Seduction (26 page)

The sort of thing her landlord would probably bring if he was seducing a lady. Or a ‘bird', as he'd probably call her.

No, get out, you! Fuck off! I don't want you in my head!

Swigging down more champagne without respect for its quality, Lucy sneezed as the bubbles went up her nose and the water level rocked dangerously.

But as it settled again, the wine started to have the desired effect. There was a sensation of golden effervescence as if the champagne were actually in her bloodstream and fizzing around her body, banishing all unwanted thoughts and restoring the integrity of her fantasy. Her lover-detective loomed large, sophisticated and refined in the centre of her dream-scape, making her skin tingle beneath the water and electricity flow to her sex and the tips of her breasts.

She drank more bubbly, rocking beneath the foam, aching with need for him.

Her pussy throbbed, and called like a siren to her fingers.

Not yet. Make yourself wait. Wind up the tension a bit.

Setting aside her glass, Lucy moaned. It was useless. She was so turned on. Waiting was agony.

With her eyes closed again, she let her imagination soar.

The door would fly back, and her ‘lover' would stand there in the doorway, utterly magnificent. His body was an arc of dominance in his thousand-dollar suit and his tanned skin and his white teeth gleamed as he smiled at her. Dark and sultry, his eyes had the power to see straight through the scented lather to her body.

Ooh, he was magnificent. A prince of charisma. Utterly male. And when he came to her, she was a princess, and he'd treat her like one. Lavishing complete attention on her, superb lovemaking . . . and rampant orgasms.

‘Oh God, yes . . .' she breathed, clenching her inner muscles, trying to believe she was clenching down on
him
. His cock . . . his fingers . . .

He'd think nothing of reaching into the water and drenching his designer jacket, just to play with her because
she
wanted him to. He'd find her clit without any hint of guidance.

Rolling her head against the folded-up towel she'd placed behind her neck, she submerged. Not into the water, but deep into the fantasy.

Her lover whipped off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and immersed his strong right arm beneath the foam. His fingertips settled against her breast, stroking lightly in a circle around her areola, flicking against the puckered little crest then alighting on the very tip of her nipple and rocking it gently. The caress was so slight, so delicate, yet somehow also huge. Raw lust fired her senses, making her gasp.

‘Oh please . . . oh please . . .' she chanted, knowing she was his, and that he could do whatever he wanted with her.

Riding the silky water, his fingers slipped to her other breast.
Their touch was tantalising, barely perceptible, light and frustrating. She began to thrash again and lather slipped and slopped and surged.

‘Please . . .' she breathed.

In her mind's eye she saw his eyes, as dark and compelling as they were on the television, but ten times as fiery.

Tell me what you want
, he commanded silently.
Tell me, out aloud, no holding back
.

‘I want you to touch me . . . I want you to touch my clit. I want to come.'

The ghost of a smile warmed his handsome face, adding humanity to its idealised perfection. His fingertips withdrew from her breast and she thought for a moment he might tease her, deny her the pleasure. But why would he? He was perfect . . .

She frowned, losing her grip.

A cold shudder rushed through her, along with a sense of dislocation and uncertainty. This was all silly. A bit sad and pathetic.

No! No! No!

Centring herself, she sipped more wine. And caught the thread again.

Easing herself down a little way beneath the water, she opened her legs wider.

Immediately,
his
hand found its clever way to exactly where she needed it to be.

Deft fingertips parted her pubic hair, and far, far back in the reaches of her mind, she made a note to wax next time. She imagined herself bare down there, with a neat, smooth-skinned cleft.

Even more perfect for the perfect seductive man.

But in this fantasy, tonight's fantasy, he played with her curls, neatly dividing them and slipping in to discover her clit. Then he settled upon it, just as delicately and ethereally as he'd stroked her nipples.

‘Slowly, slowly, not too soon . . .'

Who was she talking to? To her lover . . . or to herself?

But he was clever and he maintained a perfect pace.

Circling, circling . . . gathering up the wetness within the wetness and anointing her with it. His touch was nurturing, but had authority. He was her master.

Lucy wriggled her bottom against the base of the bath, massaging her own nether cheeks as her lover massaged her clitoris.

Her imagined lover.

But the scented air and the champagne made him real to her, not just a fantasy. Everything was perfect, and idealised, just like him.

She pictured his face, his body, his arm in the water, his hand between her legs.

She felt his finger, rubbing her clit, and she came.

The delicious pulses of pleasure were overwhelming. She surged uncontrollably, rocking the mass of perfumed water and sending it over the edge as she soared on a bright, sweet wave. The bath mat suffered, but she didn't care, she only writhed and gasped and climaxed.

Oh lover, you're incredible. You're the man.

But as the orgasm faded, then came the anti-climax. The anti-orgasm. A sense of deflation and the wrench of loneliness and disappointment.

Lucy sat up in the water. She shook her head, flinging off dark thoughts. Bollocks to all that, the night was young. She could still have more fun.

The water was starting to cool now, but while it was still comfortable, she took another hefty swig from her champagne glass, then started to soap herself with a natural sponge and expensive soap. And while she did so, she imagined again that it was the detective washing her, his hands just as deft as when he'd played with her clit.

She was just getting into it again when her stomach rumbled.

Time to satisfy another appetite. There was a mouth-watering platter of gourmet cheese and biscuits with fruit and olives waiting for her. Everything was the best, from the supermarket's finest range. Primo products to match the perfect primo fantasy.

Pausing every moment or two to take a sip of champers, Lucy worked her way through her beautification routine, primping and creaming and fluffing and teasing. By the time she'd done, she was feeling slightly tipsy.

Crikey, I'm going to be pissed at this rate!

But what did it matter if she felt loose and freeform? Losing her inhibitions was good for her fantasies.

Right on the point of stepping into her new pair of beautiful but scandalously expensive panties, Lucy stopped dead.

What the hell was that banging noise? A heavy repeated thumping. She scowled and let fly a fruity oath.

There was someone at the door. Someone who didn't have to buzz up to be let in the building.

Oh no!

There were only four flats in the house. The tenants of two of them were away and the third flat was being renovated. Which only left . . . sigh . . .

Her fucking idiot clod of a landlord!

For a fifth of a second she considered ignoring him, but he'd be able to hear her Mozart playing throughout the flat. Bugger!

Abandoning her posh panties, she dragged her scraggly old dressing gown out of the cupboard and bundled herself into it again, belting it up tight. Too tight. She felt as if the sash were cutting her in two, and all her golden champagne-glow mellowness rapidly dissipated.

She was stone-cold sober again, her fantasy in rags.

Shoving her feet into her equally ratty old mules, she hesitated.

I could still ignore him. For all he knows, I really
do
have a man in here
.

But as the rapping on the door came again, it was obvious he wasn't going to go away until he got an answer, the stupid donkey.

She stamped to the door, teeth gritted, and even as she reached it, the panels rattled under another fusillade of blows.

‘All right! All right! Keep your hair on!'

Wildly, she swung the door open, making it bounce on its hinges.

Steve, her landlord, grinned at her across the threshold. He was leaning on the door jamb, looking even more ill-kempt than usual if that were possible, with a battered canvas tool bag swinging from his hand. His shabby Southern Comfort T-shirt appeared to have been washed a thousand times and beaten on rocks by tribeswomen, and his jeans were in holes and worn white in strategic places.

Places Lucy really didn't want to be caught looking at but couldn't quite stop herself. There was obviously quite a good-sized tool in there too.

When she glanced up again, Steve had a wide, smug grin plastered across his cheeky, stubble-clad face.

‘Hi, babe . . . Didn't know whether you could hear me over the Mozart.' His blue eyes danced over her, settling on the V of her dressing gown, even though it was very snugly fastened and not revealing anything. ‘I wouldn't have disturbed you, but I'm going up to town tomorrow for a few days, and I remembered I still hadn't fixed your pipes . . . Is now a good time? It'll only take a moment.'

Scenarios from cheesy 70s porn films flitted through Lucy's mind. Plumbers and their wrenches. Electricians and their socket sets. It was a million miles away from her dreams of her television lover. The very antithesis of them . . .

Here was Steve the randy landlord, not her perfect and sophisticated dream man. Although to his credit, he did at least recognise Mozart when he heard it, she accepted reluctantly.

Still, she sighed inside.

Why on earth did you have to turn up tonight of all times? Can't a girl have a bit of peace and quiet to have sex fantasies and masturbate?

‘Come in . . . it's all right. I'd rather you fixed it now than wait much longer.' She
was
fed up with all the dripping and the wet towels and constantly replacing a bowl beneath the sink.

Sly dark eyes looked her up and down, as if searching for a chink in the tightly belted-up robe.

‘Look, if you're busy, I can come back after I've been away.'

The louche expression on his swarthy face dared her not to refuse him. It was actually rather a nice face too, she realised, taking the time to look more closely for a change. You could even call him handsome in a rough-hewn sort of way.

And his body certainly wasn't bad either . . .

A big man, he seemed to displace quite a lot of air when she stepped back and ushered him past her into the flat.

‘No, go right in . . . You might not come back for a month and I'm fed up with soggy towels under the sink.'

Steve laughed softly, as if tacitly and unapologetically acknowledging his erratic stewardship of his own property, while Lucy studied his broad back as he preceded her down the passage.

My God, he
was
big. Strapping, in fact, and seeming more massive than ever in the confines of the flat. Heavy of shoulder, his arms and chest and thighs were powerful in a way that reminded her of the detective, although her fantasy man had a refinement and grace about him that her lumbering oaf of a landlord sadly lacked.

Or did he? He was light enough on his feet as he strode towards the kitchen.

Once in there, he zeroed in straight away on the elegant platter of cheese and fruit that she'd laid out for herself.

‘That looks nice . . . Expecting someone?' The lift of his eyebrow seemed to speak volumes about his speculations on her sex life.

Words froze on Lucy's lips.

What could she say? How could she explain her fantasy night for one, with possible masturbation?

Steve's eyes narrowed, as if he'd sussed it out already.

‘OK, love . . . none of my business, obviously,' he said cheerily, squatting down before the cupboard under the sink and letting his bag of tools drop on the kitchen floor with a heavy clump. ‘I'll get out of your hair as quick as I can.'

Lucy dragged in a deep breath, but kept it quiet, not obvious. She wished he hadn't turned up when he had, but still, somehow, there was a strange comfort in having him in the flat. He was a real man. Solid and living. Scruffy and a bit loutish but, in his own way, peculiarly appealing.

Something twisted in her heart, gouging and aching. She imagined a flickering, fluttering sound . . . the card-house of her fantasies cascading to the carpet in disarray.

She couldn't tear her eyes away from his thighs, and the way they flexed as he crouched. They looked hard and packed with muscle. As did his bottom in his faded work jeans.

Fantasy and reality phased in and out of her imagination, making her giddy. Here was a real, very attractive man. Earthy, but desirable. What the hell was she doing with her life? If she turned her nose up at possibilities like this, she was letting Simon and that harpy Linda win.

What's the point in faffing about with fantasies, when I should be reaching out for the real . . . and the available?

She hadn't seen Steve with a girlfriend lately.

‘I'll have to turn the water off at the stop-cock,' he announced, straightening up. ‘Just for a couple of minutes,
though. I won't spoil your evening.' He snuck another glance at the cheese, and had the effrontery to lick his sexy lower lip.

‘No problem.'

‘But it isn't under the sink.' He gave her another provocative grin. ‘It's a renovation, this flat . . . things were changed around. The stop-cock is actually in the bathroom. OK to go through?'

He nodded in the direction of her sybaritic haven. With its scented water, its solitary champagne glass, its flickering tea lights.

Titillating lingerie laid out for nobody to see. Expensive perfume to seduce a man who didn't know she even existed. Mortified, she wanted to grab Steve by the arm and stop him discovering her pathetic secrets, but he was too fast for her. Or maybe, somehow, she wanted him to find her out?