In Too Deep (18 page)

‘Kiss them,’ I command, and he presses his face to the aromatic red satin, nuzzling and savouring the contact. His eyes close rapturously. It seems to me, the goddess, that he’s enjoying himself too much. He should be making love to me, not my knickers.

‘Enough! Now make yourself useful.’

In my fantasy I lie back like an empress, parting my thighs and exhibiting all of my rather more slender than usual body to him. Despite his claims that he likes girls with flesh, he seems entranced, though he’s still cross. With a diva-like gesture I point between my legs and, seeing that I’m in charge in every sense of the word, he moves in.

I expect him to lick me, or even slide into me straight away,
but
somehow something in my brain short-circuits and, even though this is
my
fantasy and supposedly under
my
conscious control, I lose my grip on it.

Daniel’s strange eyes flash and he gives me one of his arch, knowing, ‘I might be Nemesis’ smiles. Slowly, he lifts his hand to his face and studies the tip of his middle finger. Then, indolently, with almost comic leisureliness, he licks the tip of it.

He
is
Nemesis now. In every fibre. He runs his tongue around his soft red lips, then does the finger-lick again. Then, staring into my eyes, he reaches down, works his finger deftly through the flossy curls of my bush and finds my clit. It’s as if he’s saying, ‘This is mine. I control it. I control you’.

I’m touching myself now, but on autopilot, emulating the casual, insulting, manipulating action of fantasy Nemesis’s fingertip. He just circles and circles, working the tiny bud of flesh, rubbing it this way and that. There’s no other contact between us. He’s kneeling, relaxed, his free hand resting lightly on his thigh as he plays my clit like the tiny joystick of some radio-controlled pleasure drone.

I bang my heels on the bed, in both worlds, and arch up from the mattress like a bow, my bottom six inches clear of the sheet.

‘You like that, Queen of the Library, don’t you?’ he seems to say, his grin narrow and infuriating. ‘You’re a slave to your clit, aren’t you? At the mercy of its throb, throb, throb between your legs.’

When I’m at the height of this arc of torment, he does that familiar little trick he knows I like so much. He pinches the tiny organ between his finger and thumb, holding me aloft by it.

I moan, in both realms, almost ready to come.

‘You’re a slut, Library Queen, aren’t you? When you watch
men
from that desk of yours, your clit gets swollen and tender, doesn’t it, when you imagine them servicing you? Touching you … licking you …’

No!
I want to say.
It’s only you I get swollen and wet for, Daniel/Nemesis, only you
.

But is it? Aren’t there others I’ve seen pass by that have tickled me a little? Cute Techno-Greg? The man with the muscles from Building Services who came to fix the window? Even tall, bluff Director of Finance Stone, the last time he visited the library for one of those interminable budget meetings? And the time I thought I saw him shagging in that alley …

Yes, I’ve fancied all those men and, yes, I’ve felt it between my legs. Nemesis is right, I am a slut and, for the purposes of this fantasy, my clit controls me.

I toss my head and shake my hips, worrying the seat of my pleasure with thumb and finger, just the way I imagine – I wish, how I wish –
he
was doing. I’m so excited, I groan out loud, making a noise like an animal.

I come and holler ‘Nemesis!’ to the night.

10 The Infamous Waverley

SO THIS IS
it, the infamous Waverley Grange Country Hotel?

Superficially, it looks perfectly normal. Quiet, luxurious and a bit old-fashioned, nothing at all like a sinister den of debauchery and perversion. Walking into the lobby, I’m greeted by the sight of a bunch of disappointingly ordinary, straight and rather well-heeled people, loitering around the reception desk or sitting in the posh upholstered chairs in the window nook, probably chatting about how ordinary, straight and well-heeled they all are.

One or two heads turn, making me feel self-conscious. I’ve hit my savings for a new frock for this little escapade, but I still feel out of place – even if this place is the local Sodom or Gomorrah. But as I saunter forwards looking soignée and confident, one or two men favour me with frankly lustful glances. So obviously my gamble on a cleverly darted black shift dress, a cleverly cantilevered bra beneath it, a pair of cleverly high heels and a sleek, clever chignon has paid off. Bye-bye sensible Ms Price from the library, and hello La Gwendolynne, sultry seductress.

I’m still nervous, though, and my eyes skitter about, seeking the Lawns Bar. And luckily there it is, across the lobby, an inviting, softly lit space reached through open and rather elegant double doors. Is Daniel here? Is he waiting for me? He said he’d try to be. But, according to his text, his trip to London took longer than anticipated.

We haven’t really worked out how we’re going to play
tonight
. We’re suspended somewhere between fantasy and reality, on a shifting borderline. Is it Gwendolynne and Daniel? Or Gwendolynne and Nemesis? I’m not sure if either of us really cares any more. We’re just two people playing out fantasies in a temporary relationship. One person probably quite fond of the other, and the other, like a silly twit, in love. But I’m not going to fret and spoil the fun.

I really like the look of the Lawns Bar. It’s warm and spacious and has a palpable sexy buzz. People are talking in low tones at the tables and at the bar, and there’s Sarah Vaughan singing huskily in the background. As I walk in and look around, it’s easy to believe the Waverley’s reputation. Which, as a woman alone in a notorious place, only makes me more nervous. My skin prickles as if everyone’s looking at me. And even though everyone isn’t, some of them are. There’s no sign of Daniel, so, trying not to reveal my inner quivering, I walk as confidently as I can to the long, backlit bar, very conscious of a kind of Sugar Kowalski hip and bottom sway, induced by unfamiliar high heels.

As luck would have it, in such a well-patronised establishment, I find a free stool and park myself as elegantly as I can. Not sure what to say if anyone other than Daniel propositions me, I focus on worrying about what drink to order. Something weak to keep my wits about me, or something strong to calm my nerves?

Pull yourself together, Gwen. Here comes the barman. And what a barman. A tall figure in a dark perfect suit glides towards me. He looks continental, a bit obvious, but still a stunner. His hair is jet-black and pulled back in a severe pony-tail, he’s wearing gold-rimmed spectacles and he has a deliciously pouty mouth. Another hot man in glasses. What is it about them?

‘What can I get you?’ His low Italian accent does nothing
for
my equilibrium, even though he isn’t really my type. He’s far too smooth and ‘look at me, I’m gorgeous’ … and he isn’t Daniel. But he still strums my hormones, and when I don’t answer straight away he suggests, ‘Perhaps a glass of tonight’s house white? It’s rather good.’

‘Yes! That would be wonderful. Thanks.’

He slinks away and returns with my wine. After offering a toast in Italian that sounds vaguely filthy but probably isn’t, he retreats again.

I feel like swigging the lot down in one go, but I confine myself to sips. It
is
quite good, a soft yet sharp and apple-tasting Frascati, but I’m not really in a fit state to appreciate its nuances.

Where’s Daniel? Nemesis? Whatever? I peer around the bar, trying not to teeter on my stool. Fortunately, I’m used to sitting on one at the Enquiry Desk every day, so I manage OK. In the absence of my faux-punter, I try to work out what gives this place its notorious reputation.

Just as in the foyer, all looks normal. At first. Then I notice one or two women wearing toweringly high heels and serious dresses. And even more serious makeup. A bit like my own outfit, only far more extreme. What are they, dominatrixes? The men they’re with certainly look rather sheepish and in awe.

If Daniel doesn’t turn up soon, maybe I’ll give him a bit of that treatment when he does arrive. If I can work out what to do. It’s all very well fantasising about these things, but actually having to perform is another matter entirely.

I try out that daydream again, the one where it’s me in the mask and the leather. I get as far as him kneeling before me, without his clothes, and then annoyingly my mind starts to wander and worry about his absence. What if something’s wrong? What if he’s lying in his room, crippled with one of his killer headaches, too blinded by pain even to text me?

I’m just wondering whether I should make discreet enquiries, when a familiar face catches my eye and I turn to see Robert Stone, the Borough Director of Finance, heading towards the double doors through which I’ve just entered. He’s looking as debonair as ever, and he’s escorting a very beautiful young blonde woman in a slinky, crotch-skimming midnight-blue dress. As they pass me, I notice that his hand is wickedly low on her back, well, on her bottom really, and he suddenly glances my way as if he’s noticed me noticing. He gives me a nod – either as if he recognises me from the library, or because he just can’t help checking out women – and then a very strange, sly, sultry expression as if he knows something I don’t. His large hand doesn’t move from its low, caressing contact.

This all happens in the space of a millisecond, but it does make me wonder what the hell is going on here. One thing I do know, though. I’m almost certain that he
is
the man I saw in the alley the other night, and the lovely girl he’s with is the one he was making love to. It’s difficult to get my head around the fact that such a prominent local figure would do something so completely insane but, if he’s a regular here, maybe he’s fond of living dangerously?

Still no Daniel, but, when I turn back to the bar, I see the elegant older woman he met out in the library. His kissing cousin. She’s with Signor Italian Stud, and it’s immediately apparent they’re an item. More than that: on closer inspection I note matching wedding rings, and a sweet cocoon of intimacy, although they’re barely touching. She’s chattering cheerfully about something, and he’s watching her adoringly yet with an obvious, rampant hunger. It’s a kind of lustful tenderness that makes me ache with twisting jealousy. Not for her gorgeous Latin lover, but for the close and easy love the two exhibit. I want that. With Daniel. But to get it, one needs a future, not a fling.

The Lawns Bar suddenly feels empty and cold, even though the place is crammed and the ambient temperature is tropical.

I said I wouldn’t do this. I wouldn’t pine for something that’s not on offer. But here I am, going goo-goo over devious Professor Hottie again. Why can’t I just accept what I’ve got for now, and make the best of it? Because I have got something many women would scratch my eyes out for. A series of stunning sexual frolics with a famous and intelligent man.

I straighten my spine, sit up straight and stick out my chest. A man a few stools away ogles me like a dog eyeing a juicy hambone. OK, it’ll never be a picket fence and roses around the door with Daniel, but that isn’t the end of the world, is it?

The Lawns Bar is a simmering hotbed of sensuality again. And, as if summoned by the heat, Daniel appears. Like the devil? I’m not sure how and when, but he’s materialised at the other end of the bar and has his beautiful tight behind perched on a stool like mine. His cousin is already serving him a clear drink with ice in a highball glass, possibly a G&T or maybe vodka, I can’t tell. As she chats him up, he catches my eye over her shoulder and gives me a long, level look. He’s pretending he doesn’t know me but, beneath the act and his well-polished glasses, his eyes are intimate.

I get a hectic feeling in my chest. Fear, apprehension, excitement – the thrill I always experience at the sight of him, only overlaid with warped and twisted piquancy.

Game on.

Not giving myself time to hesitate, I finish the rest of my Frascati, slip off my stool and head his way. Miraculously, or perhaps by some kind of cosmic design, someone’s just vacated the stool next to his.

He watches me every step of the way, the devil, then pantomimes innocent surprise when I pitch up before him. His eyes
twinkle
behind his glasses as he courteously eases out the stool and then takes my arm to help me on to it.

‘Good evening.’ His voice is delicious, insolent.

My fears and frets seem to disappear like Scotch mist.

‘Good evening.’ I glance pointedly at his drink.

‘What are you having?’

Everything, I feel like saying. ‘A glass of the house white would be lovely.’

‘How about champagne?’ he counters, smiling merrily.

‘Why not? Are we celebrating something?’

He waggles his eyebrows, signals to his cousin and speaks in low tones to her, requesting bubbly. I feel another pang of jealousy, despite her obviously blissful marriage to her Italian stud.

Daniel returns his attention to me and beams.

‘So,
are
we celebrating?’ I persist.

‘Oh, most definitely … it’s not every day the most gorgeous woman in the room walks right up to me, without me even having to make an effort.’

‘The view’s better from this end of the bar.’ I’ve absolutely no idea how to do this kind of championship flirting. It’s all new to me, both the relationship and the game. But I still feel a shiver of pleasure, deep in my sex.

‘It is now.’ Daniel continues to smile while his eyes cruise unabashedly over the curves of my breasts. The neckline of my dress isn’t low and the bodice isn’t especially tight, but the clever cut makes my full shape look sensational. His lashes flicker in acknowledgement of my cleavage and he adjusts his position ever so slightly on his stool.

My heartbeat revs, and that lowdown shiver becomes a yearning, gnawing ache. I’m not the only one at this bar who looks sensational. Daniel has on a dark suit and a dazzling white shirt that accentuates his faint tan and makes it glow.
His
wild hair is neatly combed for once, but there’s still an untamed energy in his curls – and in everything about him. He looks strong and animal and dominant, a beast of sex.