that he, too, was right on the edge.

He rubbed the head of his cock through my soaking slit, teasing me, smacking it gently onto my still-throbbing clit, pulling a moan from me.

“Fuck, listen to you. You want this so bad, don’t you? My good, needy girl.”

“Yes. Please… I need you inside me. Please!”

He pushed the head inside me, pressing slowly, my choked moan eliciting a contented groan from him. He stilled, giving me time to adjust to the stretch.

“You need this. Fucked and filled. Such a good girl, taking my cock.”

“More… please?”

“Greedy girl. Begging for more.”

I raised my hips, so he sank in another inch, breathing slowly as I opened to accommodate him. And then he kept going, deeper and deeper until I was aching, full, relishing every second of the agonisingly slow stretch.

“Good girl, that’s it. You can do it. Taking every inch of my cock that’s so fucking hard for you. Pulsing and clenching round me. My sweet little bird. Feel that stretch. No-one else is ever going to make this gorgeous pussy feel so good. Only me. Such a fucking good girl.”

Finally, he was seated all the way inside me, and I could barely breathe. Then his thumb found my clit again, rotating with just enough pressure that I gushed around his cock, totally out of control of the sensations overtaking me. He began to move, slowly, rocking his hips against me so that he moved just millimetres at a time, creating the most delicious friction inside me, his thumb never stopping those relentless circles, until I was spiralling higher and higher.

He began to move more, thrusting slow and deep, gradually picking up the pace. His thumb left my clit, and I whimpered in protest, but then his palm smacked down on my pussy, one, two, three times, stinging so sweetly, in a way that made me scream out my need and desire. That was what pushed me over the edge, cumming on his cock, clenching and gushing, making the tight fit even more so, sobbing into his neck as his thumb found my clit again, overstimulating me to almost the point of pain.

He didn’t stop moving, dragging out every last bit of my orgasm, praising me through every shudder.

“Good girl, just like that. Let go for me, give it to me. Don’t stop, fuck, you’re milking my cock so perfectly, you’re going to make me cum…”

At the promise of feeling him spill inside me, I started to crest again, begging, “Oh, please… please cum inside me, I need to feel you, so much, please…”

Something flared in his eyes, and he drove even deeper into me.

“Is that what you want? Want me to cum inside this perfect cunt? To fill you up with my seed, to breed you?”

With a groan that sounded almost like a prayer, he thrust deeply in one more time, and went almost still, his cock jerking and twitching inside me. I was paralysed with satiated lust, wrapped in him, absorbing him with all my senses, distantly hearing the roll of thunder and crack of lightning as the sky emptied itself over us, drenching us in warm summer rain and the intoxicating scent of petrichor.

Warm sunlight awoke me. I was comfortable, on a soft mattress and downy pillows, in my four-poster bed. There was a pleasant ache tingling between my thighs, and I slid one hand down to cup my pussy. Where were my panties? I was sure I’d kept them on when I went to sleep. I rustled the duvet, and cast my gaze over the floor, but there was no sign of them.

Sliding lazily out of bed, I made my way over to the bathroom, but something caught my eye in the oil painting of the labyrinth. It was only a tiny speck, but the bright colour was in direct contrast to the white marble altar in the silvery moonlight. I touched my finger to the oil, wondering if it was wet, but it was as set as the rest of the painting, decades after creation.

There, hanging seductively off the corner of the stone table in the centre of the image, was what I’d been looking for. A crimson triangle. Red, lacy panties.