Until Midnight: HeartStrings Dating

Agency Chashiree M. & M.K. Moore

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until midnight
heartstrings dating agency
book one
ChaShiree M.
M.K. Moore
Breeding Nation Publishing
Copyright © 2024 by ChaShiree M. & M.K. Moore
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written
permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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 contents

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
Epilogue

About the Authors

chapter
one
Millicent Huxley

Meeting Gladis Horner has been… interesting to say the least. We met over a year ago at a charity function for the Savannah
Group Home and we’ve had coffee at least once a week since then. I’ve even had dinner with her and her family several times.
I love how her husband, Henry, loves her so freaking much. He hides nothing. He’s always finding ways to touch her or kiss her
no matter who is in the room. She’s one of my best friends even though she’s thirty years older than me.
“Come on dear. You have to let me fix you up,” she says, just like she always does. Gladis owns the HeartStrings Dating
Service. She claims to have a nearly perfect record. When it comes to matchmaking, Gladis is the best of the best. I have no
reason to doubt her skills, but I’m focused on my career right now. My family owns Huxley Studios, headquartered in Atlanta,
but I don’t spend a lot of time there. I’m in the Children and Family programming in Savannah, but I’m beyond ready to move
on to more adult content. I love rom-coms and love stories in general, but my father, the current CEO, still treats me like a little
girl. Despite being twenty-three, he doesn’t even want me to go to premieres of those kinds of movies.
“Oh, Gladis, you know I’m not ready to date,” I tell her. I’ve never been on a date. I’ve never even been kissed, so
obviously I’m still a virgin. Currently, my parents are pushing for me to marry Connor Forsythe which I would never do.
Before meeting Gladis, I would have done whatever they told me to do. As a people pleaser, it’s hard to say no to people but
now I have the courage to do some things. If only I could assert myself in the boardroom, I’d be okay.
“I’ll keep trying, girl. You don’t need a man to succeed in life, but trust me, they make things better.”
I laugh because what else can I do?
After another thirty minutes in the coffee shop, I head to my parent’s house, for our obligatory Saturday lunch, because they
are just too social to schedule family dinners. The vibe in the house is weird as soon as Molly, the housekeeper, lets me in.
Molly, the jolliest person, I know, loses her smile the instant she sees me.
“Oh, Millie.”
“Oh, no. What is it Molly?” Molly and I used to hang out every day after school from kindergarten until I graduated from
high school while my parents worked, and my brothers were in college or already working.
“He’s here.”
“He, who?”
“That Forsythe cad.” Molly is from London, and I think she thinks it's 1813. I groan and roll my eyes.
“Why are they pushing this hard?”
“I don’t know Millie, but you can’t marry than man,” she whispers as she takes my purse. I kiss her cheek and thank her
before taking a deep breath, trying to clear my head. I can already tell this is going to suck. The thing about my family is that we
all appear cold and distant. The press paints us this way. While it’s true in business, our family life is much different. My
parents Virgil and Margene, are completely in love. They’ve been married for twenty-five years but together for thirty-one. My
oldest brother Michael is thirty. He’s followed by Stephen who is twenty-eight. I’m the youngest at twenty-two. Both of my
brothers are happily married with three kids each. My parents arranged their marriages with other production studio families,
and they are trying to do the same for me. I know they think I’d be happy with Connor like my brothers are happy with their
wives, but I know I won’t be. Connor gives me the freaking creeps.
Michael, and his wife Sasha, are expecting their fourth child. She’s barely showing. I can hear them whispering in the front
closet. It’s a huge room where we store coats during parties. It’s dark, but I’m about to greet them when I realize my brother is
fucking her against the furthest wall. I shake my head in disgust and back away. I continue further into the house. Stephen and
Becky have all six kids in the family room. They are playing charades. I wave and sit down on the couch. Immediately, six
kids, aged 10 to 3, pile drive me into the couch.
“Aunt Millie!” They squeal and giggle in unison. I hug and kiss them all before they go back to their game. Becky is sitting
on Stephen’s lap, off in their own little world. Sure, I want that one day, but I want to be in love when I get married, not pray
that I fall after the fact.
They ignore me, but I don’t expect anything less when they are like this.
Molly calls everyone to the table and sure enough Connor is there.
I greet my parents, getting big hugs from them before turning back to the table. While I was getting my hugs, the table filled
up.
Adjusting my glasses, I sit down in the only free chair. Of course, it’s right by Connor. Thanks, Mama. To say that I hate this
man would be an understatement.
“How are you doing, Hilly Milly?” he asks, calling me by the nickname the football team gave me in high school. See, I’ve
always been a bigger girl. I, personally, love the way I look, but pretty much everyone in school tried to make me feel like shit
about it. The more I ignored them the more they did it, but I wasn’t about to appear weak just because my thighs touch and tits
are huge.
“Don’t fucking call me that, Connor,” I seethe. I hate, hate, hate this man.
“Don’t be like that, Mills. When you’re my wife you’ll learn to speak with better manners,” he says squeezing my knee
painfully under the table. I grab his wrist, bending it backward just like my brothers taught me to do.
“Don’t touch me, asshat.”
“I can’t wait to break you in, Mills. Just you wait.”
For the rest of the meal, I say nothing to him. After lunch, my dad calls me into his study. He likes to intimidate people, so
there are no chairs across from his desk for people to sit in. Every time I come in here, I feel like a little girl about to be
grounded because I didn’t finish my green beans. I stand there for a long time. He’s shuffling through papers, basically ignoring
me. I know whatever he’s about to say, I’m going to hate it.
“You wanted to see me, Dad?” I finally ask after five minutes of shuffling my feet.
“Your mother and I are announcing your engagement on January 10th at the stockholder’s meeting.”
“To Connor?” I sputter, indignantly. My mind is racing. I have to get out of here. Where can I run to so that I don’t have to
marry this man?
“Of course. Who else are we merging with, if not the Forsythe’s.”
“But I don’t want to marry him,” I say.
“You’ll do this for your family, Millicent May Huxley. We need this merger.”
“So you’re pimping me out to that walking STD?”
“Don’t be so dramatic and crass, Millie. You’ll learn to love him.”
“I don’t want to learn to love someone. I want to fall in love, and I want to be the only woman in my husband’s bed. I won’t
get that with him,” I spit.
“Grow up, Millie. Men stray.”
“Bullshit,” I say, cursing in front of him for the first time. “You don’t. Mikey and Steve don’t. Do you hate me or
something?”
“Of course not, princess. I love you, of course I do. Your mother does too.” I didn’t want to cry, but I can’t seem to help the
tears that are coursing down my cheeks.
“They why are you punishing me? Connor will stray before the ink dries on our marriage license.”
“He’s assured me that he won’t.”
“You’re more gullible than I am if you believe that, dad.”
With that, I turn and leave the room. Molly is waiting by the front door with my purse and a handful of tissues.
Silently, I kiss her cheek again, take my stuff, and walk out to my car. As soon as I’m inside, I pull my phone out and call
Gladis before I change my mind. If I have to marry that asshole, there is no way in hell I’m going into that a virgin, not that I’d
ever sleep with him, but I’m not stupid. I wouldn’t stray from my marriage, even if I didn’t want it. Why can’t I tell my parents
to fuck off like I know I need to?
“Hey, girlie. What’s up?”
“Go ahead and set me up,” I say, sniffling.
“What’s wrong? Are you sure?”
“I’ve never been surer of anything in my life.”
“It’s done. Give me a couple of hours.”
We hang up and I pray that I didn’t just make a huge mistake.
chapter
two
Malcolm Porter

Dear God help me. “Are you listening to me, Malcolm?” My mom’s screeching voice makes me sit up like she is in the room
with me. No matter how much money I amass and how successful I am, my mom can make me feel like a little kid.
“Yes, Mother. I hear you.”
“Well good, because your father and I are not getting any younger and we would like grandchildren. Preferably ones with
good breeding on both sides.” Rolling my eyes, I look up and grab the bridge of my nose, annoyed and unable to do anything.
“Now, there is a nice young lady…” And this is where I stop her.
“Stop. Do not say another word, Mother.” She gasps audibly at my tone, and I immediately feel regret, but I cannot let this
become another bridal parade. “I love you and you know it. But, I am a grown man and I do not and will not abide by you
sending throes of women, ones that have nothing to offer me, I might add in front of my face. I will find a wife. If I want one
and when I want one. Do we have an understanding Mother?” silence greets me before she clears her throat.
“I should say we do. Good day, Malcolm.” She hangs up swiftly and my gut begins to ache. I hate disappointing her, but
enough is enough.
“Mr. Porter, John is on line 1.”
“Thank you, Gwynn.”
“John. What a surprise. To what do I owe this pleasure?” I mean that lightly. Nothing is ever pleasurable about talking to
him. John is a member of our board of directors. He came up in this company with my father. He and two others are the sole
remaining original members and because their share is so vast, every decision I make is run through them. My father started this
company and he set it up that way. Checks and balances and all of that. When my father semi-retired, he left me in charge as his
only male heir. He made me into the CEO and bequeathed me most of his remaining shares which is equal to fifty percent with
him holding one percent as a tie-breaker should I need it.
John is the one who always holds out, trying to coax more from me or make me follow his lead. It will never happen, but he
tries, and I can’t stand him. “Malcolm, my boy, I understand there is a party at your folks place in a couple of days.”
“There is indeed. An announcement of sorts.” My father has decided to invest in a production company. He is going to be
the new majority shareholder and he wants to make a formal announcement along with a party. My parents will do anything for
a party.
“I see. Can’t wait. The reason for my call dear boy is because my granddaughter will be here that weekend and I would
love for her to attend. Perhaps you can escort her…” Are you fucking serious?
“I have a date already, John. Sorry. Now if you will excuse me.” Unbelievable. I am getting it from everywhere. Knock.
Knock. “Enter.” When my dad walks in, I curse under my breath. I can't get a damn break.
“Son.”
“Father.”
“First of all, I don’t care much for anyone making my wife cry.” His face is stern as he scolds me, but I can't stop myself
from rolling my eyes. Like hell she was crying. That woman is made of steel.
“I will apologize dad. Now how can I help you?” For fucks sake can I get some peace?
“I came here to give you this.” He drops a business card on my desk.
“Gladis Horner. Relationship matchmaker to the elite and the every day.” I repeat the slogan on the card. “A matchmaker?”
He smirks and nods his head.
“You bet your ass. She’s the best. Look her up.” He smiles and walks out the door. I sit back in my chair and take a second.
Seriously? But, I find myself looking the business up and wow, talk about impressive. The list of names of Hollywood couples
she has paired up is nothing short of downright, amazing.
Before I can stop myself I am shooting an email. What the hell can it hurt? At this rate, I need to find someone so everyone
will get off my back. Knock Knock. It is fucking grand central station in here. “Come in.”
“Sir, I just wanted to see if you needed anything before I took my lunch?” Gwynn's question is normal. A question she asks
me every day, but today, there is something else hidden in it.
“No. I am fine. Enjoy.” She hesitates at the door and looks at me. “Is there something else, Gwynn?”
 “No, sir,” she whispers the last part before walking out, looking over her shoulder and closing the door. What the hell?
Maybe I do need a wife. It seems to be open season around here.
chapter
three
Millicent

“I’m so glad you let me do this. Trust me when I say I found the perfect man for you. He’s uniquely able to understand the
pressures you are under,” Gladis says, and I feel guilty. Swallowing thickly, I shake those thoughts from my head.
“Thank you, Gladis. I really appreciate this, more than you know.” I can’t tell her why I want this, but hopefully, she won’t
be pissed when she finds out I’m using her and this great guy she found for me. Maybe I shouldn’t do this, I hesitate, but forget
about that when she speaks again.
“No problem darling. Malcolm will meet you at Mannheim’s at twelve-forty-five,” she says. “No, Henry, not that one.” I
hear Henry grunt something in response. I laugh as they have a little more back and forth. I’m used to it though. “The
reservation is under his name,” she says, letting me know she’s back to me now.
“Perfect,” I say checking my watch. I have a little over an hour before I have to drive downtown, not that there’s much of a
downtown, but that’s where the restaurant is.
We hang up and I spring into action. I’ve dated some, all blind dates set up by my mother. Those setups came complete with
coordinated outfits to wear. This is the first date I have ever been on that was all up to me. Inside my closet, I slide my dresses
down the rod and pull out a white blouse. Grabbing a pair of jeans, a black body suit, and a pair of heeled black boots, I get
dressed quickly but pay special attention to my makeup and hair. The drive over to the restaurant was uneventful and I used the
time to calm down and gather my thoughts.
I don’t know what I was expecting when I get to the restaurant, but Malcolm Porter wasn’t it. Ridiculously hot Malcolm
Porter. The Malcolm Porter who dates supermodels and other beautiful women. I realize my mouth is hanging open, so I snap it
shut.
“Millicent?” he asks, extending his hand to me. I wish I could tell what he’s thinking. He’s looking at me intently, but I can’t
get a read on his thoughts.
“Millie, but yes, that’s me. It’s nice to meet you, Malcolm,” I say, taking his hand. The second that I do, I resist the urge to
snatch my hand back. After what seems like forever, he releases me and pulls my chair out for me. He joins me across the
table.
After barely ten minutes of easy conversation, I realize that I could like this man, but I can’t. This is just to have a memory I
can live off for the rest of my life. It alarms me how many times I have to remind myself of that. Malcolm’s not at all like the
media portrays him and I know something about that. They call me cold and calculating, but I’m anything but. He’s so genuine.
He doesn’t try to control the conversation and really listens to what I have to say. He orders a large meal, despite this being a
lunch date so I don’t feel weird ordering what I want too.
“I have to attend a party in two days' time. It’s black tie. Would you accompany me?” he asks as we linger over coffee. It’s
like neither one of us wants this date to end. I know that I don’t. I’ve never felt like this before. I’m both hot and cold. Achy.
“Your parent’s annual New Year’s Eve Party?”
“Yes. I’d rather not go at all, but my mother insists, besides it’s for a good cause” he says, rolling his sleeves up. I feel my
eyes widen when I see his sexy tattoos. They cover both arms and I find myself wanting to trace them with my tongue. Is he
covered in them? God, I want to find out. I’ve always wanted a tasteful tattoo, but I’ve always been too scared to get one
because what would society say about me? My mother’s voice rings in my head every time I even think about getting one.
“Like what you see?” he asks, making me snap my eyes up to his. I feel my blush rising at being caught staring… again.
“Yes,” I whisper after clearing my throat. He just grins at me and I forget how to breathe.
“I’m already going, but I’d love to go with you,” I tell him, giggling a little. Since when am I a giggler? He smiles at me
again and I swear my panties catch on fire. He pays the check, and we wait outside of the restaurant while our cars are brought
up by the valet. Again, the conversation is easy. I’ve talked more to this man than I’ve ever spoken to a man who wasn’t in my
employ. Gah, I like him. Not only is he hot, but he’s nicer than I thought he would be.
After the valet hands me my keys and I tip him, I am surprised by the soft kiss Malcolm places on my lips. I shouldn’t have
been. We’d been building up to it all afternoon. It’s the best, sweetest kiss of my life. I don’t have many to compare it to, but
it’s amazing.
“I’ll pick you up at seven at your place.” We exchange numbers and I text him my address. I still live with my parents. I
will until I get married. I hardly ever see them. They spend a lot of their time in Atlanta.
“Sounds good,” I say, more dazed than I would have liked.
I get into my car and drive away. The further I get from him, the more it feels like I can’t breathe.
For something that’s not supposed to mean anything, it really freaking does. Maybe I should cancel? No, I’m doing this. I
want him and I’m going to get that one delicious memory that will carry me through the rest of my life.
For the first time though, I wonder if one taste will ever be enough…
chapter
four
Malcolm
Two Days Later
Fuck. I can’t stop shaking. My blood is pumping through me like a damn oil well that sprung a leak. I have been practically
jacked up on something since the moment I laid eyes on my Millie. Calling her mine is a stretch since she only agreed to
accompany me to my parent's party, but I can’t help it. Everything inside of me is telling me she is mine. Hell, I have fucking
jacked off to a memory of her plump lips for days and the idea that I get to feel them for real has got me on a high. Thank fuck I
am not driving and was smart enough to hire a car for the night. “I have the door.” I tell the driver, getting out.
Standing outside, I check the buttons of my tux, lord forbid my parents do anything that is not formal. Rubbing my hands
down my pants, I wipe the sweat from them and swallow. Crap. She has me all tied up like I am in high school. Before I can
touch the doorbell, the door opens. “You must be Malcolm,” says an older distinguished gentleman. I can see where she gets
her eyes from.
“I am, sir. It is a pleasure to meet you.” Holding out my hand, I am silently praying he can’t tell by how clammy my hands
are, what I plan to do with his daughter tonight.
“Porter. You wouldn’t by any chance be Virgil Porter’s boy?” Shit.
“Yes, I am.” His eyes glint a bit.
“I see. So I suppose you and my daughter are going to the party your parents are throwing to announce the investment in my
production company?” Damn. I think of it from this angle once I figured out who she was. I don’t know much about my father’s
involvement in this. Was it wanted/ Did he strong-arm his way inside the company?
“Yes, Sir.” Then it occurs to me he isn’t dressed. “Are you not attending as well?” Surely my father sent an invite.
“My wife is under the weather, and I don’t attend events like this without my wife. Millicent will be a suitable
representative of our family.” My teeth grind together at the word ‘suitable. Like she is a fucking stand-in for a more prominent
star. Utter bullshit. She is the goddamn star. Hell, she is the damn moon and sun. I can feel my shoulders tensing up and I have
to mentally calm myself. “So how did you meet Millicent?” His questions sound curious but there is something in the tone I
can’t pinpoint. Not to mention from the moment he opened the door he has been staring at me like I am in his way.
He clears his throat waiting for an answer, but then I hear wind chimes in my ears. “Malcolm.” I hear from behind the door.
Squaring with her father, I push the door back and standing in an emerald green dress, with see-through sleeves and what I can
gather is a thigh-high slit, is my angel.
“You look ravishing, Millie,” I tell her, whispering because my throat is clogged with any number of emotions I don’t want
to convey in front of her father. The blush that coats her face, runs down her neck and to my supreme disappointment cannot be
followed to her chest, since she is completely covered.
“Why thank you, Malcolm. You look very dashing.” My chest puffs out with her compliment. She grabs her coat from the
hanger. Reaching past her father who is still lingering and doing something akin to pissing on his stoop, I grab her coat from her
and walk closer to her, pushing her father out of the way. Well… making him move himself.
“Turn around,” I tell her, motioning for her to let me help her into it. The moment it is on her, I turn her back facing me and
begin buttoning her coat. She gasps at first, shocked by my actions. Shit. So am I. I have never felt this level of ownership or
possessiveness before.
“I can button my own coat, Malcolm.” I look up and see she is hiding a smile. Cheeky little angel.
“I know, angel. But what kind of man would I be if I didn't make sure you were warm?” I can see the glow in her eyes, my
words making her feel something. Good. There is more where that comes from. Making sure she is set; she grabs her purse and
I give her my arm. “Let’s go.” She nods before turning to her father.
“Goodnight, Daddy.” He simply looks at her.
“Millicent.” How did someone so cold, produce this warm, beautiful angel? Questions unanswered but not critical, we
make it to the car. The driver gets out to open it for her, but my inner beast wants no one doing anything for his angel.
“I will open it,” I tell him. His hands go up and he backs away. She covers her mouth, but it doesn’t hide the giggle. “Find
that funny do you, angel?” I whisper in her ear while helping her get inside. Shit. I shouldn’t have done that. Her scent, warm
honey, and strawberry flows through my nose and now my cock is fucking panting.
The drive over is quiet, but not in an awkward way. It is comfortable. The moment I got in and the door was closed I
grabbed her hand and haven’t let it go. The car pulls onto the estate, and I groan inwardly looking at all the cars. “Oh wow.
Your parents sure know how to party, huh,” she says, as we pull into the curve.
“Yep.” Once again I get out of the car and open the door for her. Her hand sits in mine. I can't help feeling how perfect we
fit. Of course, there are photographers. “Miss Huxley. Miss Huxley.” I hear them shouting her name and she stops. Hand on my
waist, she turns us and poses for the camera before we continue walking in. “Have to deal with this a lot?” She shrugs.
“Part of the family business.” As soon as we are inside, we coat check and then make our way into the party. “Wow.” I nod
my head, seriously annoyed at the amount of lavishness and shameless flaunting going on in here. I recognize the governor, and
a few CEOs of Fortune 500 companies. Some starlets, actors, models, you name them they are here.
 “Millicent, darling. I didn’t know you would be here.” Hollywood madam Forlani Clitx walks around, and air kisses her.
My eyebrow goes up, realizing for the first time, she might actually be more recognized than me and I don’t fucking like it. Not
because I am an egomaniac, but because I want her attention on me. Period.
“Lani, hi. It has been so long.” Her friend looks at me and smiles.
“Who’s your friend?” she asks, licking her lips. Millie smiles and introduces us. “Wow. What a hunk.” Her hand slides
down my chest. I look at Millie panicked and in need of assistance, but she is getting a kick out of this and giggling.
“Lani, leave him alone. I don’t think he is ready for you.” Jesus.
“Pity. I could make some serious money off him. Call me.” She slips her card into my suit pocket, and I damn near choke on
air.
“What the hell?” I say to her, guiding her to the other side of the room.
“There you are.” I hear my mother's exasperated voice and turn, pulling Millie further into my side.
“Mother.” She looks at my arms, giving me a questioning gaze before turning her attention to my angel.
“Apparently I raised an unpolished menace. Excuse my son. You are?” For fucks sake.
“Forgive me, mother. This is Millicent. Millicent, this my mother Hana Porter.” Millicent holds her hand out.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Porter.” They shake hands.
“Anyone who has my son clinging to them like his favorite playground snack is definitely my pleasure to meet.” Dear lord,
I never know what the hell is going to leave her mouth. Millie giggles and that fucking sound is going to put me to bed every
night. “Well, you two mingle and we will catch up. I have to continue to host.” She kisses my cheek and then walks away.
“I am so sorry about her,” I say escorting her through the room.
“She is no different than my mom. I am used to it.” Thank God.
For what seems like forever we mingle, dance, and talk to everyone, most of whom want to talk to my angel. I know she has
a job as a producer and she is well-known by the networks, but I am not fucking dumb. These men see her, her purity and
sunshine and they want it for themselves. “Millicent.” See what the fuck I mean. We both turn to see Connor Forsythe walking
toward us. My arm has not left her back since we have been here, so I feel her body become rigid and it sets me on alert.
“Connor,” I say, stopping him from moving any closer.
“Porter.” His voice is stern, but he is all piss and no vinegar.
“How can we help you?” I ask him, making sure to say ‘we’. His eyes haven’t left my angel though and it is pissing me off.
“I would like to know why my Millie is here on your arm like she belongs to you.” What the hell did he just say to me? I
step toward him, ready to show him something, but a small hand on my chest stops me.
“Calm down big boy. I got this.” Her sultry voice, giving me a fucking nickname, cools some of the ire but not enough.
Turning to Connor, she says in a low voice. “I belong to myself, Connor. Nothing has been decided, despite what the hell our
parents say. We will discuss this later.” His nostrils begin to flare. I know he wants to say something else, but he thinks better
of it and walks away.
Not sure I can control myself; I pull her into a dark corner. “Tell me what the fuck is going on, angel. Why does that
womanizing piece of shit think you belong to him?” I growl into her ear, before kissing her shoulder and neck. She moans,
moving her head giving me more access. “Answer me, baby.” My tongue trails up her neck, toward her ear.
“Our-our parents are trying to arrange a business merger that starts with us getting married.” A roar I didn’t know I had in
me emerges. I am damn glad the band is playing. I swear to fuck I hear glasses shatter at the vibration moving through me.
“It’s not happening. Do you hear me, angel? You will never be his wife. Tell me you know that.” She mewls a little and that
is when I realize I have her leg hiked up around my waist, rubbing my full-mast cock against her middle. “I can’t hear you,
angel. Say it.”
“It-it won’t happen. Please Malcolm.” That’s right, Connor. She’s begging for me, and I am going to give her all of it.
chapter
five
Millicent

Malcolm all but drags me out of his parent’s house and to the car and I let him.
“Stay with me,” he says as he kisses my neck.
“Just until midnight,” I tell him. I’m not sure why… it’s only nine, but I know that if I stay the night, I’ll never want to leave.
I can do this. I can give this god among men my virginity and walk away unscathed. I can be a modern woman, taking what I
need and going home. Easy peasy.
“I’ll never make it to my place and yours is out,” he says, alternatively kissing, licking, and sucking my neck. It feels soooo
good. Nothing has ever felt so… real… so right. “Take us to the Tavish, Marshall,” he tells his driver before rolling the
partition back up. The driver doesn’t answer, but the car lurches into motion.
“Malcolm,” I whine, not exactly sure what I’m whining for.
“You’re so fucking beautiful, Millie. Tell me you know that don’t you?” I don’t actually, so I don’t answer, I just run my
hands over the massive expanse of his back. “This fucking dress has been driving me crazy all night. All those men drooling
over you. I fucking hated it, but you left on my arm. They all saw,” he growls, sounding like a caveman. Why do I love that so
much?
We hurry inside his building. He punches in an elevator code and we’re off. Once inside the elevator, he kisses me with so
much passion, that my knees almost give out. “I got you, angel,” he says, and I get goosebumps. The elevator opens straight into
the living room. I was so nervous and excited I didn’t realize he owns the penthouse. Of course he does though. He’s Malcolm
Porter.
The next thing I know, I'm pinned to the wall to the left of the elevator. Both of my hands are locked in just one of his larger
hands above my head. He runs his hand up my leg through the slit in the side of my dress. His thick, surprisingly calloused
fingers caress my thigh. He groans when he moves my panties to the side and runs his fingers through my wetness. I moan long
and loud.
“You're so wet, angel. I'm gonna destroy this pussy for any other man,” he says pulling his fingers from me. I nod like an
idiot, but in this moment, I can already tell that is the truth. My lips devour his. His deft fingers find the eye hook above my
zipper, and he opens it, then slides the zipper down. My dress pools at my feet. He pulls away from my mouth, leaning away
from me. I lift one heeled foot, then the other, kicking away the dress. I’m still in my forest green bra and panties. He’s looking
at me like he wants to eat me and God, do I want him to…
With my arms still up on the wall, my ass is popped out, making it look bigger than it already is. His alluring green eyes
roam up and down my body. Once he sees the garters hanging down on my thick thighs, he mumbles something, but I can't
understand what he's saying. I'm pretty sure I can hear my heart pounding in my ears, anything else is impossible to hear. He
pulls the cups of my bra down, my nipples instantly hardening in the cool air of the room. He sucks in a breath but doesn’t say
anything. He stares for a long time until I can’t take it anymore. I’m squirming under his gaze. My wetness is dripping down my
thighs. I need something. I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I drop them and take my bra off, leaving me in just my
garters and panties.
“What?” I ask, praying he doesn’t stop this.
“Christmas was last week. I must have been really good this year to get you as a present,” he growls before his lips find
mine. I have to touch him, so I help him shrug his tux jacket to the floor. I unknot his tie and toss it too. Leaning back from him, I
unbutton his shirt and toss it next. His undershirt goes too.
“Why do have so many layers on,” I moan, frustrated.
“Patience,” he says. “We’ve got all night.”
“Just until midnight,” I remind him.
“We’ll see,” he says as I get his belt open. His pants hit the floor with a metallic clank and my pussy clenches at the sound.
Reaching into his boxers, I find his hard cock.
“Oh, shit,” I gasp. It’s huge.
“Look your fill, angel, because like I said, I’m going to destroy you.” He is. I know he is. He leans down and takes my
nipple into his mouth. I hiss. He sucks and bites it until I’m a writhing mess. He moves to the other one and gives it the same
treatment. He moves his tongue down my belly, stopping to run his fingers reverently over the lace edge of my panties. He
drops to his knees and hooks his thumbs into the waistband and slides them down my legs.
“Step,” he demands, and I do so immediately. He places biting kisses on my thighs before his tongue swipes through my
folds. I cry out as I grip his hair so hard. He dips his tongue back into my pussy. Lifting one of my legs over his shoulder, he
devours me. It doesn’t take long until I’m coming, screaming his name like a possessed banshee. He stands, licking my juices
off of his lips. “You taste so fucking good.”
“It’s my turn to taste you now,” I say, stepping out of my heels. I lose the garter belt too before dropping to my knees in front
of him.
“Fuck, angel. You look so beautiful on your knees ready to take my cock,” he says as I tug his boxers down his legs until
they pool at his ankles.
“Step,” I say, and he kicks them away. I look up at him and lick my lips. He groans. When I wrap my lips around the angry
head of his shaft, that groan turns into a moan. I moan too as his precum hits my tastebuds. He tastes so good. He tastes like he’s
mine. No, don’t think like that.
He’s too big to fit in my mouth, so I use my fists to stroke him off while I take him as deep as I can. When he hits the back of
my throat, he shouts my name and grips my hair, using my head as leverage to fuck my mouth. I love it.
I whine when he abruptly pulls me off of his cock. “Hey!” I say, giggling as he all but runs, dragging me along with him,
toward the big bedroom in the back of the room. The giant bed looks so soft, but I’m thrown on it before I get the chance to say
anything. He’s between my spread thighs so fast, that I haven’t even taken a breath yet.
“I’m not coming anywhere but in that cunt, angel.” I want that so badly; I don’t think to tell him to put a condom on or that
I’ve never done this before… He slams his cock into me, taking my cherry with such force, my boobs hit me in the face.
“Ahhh,” I scream. The pain is instant but just as quick as it started, it ebbs into an intense full feeling. I’m being stretched
and it feels… amazing. He stops mid-thrust. I’ll never forget the stunned look on his face that quickly turns into awe and
something primal I can’t quite identify.
“Fuck, angel. Why didn’t you tell me? I would have…” he begins, but I cut him off. My palm touches his cheek, and he
leans into it after kissing it.
“It’s perfect, Malcolm. Move, please. I need more. Give me everything,” I demand, and he begins to move again.
“You’re mine, Millicent. Mine. This pussy is mine.”
“I know,” I admit. No matter what happens tomorrow, I’ll never be able to do this with another man. Never.
He fucks me so hard; I have no choice but to meet him thrust for thrust. It feels so good. I come as soon as he rubs my clit.
He shouts my name as he comes inside me. He drops down on me, exhausted, and I wrap my arms around him. His cock is still
inside me. He kisses my lips, my neck, my chest, everywhere he can reach.
“Fuck, Millie. That was amazing. You’re so tight. I’ve never felt anything like you before.”
“I know. It was for me too,” I say kissing him back.
After three more mind-blowing orgasms, he’s fast asleep. The clock on the nightstand says 11:59 and I know it’s time to go.
I don’t want to, but I know that I need to. Using the notepad I found by the phone in the kitchen, I write him a note, crying the
entire time. I dress in silence, his snores occasionally ringing out. Still crying, I walk out of the hotel and wait for my Uber. My
phone rings for the fifth time since I’ve been outside. I suck up my tears and answer.
“Hi, Mama,” I say.
“Finally. Happy New Year.”
“Happy New Year. How are you feeling.”
“The flu is no joke, but Calvin Forsyth called your father. They want your answer now. They would like an April
wedding.” April, as in four months from now? No. No way. Not possible.
“I need time, Mama. Please. I need to think about it.”
“Alright baby doll. I’ll just tell your daddy I couldn’t reach you. You’ll let me know?”
“Yes,” I say, sniffling.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. I’m fine,” I lie. I’m not fine, I think as I get into the Uber. The further I get from Malcolm the more I know I’ll never
be fine again. He made me feel like I was the only woman in the world. He made me love him and I walked away. Burning,
bitter regret courses through my veins.
No matter what happens now, I know that I won’t be marrying Connor, merger be damned.
chapter
six
Malcolm
The Next Day
Hmmm. My dreams were amazing. Filled with my angel and how she felt wrapped around my cock in my arms. The way her
delicate breath dragged across my skin while she moaned, keened, and whined for her next orgasm. Hell, the sound of the hitch
in her voice right before she screamed my name over and over, begging me to stop, but wrapping her legs around tighter to
keep me inside of her. No matter how many times through the night I turned to her, she welcomed me, thighs and arms spread,
opening for me like I belonged inside of her. I do. Speaking of…
Moving my arm to the side, I turn my head when I feel cold sheets. “What the hell?” I get out of bed, naked, searching the
entire room. When I don't find her in my bedroom or bathroom, I grab some sweats and rush downstairs. “What the fuck?” She
is nowhere. “Damn it!” I yell, smacking my hand into the counter and then I see it. A note. Tentatively, I pick up knowing
whatever it says is going to rip my heart out.

Malcolm,
What can I say? I am a coward. I want you to know that last night was amazing. It
exceeded all of my expectations and to be honest, so did you. However, my life is changing quite
rapidly, and I don’t know if I have room for a relationship and I don’t think I want one. Not
yet anyway, when there are so many obstacles I have to overcome. So I am asking you not to
come after me, Malcolm. Please. I don’t think I would have the strength to resist you. I need
time to think, make decisions, and find my place within my family’s business, and you, big boy,
are a distraction. I won’t be home so don’t bother looking for me there. My number is also being
changed as I write this.
I won’t forget our night, Malcolm. I know this is going to upset you but remember our
agreement. It was just until midnight.
Millie
My ass hits the breakfast stool and the paper falls from my hands. Never have I had something come back and bite me in the
ass as swiftly and as painful as this. Even when we made that ridiculous agreement last night, my mind was protesting it. I want
forever and I thought I could convince her in the morning, after taking her once more over breakfast. “Fuuuuck.” I shove
everything off the counter and scream at my own stupidity.
Everything is running through my head. The party, fucking Conner the douche, and even her father who rubbed me the wrong
way. The fucked up thing is, what do I do? Every fiber in my body wants to go to her and demand she admit there is no turning
back. I want her to say she belongs to me, and I will do the same. But, didn’t she ask me for space? She said she had things to
take care of. And what the hell did she mean she won’t be home? Like ever? Is she moving? Where is she going? Then a
thought crosses my mind and I have to fight myself to make it go away, but she is not marrying Conner the douche. Right? Then
it clicks.
Picking up my phone I dial the one number I know can call and probably knows everything. “Good morning Mr. Porter.
How are you?”
“Gladis, good morning. I am...flustered.” I tell her the truth walking through my house and realizing how empty it feels now.
She was only here for hours, taking up space in my bed, space I no longer want to feel empty and already I know I won’t be
able to sleep without her.
“Did last night not go as planned?”
“It went exactly as planned.” I grumble thinking about that stupid deal.
“Then may I ask why you are ringing me?”
“I would like to know if you know her new number?”
“Ah. I see. Yes. I do know it.” Thank fuck.
“Excellent. May I have it please?”
“No.” What did she just say?
“No?”
“No. All of my clients sign a confidentiality as well as a nondisclosure agreement when they use my services and it extends
to the person I match them with, unless they chose to disclose certain…information.” Son of a bitch.
“Fuck!” The curse is par for the course, at this point. I get what she is saying, but I don't fucking like it.
“My suggestion, Mr. Porter, is to start from the beginning and make it count.” Her parting words before she hangs up lead
me to believe she has spoken to her in the last few hours, and she knows of our agreement. Dumb ass. I am such a dumbass.
I turn and look at my bed, back in my room and the red spot, proving to me she was here and that her innocence was
breached by me, makes my cock hard and angry. “Damn it!” My phone is going off and I know it is work. I just…I don’t care. I
might be a dumbass, but she still belongs to me. I will give her time, but only so much. Eventually, she will be back in my arms
and bed, where she belongs.
chapter
seven
Millicent

“No, Gladis. I don’t want to see him again,” I say, elated that he’s asked her about me. What is wrong with me? I’m thankful
she let me stay at her house, but it’s just temporary. Changing my number was impulsive, but what’s done is done.
“Alright, darling. I told him I’d relay the message. Now tell me what happened.” Her patient voice is soothing to my raw
nerves. I know I did this shit to myself, but it still hurts.
I tell Gladis, my friend, not Gladis the matchmaker, everything that happened last night. She listens to me quietly, letting me
get it all out. It comes out jumbled but she doesn’t ask me any questions, used to the over-excited way I explain things.
“And then I left,” I finish, begging myself not to start crying again, but it’s no use. Tears well up in my eyes and spill over.
Love is ridiculous, love at first sight is even freaking worse.
“Oh Millie, you’re an idiot,” she says bluntly.
“Excuse me?” I ask indignantly, but I know she’s not wrong.
“Look, I’m a professional, but that man has got it bad for you. That’s all I’m going to say on the matter.”
“Our one night was perfect as it was,” I say.
“I’m sure it was, but do you really want to deprive yourself of a lifetime of nights like that, for what? A misguided sense
that you don’t deserve him.”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“Love is the most complicated thing there is. It’s also the thing that makes life worth living.”
“I know you’re right, but I can’t right now. I need to talk to my parents. He’ll move on. Men like him always do,” I say, but
even as I say that, it sounds wrong. My heart breaks a little bit more. Soon, there will be nothing left.
Later that night, I walk into my house, catching my parents at dinner. I sit down with them but decline to eat, having eaten at
Gladis and Henry’s. I do take the glass of white wine Molly hands me.
“Thank you,” I tell her. “You look better, Mama.”
“I feel so much better,” she says taking a bite of her soup.
“I’m glad. We need to talk.”
“You’re not marrying Connor Forsythe are you?” Daddy asks.
“I’m not.”
“I caught him in the janitor’s closet at work yesterday with one of my undersecretaries.”
“I’m honestly not surprised by that,” I say.
“I should have listened to you.”
“Well, I may have been harsh with the pimping out thing, but I stand by everything else I said. He would have made my life
miserable on top of making me a laughingstock in the industry. Speaking of, I’m a grown woman now. There needs to be some
changes in my job description to reflect that.”
“Changes?”
“I don’t want to do children’s programming anymore. I want to work exclusively on romance.” I pull my briefcase up onto
the table and pull out two presentation packets, sliding one to each of them. “I have tons of ideas, including a separate division
called Amour. The television shows and movies we produce under the Amour banner are designed for the romantic at heart.
The programming is to be controlled solely by me and Mama. This is what I want to do, and I know it will bring Huxley
Productions up from the number five slot.” Daddy looks over the materials, not saying anything. I look over at Mama, she’s
beaming at me. After a few minutes, I can’t take the silence. “What do you think, Daddy?”
“Have you selected a script to produce? We need an example to show the board that this will be lucrative.”
“I have,” I say reaching into my briefcase again and pulling out a script for The Duke’s Wife, a period drama. It’s smutty
goodness that will light up the big screen. Period dramas are so in right now. I loved the book and when I saw the author was
selling a script for it, I bought it, using my own money.
“Alright, we’ll test it out,” he says, smiling at me.
Finally. He sees me as more than a little girl. Now, I just hope I can pull this off.
Four Weeks Later
I’m in my little office trailer on the set of The Duke’s Wife. The lead actress, Camilla Rhodes, threw a temper tantrum so
the director called for an hour break. I’ve been feeling like shit for a few days now, and I missed my period. I took a pregnancy
test and now I’m looking at the bright pink plus sign staring back at me. I should have known Malcolm would leave a little
piece of himself behind. My hands go to cradle my stomach and I smile. He left a piece of himself behind.
Immediately, I make a doctor's appointment to confirm. She can fit me in this afternoon. We are on location in Macon, so I
get into my car and drive back to Savannah, making it just in time. Doctor Sanders confirms that I’m pregnant. As soon as I’m
back in my car, tears of joy course down my face. I’m going to be a mother and Malcolm is the father. I should have known this
would happen. He took me so many times bare. I just never thought I’d get so lucky the first time I had sex. I stare at the
sonogram photo, proof of the baby growing inside of me, for a long time before driving to my Savannah office. I was due here
tomorrow anyway for a meeting about my next project, so I decide to stay in town rather than driving back down to Macon
tonight.
At home, I think of the best way to tell Malcolm he’s going to be a father. I decide to tell him after filming wraps up so that
I can take some time off before the next project starts filming. I keep quiet about it because I want him to be the first person to
know. This is the best and hardest secret I’ll ever keep.
chapter
eight
Malcolm

Four suck ass weeks have passed, and I am losing my mind. Within days I knew where she was and had her new number
without the help of Gladis thanks to a contact I met years ago named Hagen Jorgensen. I had decided to give it a week. Give
her a week to get acclimated to her new positions and to come to terms with us, then I was going to go to her and take her.
Instead, I got an emergency call from an investor in Bangkok, who wanted my company to join them in a hotel venture, but our
lack of a real estate portfolio was making them nervous, and I needed to go in person and assure them. As anyone who has done
business in Asia knows, they do it differently there. So, it took two and a half weeks, numerous outings, and lots of schmoozing
to prove we had the balls for this. Weeks that took me away from my woman and making her mine one hundred percent.
Now, I am stuck at this family dinner, with my parents and two sisters, and my mind is anywhere but here. Evidence.
“Booker, are you listening?” And here we go. My little sister, Lola, still calls me by the nickname she gave me when she was
little. As the oldest, I was always busy with some sort of activity. I am 10 years older than Lola and 11 years older than Darcy.
Well, when Lola was six, she lost a tooth and couldn’t say brother. It sounded like Booker. My parents thought it was adorable
and the girls got a kick out of it so now, that is what they call me. “You seem awfully distracted.” She continues to say.
“I’m sorry. I am a bit distracted, Lo. There is somewhere else I need to be right now, but it is also the same place I
shouldn't go.”
“Ooooo. Sounds like girl trouble.” Darcy laughs like she is making a joke but the grimace on my face shows her how
serious I am. “Wait. Is it seriously girl trouble?” she asks. She tries to whisper but considering the fact that everyone stops
talking and doing what they are doing to turn around and listen, I would say she wasn’t successful.
“Was it the young lady you brought to the party?” My mom asks, sipping her mimosa.
“Yes, mom. She is your future daughter in law and the mother of your grandchildren.” I answer being serious as fuck.
“She was Virgil Huxley’s daughter, wasn’t she?” My father is finally weighing in.
“She is.”
“Wait! Are you talking about Millicent Huxley? The movie producer turned writer?” I nod my head tired of answering the
same question over again.
“Isn’t she supposed to marry…”
“No one but me!” I answer in no uncertain terms. My sister steps back, startled by the drum in my voice but I can’t help it.
The mere thought of her with another man is going to set me off.
“Well, shit.” Lola says, covering her mouth.
“Language,” Mom hisses.
“So, what's the problem?” Dad asks, finishing up the food on the grill.
“Not really sure. She said she needed time to get her life in order and get control of her life. She said I would be a
distraction. The thing is, I get all of that, I do, I just…”
“You need her.” My father finishes my sentence, but his eyes are on my mom.
“Exactly.”
“Well, damn big bro, seems to me you need to just go for it and don’t stop until you get what you want. Be the man most
men won’t be. Honest, vulnerable and willing to fight. Dirty if you have too.” Lola says, staring off into space. There is
something in her voice I cannot pinpoint but whatever it is, she seems, sad.
Lola has had it rough. She is the youngest and as a child, she was diagnosed with childhood cancer in her chest. It affected
her heart and as you can imagine, my entire family was devastated. We rallied around her and did what we could. Me, less than
most considering how busy I always was with school and such, but when I was home, I helped.
My parents had to keep her inside most days, not able to risk her being exposed to germs and bacteria. The hope was that
her treatment and a careful environment would eliminate a heart transplant being necessary and it worked. The unfortunate side
effect was she spent a lot of time at home and less time around people. Hell, she was even homeschooled for most of her life.
Even now, I can see my parents still fuss over her and I think it is finally taking its toll.
I pull her into my arms and hug her, whispering in her ear. “If you need to talk brat, I am here.” I kiss her forehead and pull
back. Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes, but she nods and walks out of the room. “Anyone want to tell me what is going on
with her?” I ask. My parents look at one another and then then at me and Darcy. I can see she is just as confused and concerned
as me.
“She’s just…wandering,” Mom says unconvincingly. I am not fooled and if the eye-roll from Darcy is any indication,
neither is she. Something is going on, but right now, I have to focus on getting my girl back. Lola’s advice rings in my mind. I
am done waiting. Kissing my mom and dad on their cheeks, I walk out phone to my ear.
“Lawrence, I need a ticket to Atlanta, leaving tonight.” I know I could drive it in three hours, but I need the time on the
plane, to plan and plot and use my hands to make those plans come to fruition.
“Certainly sir. Returning..?”
“Not sure yet. I will let you know.”
“Certainly.” Hanging up knowing the ticket will be in my email in minutes, I pull up to my house and run inside. In the door,
locking it, I am stopped in my tracks.
“What the fuck?” There is a trail of clothes and shoes leading from the door, up the stairs. For a brief moment, I allow
myself to get excited thinking she came back to me, but the scent is off and so is the type of clothing on the floor. “I don’t have
time for this shit,” I say to myself taking the stairs three at a time. My bedroom door is closed, which it wasn’t when I left.
Opening it, I curse when I see who is in my bed. “Gwynn, put on your motherfucking clothes and get out of my house.” Are you
kidding me? She scurries to the foot of the bed, naked and making my stomach turn. Her hand reaches for me, and I jerk back,
the thought of another woman touching me sending hives up my arm.
“But Malcolm, I have been waiting for you. Waiting for us. I am exactly what you need,” she pleads. I grab her clothes from
the floor and throw them to her.
“You are nothing to me and damn sure are not made for me. I have found my wife, and some money-hungry twit who barely
eats is not it. Now, if you are not gone in thirty fucking seconds I am going to have you arrested for breaking and entering.” She
gasps, shocked at my language. I move back as she passes me, not looking at her so she knows how fucking serious I am. “Oh,
and another thing…you’re fucking fired.” She runs out of the house, sniffling and crying.
I pull out my duffel and pack a few things. Looking at the bed, I frown knowing there is no way I am going to bring my wife
back here to a bed another woman was laying in. Shuddering, I call my mom's assistant. “Carol. Can you please order me a
new bed and have the one in my home trashed? Oh and please schedule assistant interviews for me for a week from now.
Males only.”
“Yes, Mister Porter.” Good. Now with that out of the way, I can go and bring my woman home.
chapter
nine
Millicent
Two Weeks Later
So much has happened in the last two weeks. I haven’t had a chance to do anything but deal with this production. I thought it
was all going to implode, but I got Jensen Marbury to sign a lucrative five-picture deal with us. He’s replacing the lead actor
on The Duke’s Wife. Miles Linton couldn’t or wouldn’t deal with Camilla and Jensen agreed to take over the role. It was an
easy swap out since Miles had only filmed two scenes. I went into the meeting with him prepared to beg him to take over the
role, he was the one who suggested the deal. He heard about Amour and wanted to be a part of it. I got that deal signed so
freaking fast, which is why the studio’s lawyer, is on his way up here now for a meeting to make sure all the I’s are dotted, and
the T’s are crossed. I’ve only been in my Atlanta office for about twenty minutes. I know I said I’d wait until filming was over
to tell Malcolm, but it’s eating me up inside. I feel awful keeping something like this from him. I don’t want him to think I
cheated him out of anything. Something tells me that Malcolm would want to be involved every step of the way.
“Lennon Branch to see you,” Mabel says coming through the intercom.
“Send him up,” I reply. Man, I’ve missed my cushy, super-air-conditioned, offices in Savannah and Atlanta. I look out at the
Atlanta skyline. I love it here, but Savannah is home. It’s only March but ever since I got pregnant, I’m so freaking sweaty.
Some people say it’s a pregnant woman’s glow, but it’s fucking sweat, straight up. I waft a pile of papers over my face,
creating a very much-needed breeze.
My office door is open when Lennon breezes in. My hackles raise when he closes it behind him. He’s not carrying anything.
No folders, no briefcase, nothing. I already don’t like this. I move from where I was looking out the window to behind my
desk. He advances on me, reaching me before I make it to the relative safety of having three feet of solid oak between us.
“Lennon,” I say cheerfully, though I don’t mean it. Being in this business, I’ve put up with men like this since I was a child.
It’s bullshit, but it’s a boys club and they pretty much do whatever they want until they get caught. “It’s nice to see you,” I lie.
“Your assistant said you wanted to discuss the compensation level per film for Jensen Marbury. Did you bring the contract?”
“No, doll, I didn’t.” Ugh. So predictable. If I wasn’t pregnant, I’d deck him, but I don’t know what he’d do if I did that.
“So how do you propose we go over it?” I ask, unable to hide the fact that I’m pissed off. Either he’s too dense to notice or
he doesn’t care, because he reaches out and trails a finger down my face and then further down my arm, where he grabs me in a
tight grip. My skin is actually crawling. I’m actively trying to get his hand off of me using my other hand.
“I’d say any changes we make should be made over cocktails and perhaps hotel room sheets,” he says, and I immediately
take a step back, wanting absolutely nothing to do with this fuckery. His employment is about to be terminated. You’d think a
corporate lawyer would know about sexual harassment.
“Get your fucking hands off my woman,” a hauntingly familiar voice growls after the door is pushed open. It hit the wall
behind it with such force, that it’s still reverberating. I’ve never been so relieved in my life. He looks a little more rumpled
than the last time I saw him, but no less handsome.
My thoughts are jumbled as I look at him:
He looks so good.
He looks pissed.
I missed him so much.
I love him.
My panties are instantly wet. It’s almost a Pavlovian response.
chapter
ten
Malcolm

“I am sorry sir, but she is in a meeting right now.” Some woman at the makeshift reception desk tells me. She has been saying it
for the last twenty minutes and it is really pissing me off. I did not come here to be stalled by a woman at a damn desk. “Good
morning. How can I help you?” She asks another gentleman who walks up.
“Yes. I have a meeting with Millicent Huxley. The name is Lennon Branch,” he says, winking at her. The blush on her
cheeks is ridiculous, but it is his obvious playboy vibe that has me on alert. I don't like him and something about him is
familiar. I am standing here, watching this young punk flirt with the receptionist, and as much as I want to call her out on it, I
know this is my chance.
“Of course Mr. Branch. She is waiting on you. Top floor. Suite 200.” So my baby is on the top. Good to know. I walk away
for a while, letting some time pass before walking back up to the desk.
“Is there a restroom while I wait for her to become available?”
“Yes. Last door on the left.” Excellent, right by the elevator. Nodding my head, I walk to the restroom and actually go in.
Looking at myself in the mirror, I note how disheveled I look. I chuckle and shake my head.
“My how the mighty have fallen,” I say to myself, before washing my hands and running them through my hair. Once out of
the door, I peek and see that she is distracted yet again. I don’t move until the elevator opens and I sneak on, smiling at myself. I
still got it.
The entire ride up I am questioning my decision to pop in on her like this, but as soon as I wonder if I am doing the right
thing, picturing another night without her in my arms stops me from turning back. “Go big or go home,” I say to myself. Shaking
it off, the minute the door opens, I straighten my back and walk out. I am immediately impressed by the office itself. There is
something so open and freeing about it. I know most of it can be attributed to the all-glass walls, but there is something so
simplistic about it as well.
I watch as I continue to walk, as who I presume to be the receptionist, gets up and leaves her desk. Thank fuck. Without
knocking, I forget she is in a meeting and walk into her office. Apparently just in time.
Playboy from downstairs has his hand on her arm. “I’d say any changes we make should be made over cocktails and
perhaps hotel room sheets.” My Millie steps back a little but keeps her composure. Good for her because I’m not.
“Get your fucking hands off my woman,” I growl at him, walking further into the room.
“Malcolm. What are you doing here?” she asks.
“Apparently, saving you from this piece of shit.”
“I don’t need…” She tries to argue which is cute, but dipshit interrupts her.
“Who the hell are you?” he asks, buttoning his jacket.
“Her fiancé. Now I won't say it again. Walk away from her and get the fuck out. Now.” It’s almost comical when he stands
straighter and walks around to my side of the desk.
“I don’t think I will get out. The lady hasn’t asked me to leave.” He smirks like he thinks this is going to end any other way.
“Actually,” Millie starts saying. “I was in the middle of a...”
“Ah, shit!” He yelps when my fist meets his face. I know she was about to give me some bullshit, but seriously, I need this
fuck out of her office before I end up in jail.
“Malcolm! What the hell are you doing?” She yells at me running to the table to grab a napkin.
“You hit me,” he cries like fucking bitch, holding his nose.
“No shit. There is plenty more where that came from.” She is giving me the kill switch face and I smile at how fucking cute
she is. He walks to the door, nose swelling and bleeding.
“I am going to sue you,” he says like some parting shot.
“Here. My lawyer’s number.” I throw the card at him before locking the door behind him. I know she is talking behind me,
but right now all I hear is water running in my ears. I’m so fucking amped up right now, sirens are going off in my head,
warning me to take a deep breath and count.
“Are you listening to me, Malcolm? You cannot come into my office, assault my…” I turn around at the word assault and
stalk towards her slowly. Gulping, she stops talking and begins back away from me. Smart woman.
 “That was hardly an assault, angel. That was a man staking his claim and getting rid of all threats.” Her back is to the wall.
Her chest is rising and falling so quickly, that I can hear every inhale and exhale. I lean closer to her, looking her in the eyes.
When I am inches from her mouth, I lick over her lips before moving to her ear and taking a second to smell the scent I have
been missing. “The real assault, baby, is what I am going to be doing to this pussy right on your desk, right now.” With my
mouth slanted over hers, I wait for the protest, and when it doesn’t come, I know I have her where I want her. With me.
chapter
eleven
Millicent

One second my skin is crawling, and the next Malcolm is licking every inch of me. I’m on my back on my desk. My skirt is
hiked up around my waist and I have no idea where my panties are. His hard cock is drilling into me, and I love it.
“I’m going to breed this pussy and tie you to me forever,” he growls, continuing to thrust into me. There is nothing but
pleasure this time. He owns me, body and soul. Nothing has ever felt so right as it does when he’s inside me.
“Too late,” I moan without thinking. He pauses, looking down at me. In a panic, I open my eyes and stare at him.
“What angel?” he asks, his fingers caressing my cheek.
“I’m already pregnant,” I mewl, needing him to move more than I need my next breath.
“Are you telling me I knocked you up on our first try?” I can hear the awe in his voice.
“Yes,” I whisper. I can see it in his eyes the second he realizes I’ve been keeping this from him. They darken for a split
second.
“Were you ever going to tell me?” he asks harshly. His cock is still hard inside of me. My pussy clenches around him and
he growls. “Don’t tease me, angel. Answer me.” He moves to pull out of me, but I wrap my legs around his waist tighter.
“Yes. I swear I was. Don’t be mad at me,” I say, tears threatening to spill.
“Ah, shit. Don’t cry, Millie baby. I’m not mad,” he says blessedly thrusting into me again. He’s not gentle, not that I want
him to be. The scrapping of the wood on the floor is loud but it’s music to my ears.
Once I come, he does too. We leave my office hand in hand and drive to the airport. Round two was the mile-high club,
rounds three and four took place in his bed. I’m sore everywhere, but it was worth it. I’m lying on his chest, ready to go again
when he asks me the inevitable question about our baby.
“When did you find out?”
“Two weeks ago,” I tell him. He’s running his fingers over my back in lazy circles. I love it. “Are you sure you’re not mad?
I should have told you I was a virgin and that I wasn’t on the pill. It was just supposed to be one night.”
“It stopped being one night when I popped your cherry, angel. You were mine before that, but after that, there would never,
could never be anyone for me but you.”
“Me either. I was scared. So scared. I was half in love with you when we went out to lunch, but by the time I left your
apartment, I was so far gone, that I didn’t know what to do.”
“You love me?” he asks, his fingers pausing. I lift my head in order to look at him.
“Yes. I love you; I don’t expect…” I begin but he cuts me off with a kiss.
“I love you too,” he says when he releases my lips. I kiss him again. “So fucking much. I was lost without you. Nothing had
any fucking meaning anymore. I had to find you.”
“How did you find me? Did Gladis tell you?”
“No, I have other methods, my love.”
“I bet you do,” I say placing light kisses all over his chest after unbuttoning his shirt. “This is new.” I run my fingers over
the one and only tattoo on his chest. My name is perfectly placed over his heart.
“I couldn't live without you. You dug your way into my soul just like any good angel would do. Marry me and make me the
happiest man on Earth.”
What? We barely know each other. Earth-shattering sex and a baby do not make a good, lasting marriage. Do they? My
mind is going a thousand miles per hour when he grabs my chin, forcing me to look at him.
God, I love him.
chapter
twelve
Malcolm

I am lying here, holding the woman I love in my arms after reminding her about the magic we shared. I am over the moon to
find out she is pregnant with my child. It worked the first fucking time. Now, I am feeling a little deflated while she stares at me
concerned and once again closed back up. “Angel, I asked you to marry me.” She is biting her lip looking on the verge of tears
and I don't get it.
“I know. I know you did, Malcolm, I just…I don't think I can.” What?
“You don’t think you can what, baby?”
“Marry you. At least not right now.” Bullshit.
“Why not?” She takes a deep breath and stands from the bed, body pink and sweaty from hours of rolling around with me,
crying and screaming my name. I should be paying attention, mind on what she is going to say, but fuck, she is standing in front
of me naked, carrying my baby in her belly, my come dripping down her thighs. Yeah. Okay. I am only a man.
“Eyes up here big boy.” When I look up, she is smirking at me, which feels much better than the worry she had a minute
ago, but something is still shading the elation we should be feeling.
“I’m sorry. Why can’t you marry me, Millie?”
“We don’t know each other, Malcolm. I mean obviously we run in the same social circles somewhat, but I know nothing
about you, and I know you don't know anything about me personally considering I make it my business to stay out of the
spotlight. I don’t want to begin like that.” I chuckle and pull up my boxers, figuring it was better to have this conversation with
at least underwear on. She must agree because she grabs the shirt I had on and puts it over her head.
“Kind of ass backwards too late, don’t you think, angel. I already bred you.” I couldn’t sound prouder. Frowning, she
places her hand on her hip.
“I know ass. That is my point. I want something to be normal.” I cross my arms and give her a little more wiggle room
around the subject.
“What did you have in mind?” Her shoulders relax and I begin to feel guilty. The last thing I want to do is cause her anxiety.
“I want to spend more time together. Get to know each other and our families. We should formally introduce our families,
maybe have family dinners. Date. Enjoy what little time we have left, considering.” Smiling, I walk over to her and pull her
into my arms. Moving her hair out of her face, I kiss her soft lips and lift her by her ass forcing her legs to wrap around my
waist.
“Alright angel. I will give you time to get to know me and plan a wedding, but on one condition.” She leans back and looks
me in the eyes.
“What’s that?”
“While we are doing all of this, you wear my ring. The way I see it, this is a done deal. You are marrying me. I am just
giving you time and letting my mom and dad and sisters have a chance to love you as much as I do. So, wearing my ring so the
world knows you are mine, shouldn’t be asking too much.” She pretends to think it over, a cheeky smile on her face, before she
nuzzles my nose and kisses me.
“Deal.”
“Good. Now, what should your punishment be for keeping me waiting?” She kisses me once more, rubbing her warm cunt
against my bulge.
“Anything you want. I belong to you now. Right?” Shit. Her sexy ass voice is about to get her pinned.
“Damn right baby.” Forever.
epilogue
Millicent
Five Months Later
I stare at my husband, remembering our wedding day. It didn’t take me long at all to fall for the man. Right now he’s grilling
steaks in our backyard like a boss, and nothing right now is really reminding me of that day, but I can’t help remembering the
vows we spoke both in front of our friends and family and privately, later that night. Our epic honeymoon consisted of flying to
Bali and never leaving our room. It was the best two weeks of my life but since we’ve been home, he’s shown me how every
day is better than the last.
“Stop staring at him like that,” Lola says, making me laugh. As soon as the laugh comes out of my mouth, Malcolm’s eyes
meet mine from across the patio.
“I can’t help it,” I tell her honestly.
“I want to fall in love,” she whispers, making me turn my head toward her. She looks so freaking sad, I just want to wrap
her up in my arms and hug her tight. She’s never said anything like that before, at least not to me. Since Malcolm and I got
married, Lola and I have gotten really close. I’d say she’s my best friend.
“What’s stopping you, Lola Bean?” I ask, though I already know the answer. Being sick as a child, almost dying, makes
your parents look at you differently. They don’t want to let her go. I get that, I think rubbing my slightly rounded belly. I haven’t
met my little one yet, and I never want to let her go.
“You know my parents stop me from doing pretty much anything but coming over here.” She’s only seventeen, but I think I
have an idea.
“My assistant is going on maternity leave next month and she’s not coming back. Come work for me after school. If you like
it, we’ll make it permanent after graduation.”
“You’d do that for me?”
“Of course. I’d do anything for you. We’re sisters and besties. We’ll get you out in the world, where the men are.”
“What men?” Malcolm asks, coming over to the table with a platter of steaks.
“Single ones, Bub,” Lola says, making me snicker.
“I don’t think I want to know anymore.”
“That’s probably best,” I tell him.
After we eat. Lola heads home and Malcolm and I head straight for our shower.
“God, I’m a lucky fucking man,” he says with his hands on my ass. He says it’s unsafe for us to do anything in here, but he
more than makes up for it by washing my body for me. He gets me so worked up that I am more than ready to fall on his cock as
soon as he’s dried us off and takes me to bed.
He knows I’m wet with the way that I’m squirming on the bed.
“You want this cock don’t you?” he asks, jerking his hard, angry-looking cock with his fist while looking down at me. The
feral look in his eyes excites me beyond belief.
“Yes. You know I do. I’ve always wanted your cock, husband. Please, give it to me.”
“You know I love it when you beg for my cum wife,” he grunts as he slides into me slowly.
When he bottoms out inside of me, he pulls out and slams back in. Over and over, he drives me wild with his cock until I
fall over the edge. He’s not too far behind me. He bellows my name as he fills me with his seed. Loving Malcolm Porter was
the easiest decision I ever made. Even when I ran from him, I knew he’d find me again. Deep down, I knew I was made for
him. His love is all I need to survive this world.
Who knew that just until midnight would turn into forever?
Another random document with
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 CHAPTER XIX

W E travelled after the manner described by Abd er Rahman as

that of the Arabs when in difficulties in the desert. We rested,
that is, in the middle of the day, marching throughout the morning
and through most of the night.
At our last noon halt before reaching the bushes I overhauled the
caravan. With the exception of the one big camel the whole of the
beasts by this time were in a deplorable condition. My hagin was so
weak that he was unable even to carry my hurj. Another brute that
Abd er Rahman called the “rather meskin” (feeble) camel, was very
emaciated; while one that he called the meskin beast, par
excellence, was so excessively attenuated, that, in the photograph I
took of him, only the desert appeared!
It was the big camel that pulled us through. The loads of the
meskin and the “rather meskin” camels were both put on to his back,
in addition to his ordinary burden, and my hurj was added to the pile.
Moreover, whenever any of us wanted a lift we rode him—and he
seemed to like it!
Ibrahim was two days overdue, and, as nothing had been seen of
him, I was beginning to feel rather anxious and to fear he had
passed us in the dark without our seeing him. During one noon halt,
however, Abdulla, who was still rather jumpy, raised the alarm of
haramin (robbers). We immediately collected our ironmongery and
turned out to receive them. But to our great relief we found it was
only Ibrahim approaching with three camels and another man.
Dahab and one of my camels, we found, had knocked up on the
journey to Mut and had had to be left behind. It had taken Ibrahim
two days to get more beasts and someone to fill Dahab’s place. The
new-comer was an elderly Sudani, who had been at Qasr Dakhl with
two camels on Ibrahim’s arrival at Mut. He went by the name of Abeh
Abdulla.
I was considerably prejudiced in his favour by hearing him invoke
the aid of a certain “Sidi Mahmed,” or Mahmed ben Abd er Rahman
Bu Zian, to give him his full name, the founder of the Ziania
dervishes, a branch of the great Shadhlia order, that plays the rôle of
protector of travellers. It is, I believe, better known in north-west
Africa than on the Egyptian side. In the Western Sahara “Sidi Bu
Zian,” as he is sometimes called, may almost be termed the patron
saint of wayfarers in the desert.
Abdulla, when he got into difficulties, used to invoke a certain “Sidi
Abd el Jaud,” whose identity I was never able to discover.
Ibrahim had done his job splendidly. During the two days in Mut,
he had had the leaking tanks repaired and had borrowed some
others from the native officials. He had brought them all out filled to
the brim. We watered all the camels, and, when we had given them
time to absorb their drink, made a fresh start for the bushes.
When we reached Mut it was evening, and I walked to my
lodgings through the quaint old town, stumbling over the uneven
surface of the tunnelled street, whose darkness in the gathering dusk
was only broken here and there by a gleam of firelight, through some
half-opened door. The familiar smell of wood fires, whose smoke
hung heavily in the streets, the scraping drone of the small hand-
mills that the women were using to grind their flour, and the
monotonous thudding as they pounded their rice inside their houses,
had a wonderful effect in making me feel at home.
Soon after my arrival the usual boring deputation of the
Government officials turned up to felicitate me in conventional terms
on my safe return. After thanking them for the loan of the tanks, I
asked the mamur whether anything had been heard of Qway. He
professed to a total ignorance on the subject and wanted to have full
details of what he had been doing. I gave him an account of Qway’s
conduct as shown by his tracks and the empty tanks and asked, as
he had nearly done for Abdulla, that he should be immediately
arrested.
 The mamur hesitated for a moment, then burst out with a
passionate “Never! Qway is a gada” (sportsman). I pointed out the
gada had, at any rate, walked off with a rifle and telescope of mine,
and that I felt certain he had come into the oasis and was hiding. The
mamur did not think he was hiding, but that he would turn up as soon
as he heard I had got back—and anyway he declined to send out
men to look for him or to have him arrested. I insisted that it was his
duty both to find and arrest him, and, after a considerable amount of
pressing, he at length gave way to the extent of promising, if Qway
did not turn up, to send a man to look for him “the day after to-
morrow.”
This must have constituted a record in energy for an oasis official,
and seemed to exhaust his powers altogether. He refused to send a
message round to the ’omdas to have him detained if he appeared,
and shortly after said something about supper and departed.
I was left to reflections that were not over-pleasant. There was no
doubt that I had made a great mistake in asking to have Qway
arrested, for, even if I could get him tried for the offence, I should
have to find some motive for his actions, and I could not see how
that could be done without raising the Senussi question in an oasis
where, though their numbers were few, they possessed enormous
influence. I decided it would be best to confine my accusation
against him to that of stealing the rifle and telescope.
The possibility of my being able to secure him seemed extremely
remote. The attitude towards me of the natives of the oasis left no
doubt in my mind that they would all shield him. The Government
officials were obviously of the same frame of mind, and though they
might make some show of attempting to arrest him, I felt certain that
they would be surreptitiously endeavouring to aid him in his escape.
In the background I knew would be the Senussi, using all the great
influence they possessed in the oasis, in order to shield their puppet,
Qway, and to prevent his capture.
With only three Sudanese and an old Berberine cook at my back,
it was difficult to see what I could do. Still, as I had foolishly insisted
on his being brought to justice, I had to see it done. The task was not
altogether hopeless, for in cases of this description one Sudani is
worth a thousand fellahin. But for the time being the only thing to be
done in the circumstances was to lie low and await developments.
They soon came. As is often the case when dealing with natives
they were rather of the comic opera type. I first located Qway as
staying in the Senussi zawia in Smint. But the clerk to the qadi in
Mut, Sheykh Senussi, whom Qway had told me was “like a brother to
him,” finding that I was hot on his trail, and fearing that the Senussia
might become involved, moved him on to Rashida, and then, like the
mean sneak that he was, came round, and, to curry favour with me,
told me where he was.
I went off at once and saw the mamur; told him I had heard that
Qway was in Rashida, reminded him that this was “the day after to-
morrow,” on which he had promised to send “a man” to look for him,
and called on him to carry out his promise.
The mamur endeavoured to avoid doing so; but after some
trouble, I at length managed to get him to send a man at once.
I was in the merkaz the next day when he returned. He rode
pattering up on a donkey, dismounted, shuffled into the room,
saluted clumsily and made his report. According to instructions he
had gone to Rashida and seen Qway, and given him the mamur’s
message that he was to come into Mut. But Qway had said that he
did not want to come. The man had argued with him, and had done
his best to persuade him to come; but Qway had stuck to it that he
really did not want to, so he had climbed again on to his donkey and
ridden back to Mut to report progress.
The mamur was greatly relieved. He had done everything I had
asked him to do. He had sent a man on a Government donkey to
fetch Qway; but Qway did not want to come. What more could he
do? It was of no use asking Qway to come if he did not wish to. He
was very sorry, but he had done the most he could.
I suggested that perhaps he might send a policeman—a real
policeman in uniform with a rifle, not a ghaffir—and give him
instructions that, if Qway again refused to come, he was to BRING
him. But the mamur did not see his way to doing this. Why should he
arrest Qway? What had he done? Stolen a rifle had he? Had he any
cartridges? He still had twenty cartridges and a rifle had he? No, he
could not possibly arrest him. Qway might be old, but the Arabs were
very wild fellows, and he had no troops—only a few armed police.
A long discussion followed, and at last a solution of the difficulty
occurred to the mamur. He said he could not arrest Qway, but he
would send a policeman to bring back the rifle and cartridges. Did
that satisfy me? It didn’t. I said I must have Qway as well. After a
long discussion he at last agreed to send to fetch him, if I would send
a message by the policeman to tell Qway that he was not to shoot
him!
The next day the mamur came round to see me, looking
immensely relieved. He said that the policeman had gone to Rashida
to fetch Qway, but found that he had left the village, so now there
was nothing more to be done. He evidently felt that he was now clear
of all responsibility in the matter.
I had thus lost track of Qway, and began to despair of ever being
able to get hold of him. But the next day Abd er Rahman, who all
along had been indefatigable in trying to pick up information of his
whereabouts, told me that Qway had been seen near Tenida
dressed up as a fellah[4]—a fact that caused the little Sudani the
keenest amusement.
So I sent Abdulla to go off on his hagin to Tenida, under pretence
of buying barley, and to try and find Qway, and, if he succeeded, to
tell him from me to come at once to Mut.
The next day I went down to the merkaz to enquire whether there
was any news. I saw the police officer, who told me that he had just
had certain news that Qway had left the oasis and taken the road to
the Nile Valley. So, as he was now out of his jurisdiction—which
seemed to greatly relieve him—he was in a position to draw up the
proces verbal about the telescope and gun that he had stolen, a
piece of information that was distinctly depressing. I began to
wonder what was the best thing to do next.
 This problem, however, solved itself. I had just finished lunch
when a timid knock came at the door, and in walked Qway!
The old brute had evidently had a terrible time of it. He had
allowed himself to become the tool of the Senussi, but his plans
having miscarried, he had got lost and nearly died of thirst in the
desert, for, as I afterwards discovered, he had been nearly two days
without any water—and two very hot days they had been—and it had
only been the excellence of his camel that had pulled him through.
He looked ten years older. His eyes were bleary and bloodshot,
his cheeks sunken, his lips parched and cracked, his beard
untrimmed, and he had an unkempt, almost dirty, appearance.
He laid the rifle and telescope on my bed, fumbled in his
voluminous clothing and produced a handful of cartridges, took some
more out of his pocket, from which he also produced a rosary—the
Senussi mostly carry their beads in this way and not round their neck
as in the case of most Moslems. He then unknotted a corner of his
handkerchief and took out two or three more cartridges and laid
them all on the table.
“Count them, Your Excellency,” he said. “They are all there.” I
found that the tale of them was complete.
He looked sadly down to the ground and sighed profoundly. “I
have been working very badly,” he said, “very badly indeed. I am a
broken thing. I am the flesh and you are the knife.” It certainly looked
remarkably like it.
I asked him what excuse he had to make for his conduct. He
looked at me for a moment to see what line he had better take, and
the one that he took was not particularly complimentary to my
intelligence.
“It was very hot, Your Excellency—very hot indeed. And I was
alone and an afrit climbed up on to my camel.”
At this point I thought it might be advisable to have a witness, so I
sang out for Dahab.
 “No, Effendim, not Dahab. Don’t call Dahab,” said Qway in a
much perturbed voice. Presumably he thought Dahab would be less
likely to be convinced by his story than I would. Dahab entered the
room with surprising promptness—the doors in the oasis are not
sound-proof.
I told Qway to get on with his story of the afrit, which promised to
be a good one.
“There was an afrit, Your Excellency, that got up behind me on my
camel and kept on telling me to go there and to do this, and I had to
do it. It was not my fault the water was upset. It was the afrit. I had to
do what he told me.” Then, hearing a snort from Dahab, he added
that there was not only one afrit, but many, and that that part of the
desert was full of them.
I thought it time to stop him. I told him I had heard quite enough,
and that he had to come round with me to the merkaz. This upset
him terribly.
“No, not the merkaz, Your Excellency. Not the merkaz. In the
name of Allah do not take me to the merkaz. Take everything I have
got, but do not take me to the merkaz.”
But to the merkaz he had to go. We called in at the camel yard to
pick up the other men, as they might be wanted as witnesses, and
then proceeded in a body to the Government office, Qway all the
way attempting to bribe me to let him off by offering me his
belongings, among which, with an obvious pang, he expressly
offered me his camel.
We met the mamur at the door of the merkaz, and Qway
immediately rushed forward to try and kiss his hand. The mamur,
however, would have nothing to do with him. Like nearly all the
fellahin he backed the winner, and I for the moment had come out on
top.
“This man is a traitor, a regular traitor,” said the judge, who had
not yet tried him and who had previously told me he was a
sportsman; but I had got the best of the deal, and, moreover, was
shortly returning to Egypt and might report on him to one of the
inspectors; so he determined to show me how an Egyptian official
can do justice when he takes off his coat for the job. He bustled in to
the office and began arranging the papers fussily on his table. The
police officer also came in and prepared to take down the
depositions.
Having got things to his satisfaction, the mamur ordered the
prisoner to be brought in. He arrived between two wooden-looking
policemen.
“Well, traitor, what have you got to say for yourself?” Then, as it
occurred to him that he had overlooked one of the formalities, he
asked Qway his name.
“Qway, Effendim.”
“Qway what?” asked the mamur irritably.
“Qway Hassan Qway, Your Presence. My grandfather was a Bey.”
“A Bey?” snorted the mamur.
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
“Where did he live?”
“Near Assiut, Your Excellency. Perhaps he wasn’t a Bey. I don’t
know. Perhaps he was a mamur or a police officer. I don’t quite know
what he was, but he worked for the Government.”
“Bey!” repeated the mamur contemptuously. “Mr. Harden Keen
says you upset some water. What do you say to it?”
“Yes, I upset the water. But I could not help it. It was a very hot
day . . .”
“Liar!” said the mamur.
“Na’am?” said Qway, rather taken aback.
“I said liar,” shouted the mamur, thumping the table. Qway, who
was a high-spirited old fellow, found this more than he could stand,
and began to get nettled. It was entirely characteristic of our position
in Egypt at that time that at this juncture, Qway, the accused, should
turn to me, the accuser, for protection from the judge.
 “It was a hot day, Effendim, wasn’t it?”
Badly as he had behaved, I was getting to be very sorry for him,
and I had taken a strong dislike to that mamur. So I replied that it
was one of the hottest days that I ever remembered.
The mamur could not contradict me, but looked distinctly
uncomfortable and shifted uneasily in his chair. He told Qway to go
on. Qway, who was beginning to recover his composure, proceeded
to make the most of the victory he had gained over him.
“As I said, Effendim, it was a hot day—very hot, and I am an old
man and perhaps it was the sun. I don’t know what it was, but an
afrit—”
“Allah!” said the mamur, spreading out his hands, “an afrit?” Qway
began to get a bit flurried.
“Yes, Effendim, an afrit.”
“Liar,” repeated the mamur. “I said you were a liar.”
Qway looked round again for help, but I was not going to bolster
up that statement. The mamur began to examine him as to the exact
nature of that afrit. Qway broke down, stammered and generally got
into a terrible mess. At the last the mamur, having elicited from him
in turn the fact that there was one afrit, that there were two, that
there had been a crowd of them, and finally that there were none at
all, went on to the next stage and asked what had happened
afterwards.
Qway explained that after leaving the depot he had ridden for two
days to the south-west, and then had turned back and circled round
Jebel el Bayed and finally ridden off to the east.
“The east?” said the mamur. “I thought Dakhla lay to the north.”
“The north-east, Effendim,” corrected Qway. “Rather north of
north-east.”
“Then why did you go to the east? Were you lost?”
Qway stammered worse than ever. The mamur repeated his
question. Two tears began to roll down Qway’s cheeks and his great
gnarled hand went up to hide his twitching lips.
“Yes,” he said, with a great effort. “I was lost.” Being an Arab he
did not lie—at least not often.
“But you are a guide. And you got lost!”
“Yes,” stammered Qway. To have to own to a mere fellah that he,
the great desert guide, had lost his way, must have been most
intensely humiliating; for the favourite gibe of the bedawin to the
fellahin is that they are “like women,” and get lost directly they go in
the desert.
No Egyptian could have resisted such a chance. The mamur
began to question Qway minutely as to where, how and when he
had got lost, and to the exact degree of lostness at each stage of the
proceedings; and Qway, to his credit be it said, answered quite
truthfully.
When he could rub it in no further, the mamur began to question
him as to the remainder of his journey. Qway described how he had
had to go two days without water and had almost ridden his camel to
death in order to get back to our tracks, and how he and his camel
had eventually managed to get back to Dakhla more dead than alive.
“You were hiding when you got back. Where did you hide?”
Qway hesitated a moment, then asked him in a low voice if he
need answer. The mamur did not press that question. It was a
distinctly ill-advised one. Qway had been in the Senussi zawia at
Smint. He put a few more questions to him, then told him again that
he was a traitor and that his work had been “like pitch,” and asked
me what I wanted done next. I suggested that he might perhaps call
a few witnesses, so Abdulla was brought in.
Abdulla had entirely recovered from the scare he had had in the
desert, and, though Qway had tried to let him down, the mamur’s
treatment of him seemed to have softened his views towards him.
There is a bond of union between those who “know the nijem” and
Qway, too, was in difficulties, and Mohammedans are usually
sympathetic towards each other in those circumstances, so Abdulla
tried to get Qway off.
 The mamur asked him what he knew about the case.
“Effendim,” he said, “I think Qway went mad.”
The mamur flung himself back in his chair and spread out his
hands.
“Allah!” he exclaimed. “Are you a doctor?”
This little pantomime was completely thrown away on the stolid
Abdulla. He looked at the mamur with the amused curiosity that he
would have shown to a performing monkey.
“No,” he said, in his slow stupid way. “I am not a doctor, of course
—but I know a fool when I see one!”
The mamur concluded that he had heard enough of Abdulla’s
evidence. I began to wonder if the Sudani was quite so “feeble in the
head” as he had been represented!
“I find that Qway is a traitor. His work has been like pitch. What do
you want me to do with him?” asked the judge.
I suggested, as delicately as I could, that that was a question to
be decided by the court, and not by the accuser. After a whispered
conversation with the police officer across the table, the mamur
announced that he intended to put him in prison and send him, when
the camel-postman went, in about a week’s time, to Assiut to be
tried.
The attitude of the men towards Qway changed completely after
his trial. There was no longer any need to be afraid of him. Their
resentment at his conduct in the desert had had time to cool down.
He had been bullied by a fellah mamur, been forced to confess in
public that he had disgraced himself by getting lost in the desert, had
been arrested by a Sudani and publicly paraded through the oasis
dressed as a fellah. His humiliation was complete and could scarcely
have been more thorough. The bedawin instinct for revenge had
been amply satisfied. Hatred is generally largely composed of fear,
or jealousy, and there was certainly no room for either where Qway
was concerned. Moreover, the men had the usual feeling of
compassion for those in adversity that forms one of the finest traits in
the Mohammedan character.
So far as I was concerned, I was feeling rather sorry for my erring
guide, to whom I had taken a strong liking from the start, for he had
only been made a tool by the Senussi, who were the real culprits. So
having once got him convicted, I told the mamur I did not want him to
be severely punished, provided that “the quality of mercy was not
strained.”
Dahab told me Qway was confined in irons and being fed only on
bread and water. So I sent him some tea and sugar, with a message
to the police that they might take the irons off and that I would “see
them” before I left the oasis. Dahab asked for money to buy a quite
unnecessary number of eggs for my consumption. I never enquired
what became of them all; but the same evening he asked for leave to
go to the doctor’s house, and started off with bulging pockets in the
direction of the merkaz. He came back again with them empty
shortly afterwards, saying that he had been told that Qway was
resigned and very prayerful. The Sudanese, as I afterwards heard,
sent him some cheese and lentils, to which Abdulla added a handful
of onions, so altogether Qway must have rather enjoyed himself in
prison.
 CHAPTER XX

H AVING disposed of the question of Qway, I went off to Rashida

for the fête of Shem en Nessim (the smelling of the breeze). The
officials of the oasis were also there, and we celebrated the day in
the usual manner. In the morning we put on clean clothes and took
our breakfast out of doors to “smell the breeze.” Then we went up
among the palm plantations to a primitive swimming bath the ’omda
had made by damming up a stream from one of his wells. The
natives stripped and disported themselves in the water, swimming
about, splashing each other and enjoying themselves immensely.
After the bath they dressed again and we lay about under the
palms till lunch was brought out to us. We lounged about on the
ground, sleeping and talking till late in the afternoon, when a woman
from the village appeared, who had been engaged by the ’omda to
dance. A carpet was spread for her to perform on, and we lay round
and watched her. She looked quite a respectable woman, and it was
certainly a quite respectable dance that would have been an addition
to “Chu-Chin-Chow,” but the mamur took occasion to be shocked at
it. He sat with his back half turned to the woman, watching her out of
the corner of his eye, however, and apparently enjoying the
performance. Though I was unable to detect anything in the slightest
degree wrong in the dance, the delicate susceptibilities of the mamur
were so outraged that—as he was not on good terms with the ’omda
of Rashida—he felt it his duty to report him to the Inspector in Assiut
for having an immoral performance in his private grounds.
Government under the Egyptian mamurs is a wonderful institution!
The next day I returned to Mut to pack up. A number of callers
came round to see me during the short remaining time I stayed in the
town. For since I had come out on top, the whole oasis had become
wonderfully friendly.
 Among them was the Sheykh el Afrit from Smint. He was
extremely oily in his manner and kept on addressing me as “Your
Presence the Bey!” He gave me a lot of information about afrits. He
spoke in the tone of a man who had had a lifelong experience in the
matter. It was most important, he said, to use the right kind of
incense when invoking them, as if the wrong sort were used the afrit
always became very angry and killed the magician—it seemed to be
a dangerous trade.
He told me a lot of information of the same nature and gave me a
number of instances of encounters with afrits to illustrate his
remarks. Among them he mentioned—quite casually—that it had
been an afrit that had led Qway astray. The object of his visit had
apparently been to put this opinion, as an experienced magician,
before me, for he left almost immediately afterwards.
Among my other visitors was the ’omda of Rashida, who said he
had come into Mut as he had a case to bring before the mamur
against his cousin Haggi Smain. He, too, stood up for Qway. He was
the only native of the oasis who had the backbone to openly
champion his cause.
Some time after he had gone, I had to go round to the merkaz. I
could hear a tremendous row going on inside as I approached.
Someone kept thumping a table and two or three men were shouting
and bawling at each other and, judging from the sounds that
proceeded from the court, all Bedlam might have been let loose
there.
But I found that it was only the mamur “making the peace” among
the Rashida people. The ’omda of Rashida and two of his brothers
were bringing an action against their cousin, Haggi Smain, who
owned part of the same village. The row stopped for a while as I
came in, and the proceedings were conducted for a few minutes in
an orderly manner. Then they went at it again, hammer and tongs,
bawling and shouting at each other, and at the mamur, who was
endeavouring to effect a reconciliation, at the top of their voices. The
mamur at first spoke in a quiet persuasive tone, but soon he lost his
temper and was as bad as they were. He banged with his fist on the
table and yelled to them to be silent and listen to what he had to say.
The ’omda shouted back that it was not he, but Haggi Smain that
was interrupting the proceedings, while Haggi Smain himself
foaming at the mouth and at times almost inarticulate with rage,
screamed back that it was the ’omda who was making all the noise.
The cause of all this hullabaloo was as follows: Haggi Smain had
an orange tree growing on his property, one branch of which
projected beyond his boundary and overhung some land belonging
to the ’omda. Three oranges had fallen off this branch on to the
’omda’s territory and the case had been brought to decide to whom
these three oranges belonged. Their total value was a farthing at the
outside.
I left next day for Egypt. As I got on my camel to start, the mamur
and Co. announced that they intended to walk with me for part of the
way. As this was calculated to increase my prestige with the other
natives, I decided to keep them with me for some time.
I rode—and the mamur walked—which was quite as it should
have been, for these little distinctions carry great weight among
these simple natives. The mamur, I was glad to see, was wearing a
pair of new brown boots fastened with a metal clasp over the instep,
and having soles about as thin as dancing pumps. The road was
rough and baked very hard by the sun in those places where it was
not boggy. The mamur, I fancy, was not used to much pedestrian
exercise and soon became very obviously footsore.
I saw him look longingly at an unloaded camel, so told Dahab to
get up on it and ride. Several times he hinted that he had come far
enough, but I merely had to look surprised and displeased to keep
him trotting along beside me for another mile. He had not shown up
well while I had been in the oasis, and he realised that in a very few
days I should be seeing one of the Inspectors about Qway, so was
desperately anxious not to do anything to displease me.
At last I decided to take a short cut. We left the road, such as it
was, and went straight across country over a very rough stretch of
desert. I called out to Abdulla to hurry up the camels, as they were
going too slowly, with the result that the limping mamur and the fat
old qadi began to fall behind. The farce was becoming so obvious
that all my men were grinning at them and Abd er Rahman
sarcastically whispered to me that he thought the mamur must be
getting tired.
When I had got them well away from the road, and two or three
miles from any habitation, I looked back and suddenly discovered
the mamur was limping, and asked him why on earth he had not told
me before that his feet were all covered with blisters. I insisted that
he should go back at once to Mut.
On the way to Assiut, in the train, I saw old Sheykh Mawhub, the
Senussi, going, as he said, to Cairo. But I was not in the least
surprised to find that he broke his journey at Assiut, where he lay
doggo in the native town, pulling strings in the mudiria to get his
catspaw, Qway, out of his difficulties—unfortunately with
considerable success.
I went round to the mudiria as soon as I got to the town, only to
find that the English Inspector was away, so I asked to see the mudir
(native governor of the province). The mudir did not think Qway had
been tried, but would I go up into the town and ask at the mamur’s
office? There I was requested to wait while they made enquiries.
They made them for about three-quarters of an hour, and then a man
came in with an ill-concealed grin and announced that Qway had just
that moment been tried and had been acquitted!
I went round to interview the mudir again—rather indignantly this
time. He was bland and courteous—but firm. He had been acquitted,
he said because I had said that I did not want him to be severely
punished, and because I had given him a good character the year
before. The course of true law never did run smooth in Egypt!
I tried to get this decision reversed by applying to a very exalted
personage. He told me, however, that the Government did not want
to raise the Senussi question and were anxious to avoid an incident
on the frontier, and he was afraid that he could not take the matter
up.
 I had to get the best of Qway somehow and, as the regulation
methods of dealing with him had failed me, I took the law into my
own hands—which is quite the best place to keep it in Egypt—and
fined him the balance of his pay, which amounted to about twenty
pounds. I afterwards heard that the Senussi, in order to prevent
Qway from having a grievance against them, had bakhshished him
£42 worth of cotton; so I got at the real culprits in the end; but it was
a roundabout way of doing it.
Thanks to Qway and the Senussi, the results of my second year
did not come up to my expectations, for the main work I had planned
for the season was, of course, the fifteen days’ journey to the south-
west of Dakhla, which I hoped would take me to Owanat. Instead of
this we had not been able to get farther than the centre of the desert,
so far as we could estimate where the middle lay.
 CHAPTER XXI

D URING my first two seasons I had managed to get out to the

middle of the desert and had succeeded in mapping a large
area of it; but the main object to which these two years had been
devoted—the crossing of the desert from north-east to south-west
had not been attained—there seemed no prospect of my being able
to accomplish it, for Owanat, the first stage on the journey, was
evidently so far out that it could only be reached by adopting some
elaborate system of depots or relays, that Qway’s escapade had
shown to be too dangerous. The Senussi had certainly won the first
trick in the game; but I did not feel at all inclined to let them have
things all their own way.
It was, however, pointed out to me that the omens to any further
journeys were by no means propitious just then, as the natives were
much excited over the Italian invasion of Tripoli, and, moreover, the
Senussi were clearly prepared to take an active hand in the game
and, even at that time, were evidently contemplating an invasion of
Egypt, should a suitable opportunity occur.
The latter fact, however, seemed to me to cut both ways, for the
Senussi were quite wide-awake enough to realise that, if an
European got scuppered by them, some form of punitive expedition
was extremely likely to follow, which might force them into hostilities
at an inconvenient time—so I concluded that they would just as
unwillingly start scrapping as I would myself—and that was saying a
good deal.
As crossing the desert seemed an impracticable scheme just
then, I abandoned that part of my programme, and as there were
plenty of other large areas waiting to be explored, decided to try a
different district, and set out to explore as much as possible of the
unknown parts of the eastern and western sides of the huge
depression in which lies the oasis of Farafra.
I intended, too, to visit the little oasis of Iddaila, that lies not far to
the west of Farafra, and I hoped to score a trick off the Senussia by
making a dash into the dunes to the south-west of Farafra and
locating the oasis of Dendura, that was used sometimes by them as
a half-way house when travelling from Egypt to Kufara.
Unfortunately—though I did not learn this till afterwards—before
my start some rag of a native paper in Cairo announced that I had
come out again to Egypt and intended to go in disguise to Kufara,
and a copy of the paper had been sent out to that oasis itself. This
was a piece of pure invention on the part of that journal that led to
rather unpleasant consequences.
I was advised to take as my guide some man who was admittedly
a member of the Senussia and camel drivers of the same
persuasion. The advice did not commend itself very strongly to me;
but in deference to the views of those whom I expected to know a
good deal more of the country than I did, I so far accepted it as to
decide on taking a Senussi guide and one or two of his camel men,
while adding Abd er Rahman, Ibrahim and Dahab as well to the
caravan—Abdulla unfortunately was not available.
I eventually engaged a man called Qwaytin, who was stated to be
reliable. Haggi Qwaytin Mohammed Said—to give him his full name
—though a native of Surk in Kufara Oasis, at that time was living in
the Nile Valley, in the Manfalut district, near Assiut. For some time he
had acted as a tax-collector among the Bedayat for ’Ali Dinar, the
Sultan of Darfur, and when he was inclined to be communicative
could impart a considerable amount of information about unknown
parts of the desert. He seemed to have led a fairly wandering
existence and to be at home in most parts of North and Central
Africa; at any rate he had a Bedayat wife in Darfur, a Tawarek one
somewhere near Timbuktu and one—if not two—others near
Manfalut.
He was a queer fellow, and I did not altogether take a fancy to
him. When I told him that I already had two camel drivers and did not
want more, he was very much put out and declared that he could not
trust his camels to strangers. Eventually we compromised the
question by arranging that he should take three men and that I, in
addition, should bring Abd er Rahman, Ibrahim and Dahab.
I asked to see the men he was going to bring with him. The three
he produced—Mohanny, Mansur and ’Abd el Atif—were even less
prepossessing than Qwaytin himself. They were typical specimens of
the low-class bedawin camel drivers that the camel owners engage
on nominal wages, to take charge of their beasts when they hire
them out. They proved to be most indifferent drivers. But Qwaytin
and his men were such an obviously feeble lot that, with my three
men to back me up, I had no doubt of being able to deal with them, if
they gave any trouble.
I intended to pump Qwaytin as dry as I could of the information he
could give me of the unknown parts of the desert and, with the
assistance of my own men, to compel him, by force if necessary, to
take me within sight of Dendura, after we had left Farafra.
These preliminaries having been gone through, I sent for Abd er
Rahman and Ibrahim to come up and join me in Assiut—Dahab was
already with me. While waiting in the little Greek pub, where I stayed
for the arrival of my men, I made the acquaintance of an educated
Egyptian, who was engaged in some sort of literary work, the exact
nature of which I was unable to discover. His English was excellent,
and he was evidently anxious to practise it, for he stuck to me like a
leech.
He was never tired of dilating on the beauties of Arabic as a
literary language. In Arabic literature, he said, the great thing was to
use as many metaphors as possible, and the best metaphors were
those that were the most obscure or, as he expressed it, that made
the reader “work his brain” the most. Certainly some of the examples
he gave left nothing whatever to be desired in that direction.
He insisted in coming to see me off at the station, where he
explained that he had lain awake for a considerable part of the night,
in order to be able to think of a really good metaphor for me at
parting.