The Accidental Mistress (32 page)

She wanted him in her, now; no preliminaries. The quickest way was the best, avoiding complications, avoiding talk. Before she could change her mind or even think, she was wriggling out of her yoga pants, and kicking them away.

Then, pulling the crotch of her knickers to one side, she crouched over him, positioning herself right over his glans.

‘What, no foreplay?’

‘I don’t need it.’ Wriggling, she settled on him, then let herself descend, quite fast, panting as his length filled her up. ‘What about me?’ His grin was wicked. He didn’t need it either. He was ready now as he was always ready, although he gasped out loud when she rocked, and swivelled a little, striving for the maximum, for all of him.

‘You’ll manage,’ she replied through gritted teeth, engulfed in sensation. Every time he was in her, it was as if she’d forgotten how big he was, or simply how big he
felt
, and the sensation surprised her, filling her heart with wonder as he filled her with himself.

‘I feel like your sex toy.’ He moved uneasily beneath her, then cursed a blue streak when she gripped him fiercely, flexing her inner muscles.

‘Women feel like that a lot of the time. Get used to it.’ She was talking nonsense, but the way he was bucking up
against her played havoc with rational thought. Rising up, she slammed down hard again, forcing another oath from his lips. His fingers dug into her hips, through her knickers, as he gripped her tightly, reciprocating her action with an upward thrust of his own.

‘But I don’t treat you like a sex toy, Lizzie,’ he hissed, ‘I never have … even at first, when I still thought you were “working”. I’ve always tried to respect women, and you most of all!’

Her eyes snapped open, and she stared down at him. Something in his voice, some shadow in his eyes, drew her out of her sex fugue for a moment. What other women had he respected? His wife, of course … But what about Rose? Had he respected her? Had he gone out of his way to coax her to live with him? What if he’d wanted
her
to marry him, whereas now he’d given up on matrimony?

‘What is it, Lizzie?’ His voice was softer, concerned all of a sudden. Even in the midst of a wild ride he was acute, reading her every nuance. ‘You went away for a moment there. What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ she growled, rocking again, shaking her head, making her hair fly as if to eject all stupid, possessive thoughts from her mind. Fuck Rose! She wasn’t here. She, Lizzie, was the one sitting on John’s beautiful cock, with her eyes nearly starting from her head because he was in so deep.

Inclining forward a little, she slid her hands beneath his cotton top, palms flat, coasting over the smooth hot skin, savouring the friction of the light, crisp body hair. Making pincers of her fingers and thumbs, she trapped his nipples, squeezing him and making him squirm anew beneath her.

‘Oh yes, oh God,’ he burbled, tensing, his heels dragging on the rug. ‘You’re a demoness, sometimes … you know that,
don’t you?’ She pinched him again and once more the air was blue. His fingers tightened, digging cruelly into her hips, but she didn’t care. God, she wanted more of it. Twisting his nipples, she clamped hard on him, with her sex.

John rolled his head from side to side on the rug, his flaxen curls tossing. His face was like a tortured saint’s, in extremis, yet strong. Always strong.

‘You get the better of me, Lizzie … I … I should hate that. But it’s never seemed so right.’ He slid a hand up her body, over her ribs, and then hooking round her shoulder. With a rough tug, he pulled her down, her face to his. ‘Hell, this is always right … no matter what … always good.’

There was only one thing to do. Kiss him. Her lips settled on him softly at first, but then, in a swift rearrangement of limbs, he was holding her more tightly, a hand buried in her hair. Gripping her scalp, he took control of the kiss, even though she was in the superior position. He held the back of her head with his powerful spread fingers, and thrust his tongue into her mouth, searching and subduing.

Lying completely still beneath her now, he was dominant again, mastering her with the hot hard flesh inside her and the jab and dart of his tongue. The balance had tipped, but who cared? For the moment it was marvellous, just pure sex, no complications. She moaned into his mouth when he slid a hand to her breast and squeezed it quite hard. She tried to retaliate, punishing his nipples, but he shook her away from them with barely any effort.

Play-acting resistance, she didn’t fight at all. Her sex rippled around him, the palpitation involuntary, not her conscious doing this time. She was close, hair-trigger close, to the bliss of orgasm. Gasping, she reached down between their bodies and flicked her swollen clit.

‘I’ll do that.’ John’s voice was low, husky and ragged, almost unrecognisable from his usual cultured tones. As she shook and trembled, he grabbed her by the waist and lifted her from him, then guided her on to her back. There wasn’t much space between the edge of the fireplace and the ottoman, but somehow, he made some, nimbly moving over her. For a moment he was poised, kneeling between her rudely spread thighs, his cock pointing at her face. Was he going to whip off the condom and come all over her? Mark her with his dominion, like some savage male beast?

An almost primal smile crossed his glorious face, and she could read his thoughts as he considered that very thing. Then he shook his head, and moved into a new configuration, settling between her legs, pushing his cock towards her entrance. Drawing aside her knickers, just as she’d done, he found the sweet spot, then thrust home, his flesh filling her again. As they readjusted their bodies, he reared up on one elbow and his eyes fixed on her face as his fingers found her clitoris.

His expression was pure male confidence and power, but she didn’t back down from it. She stared back at him, knowing she was his equal, holding that fiery golden gaze of his, even as he caressed her, teased her, wound her up tighter and tighter and tighter until with a hoarse cry, she climaxed hard. Reaching up, even as her body pulsed with pleasure, she dug her fingers into his curls, compelling him to observe the results of his manipulations in her eyes.

‘Lizzie,’ he growled, his voice a homage, his blue eyes near black with lust. Half out of her head, she knew that it was the look in her eyes that was exciting him as much as the embrace of her flesh, rippling around him.

And he looked away first, tipping back his head, his eyes
closing as he gripped her harder, now with both hands, and powered into her. She’d come already; he could do his thing now, claim his own prize.

Grabbing at him, she doubled up her knees, her ankles at the small of his back, drawing him in deeper. All the time, still half coming, pulsing, soaring higher, higher. John took her gift, following the siren call of her utter surrender to him, and within moments, he was coming too, shouting her name.

For two minutes, or perhaps five, they were just a heap on the rug, bodies tangled, chests heaving as if they’d both completed a marathon with a hundred yard dash. John was a lean man, his body lithe, but shattered by pleasure, he felt like a dead weight upon her. Lizzie was dazed, and coming back to her senses, she wondered whether she was suffering from oxygen deprivation. But just as she was about to push at John and nudge him into getting off her, he levered himself away, murmuring, ‘Sorry, love, I must be crushing you.’

‘Just a bit, but I’ll live.’ Filling her lungs, she lay where she was, still getting her breath back and watching John right his clothing, and deal with the condom, wrapping it carefully in a thick handful of tissues that he’d pulled from the box encased in a chased silver holder.

‘There are some things that even the most broadminded staff shouldn’t have to deal with,’ he said, grinning, as he tossed the bundle in the fire, and then jabbed it with the poker to ensure incineration.

Lizzie sat up, tweaking her knickers back into place. ‘I’m
glad their flat is over in the stable block.’ She answered his grin. ‘At least that way they won’t hear all the racket we make sometimes.’

‘Indeed,’ answered John, casting around for her yoga pants, finding them, and passing them to her so she could wiggle them on again. As he watched her, he asked, ‘More gin?’ and gestured to their abandoned glasses.

It was late, and a bit shell-shocked by the sex, Lizzie didn’t want alcohol. ‘I think I’d rather have some tea.’ Pushing off from the ottoman, she stood up, half expecting to sway, but managing to stay upright. ‘Shall we go and make some? We are allowed in the kitchen, aren’t we?’

John laughed.‘Yes, of course. This isn’t
Upstairs Downstairs
, you know. The Thursgoods won’t have a fit of the vapours if we do a bit of fending for ourselves sometimes.’ He swooped down and collected the glasses. ‘Come on. I could just fancy a cup of tea too.’

Lizzie collected her tray, and they made their way to the kitchen together. It was a warm, lovely space, all done out in country greens and browns, full of high-tech cooking equipment, yet not in the least intimidating.

As John ran water into the sink, to wash the glasses, it dawned on Lizzie that she needed the bathroom. ‘Is there a downstairs cloakroom?’

‘Several, sweetheart, but the nearest is back the way we came, second door on the right.’ He winked at her. ‘Some people will do anything to avoid washing the pots.’

Lizzie stuck out her tongue and fled the room.

A little while later, she surveyed herself in the mirror, her face still aglow from sex, her hair mussed, not tamed, her fringe floppy. Her clothes were rumpled from rolling about on the rug. But she felt comfortable that way.

Perhaps I could live here. Like this. It’s like a palace and there are staff … but it isn’t really intimidating.

And yet … it was so different to all she’d known.

Shaking her head, she abandoned the bathroom and hurried back to the kitchen.

The tea was made. John was sitting at the kitchen table, presiding over the pot and two mugs. No bone china tea service, thank heavens. Just normal black earthenware; she’d seen the same ones in Homebase last time she’d been in buying some new bits and pieces for St Patrick’s Road.

‘What I said before … I’m not ungrateful, John. You do the most wonderful things. You’re the kindest man. But you just do them and you don’t … um … keep me in the picture.’ She took the tea he pushed towards her, and took a sip. ‘It makes me feel out of control, as if I’m being buffeted along, and I don’t like that because I’ve felt it before. It took me such a long time to get control of my life, and it was a big step to make my own choices and abandon uni. I don’t want to give up that self-determination.’

‘I understand that. Completely,’ said John quietly, stirring his tea, although she knew for a fact that he didn’t take sugar. ‘And the supreme irony is that it’s exactly why I do what I do … take control, that is. There have been times in my life when I’ve not been in control myself. In prison. In relationships … well,
a
relationship. And I just can’t allow it to happen again, so I tend to take these “executive actions” to keep a firm hand on everything.’

Relationship? What relationship? He must mean Rose, who could only be the New York woman. Had he loved this mysterious siren so much that he’d given up his natural urge to be in command of things? Lizzie knew that his marriage
had been egalitarian, and a happy balance, even if his wife had initially had the upper hand, moneywise.

‘So, we understand each other, really.’ She reached out, and took his hand. ‘Perhaps we’re just rushing along too fast?’

John’s smile was gentle, wise, full of admiration.

‘You’re such a smart girl, Lizzie. Such a realist. I wish I had half the emotional sense that you do.’ He twisted his wrist and cradled her hand, holding her as if she
were
porcelain, not like their bargain basement drinking vessels. ‘I’ll move at your speed from now on, I promise. I won’t do anything without consulting you.’ He raised her hand quickly to his lips and kissed it passionately. ‘At least I’ll
try
not to.’

He would try. She knew that. But would he ever tell her about Rose?

‘What’s bothering you, Lizzie? Something is. And something more than this business of moving in, I can tell.’

He didn’t miss a trick. Those blue eyes were so sharp, like lasers, seeing right through to her soul and its qualms.

‘Come on, love, you can ask me anything. I know I’ve not been too forthcoming about my life, and my past, but that’s something else I’ll try to change.’ The look on his face was almost hypnotic, inviting her to be bold; to ask.

Don’t do it, Lizzie. Don’t spoil things. He says he wants to tell all, but he’s a man. I bet he doesn’t really.

And still, she took a deep breath, and asked:

‘Who’s “Rose”?’

Two days later, she still didn’t really know. But she soon would. They were in the Bentley Continental, scudding along the motorway, heading out to meet the woman who Lizzie feared, in her most irrational moments, might be her nemesis.

It had been a busy couple of days. John had spent long hours at the new JS North office complex, in meetings with his new staff: managers and executives, and workers at the sharp edge alike. Lizzie had thrown herself hard into sewing and helping out at New Again. Something interesting had come to them. A bridal commission. A client had been let down by a big wedding gown firm and, furiously upset, had told them, basically, to stuff it. And she’d come to New Again, begging them to help her. Could Lizzie make a dress? Marie had casually raised the issue of creating their own mini ‘label’ again … but then didn’t press, as if she’d sensed Lizzie’s deep preoccupation.

Two days of poring over patterns, online catalogues of trims and fabrics, and in intense meetings and fittings with Serena, potentially the first ever New Again Bride, had occupied Lizzie’s mind usefully, and deflected her from a continuous stream of pointless and irrational brooding about Rose. She hadn’t even had a proper chance to touch base with Brent and Shelley; it seemed that when
she
was at St Patrick’s Road, neither of them were around, and vice versa. The only occupant who was there consistently was Mulder the cat. Lizzie had a strong suspicion that the two other human occupants were at least as deeply absorbed in their own love lives as she was in hers, although whoever Brent was seeing was someone new and unknown to her. She would have to quiz him a bit when they next found time for a chat. The same with Shelley, about her escort man, Sholto.