Trust
Page 1
Table of Contents
Trust – Alice May Ball Trust - Alice May Ball
http://smarturl.it/AlicesReaders
Author’s note
Prologue - 
Chapter 1  - 
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Chapter 2  - 
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Chapter 3  - 
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Chapter 4  - 
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Chapter 5  - 
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Chapter 6  - 
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Chapter 7  - 
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Chapter 8 *  - 
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Chapter 9  - 
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Chapter 10  - 
Epilogue - 
Gift – Marston’s story - 
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About the Author
TRUST
Alice May Ball
©Alice May Ball 2017
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hese naughty adventures have always been great favorites of mine, ever since I first published some of them in short story form. Mrs Harper’s adventures and mishaps lead her on a voyage of heated discoveries in a quest for fulfillment that is close to my heart.
I hope that it can mean something for you, as it certainly has for me.
t was too late for me, I knew it right away. The time and care I’d taken in the hair salon, my manicure, picking out the perfect the dress, sexy shoes, all of it. It would all be for nothing. The moment I sat down in front of him at the table in the very private and exclusive London restaurant, I knew that I was sunk. Across the white linen and heavy silver cutlery, I felt his cool, hooded gray eyes like they held me.
He was the real deal. Tall, dark, broad, and strong, he had the old-school manners of a prince. He was interested now. Perhaps I could even say eager, though it’s so hard to tell with these damned aristocratic Brits. He was keen enough to get me into a secluded booth in this very expensive and ultra discreet restaurant.
He pursed and licked his lips as he watched me sit, his gentlemanly eyes avoiding the heave in my plunging neckline. But I knew he had registered every inch of my curves. I didn’t miss the eager bulge in the front of his suit pants, either. Impressive. Ardent, you might say.
Why hadn’t I found a man like him before, when I was so much in need? Maybe, said that tight, nagging little voice inside, Maybe, you could have looked a little harder. It was true. Maybe, you could have passed up on some of those opportunities. Resisted what was near, the fast, the easy thrills, held out for someone more, what, solid? Grown up? I felt like a schoolgirl in front of him. Like a naughty child.
It was true enough, I had been a naughty girl. A very naughty girl, really. Now I could see the price I would have to pay. The gleam in Marston Quinn’s eye and the tender way that he looked at me, like a precious pony, like a jewel, it showed that he had a real, serious interest in me. One that looked a long way outside the bounds of the professional relationship that we already had.
When he invited me to the cozy English restaurant, with a hushed atmosphere like something from Downton Abbey or a Victorian romance, I knew that this wasn’t meant to be about business at all. He obviously wanted to get to know me better. Get closer.
As soon as he learned just a little more about me though, about how I’d spent the last year, I was certain his face would freeze, he’d lift an aristocratic finger, the maître d’ would come, and Marston would smile politely at me as he asked for the check. Then he’d say something about how terribly sorry he was, but some urgent something and blah, blah. Damnit.
It was bound to be that way. How else could it possibly go? A proper English gent, he might pretend to be amused, he might even show a little fascination for the outrageous twists and turns. I wondered if he would press me for details. Even then, I felt the prickle of the damp heat of excitement, picturing his face if I told him some of those tales.
His eyes flashed at me right then, and his nostrils flared. I shifted in my chair as he commanded the Sommelier, his eyes still holding me, sparkling on me. His strong, gentle smile that I knew I was going to crack, eventually. My mind raced for some way, some magic get-out clause that I could say, ’But, ha-ha, it was all a dream.’
Or just not tell him.
My life didn’t have to open like a book in front of him. There was no reason I couldn’t keep my secrets. Just not mention anything from the past year, keep it all to the present. See how we got along.
Maybe after dinner, cozying up on a leather couch, nursing balloon glasses of hundred-year old cognac, when he asked casually about the past, I could slide closer, peer over the rim of the glass and say, “Why don’t we think about the immediate future?”
Watch his response. On his face. Other places.
But I knew it wasn’t going to work, damn it. Already, I felt an urge to tell him, to confess. It stirred deep inside me. I needed to tell him, to have him hear me. Let him see me for who I really was. Then he’d understand.
He would see how I needed all of what happened, how I had to go though it to reach the understanding that I have now. And hearing that, knowing it, he would accept me.
Except that he wouldn’t. Obviously.
That’s the thing about lawyers, isn’t it? They have the trick, the ability of making you want to talk. His face, his devilishly handsome cheekbones and granite jaw, it was kindly and indulgent, but I knew.
He was my lawyer, after all. I knew what he was capable of. He could spread a soft smile like a big cat, and be devastating and ruthless, all at the same time. That was how he got to be my lawyer in the first place.
My breath caught, as his strong nimble hands slowly and deliberately cracked and split a bread roll open, breaking it apart perfectly. Spreading it to reveal the soft, white inside between the jagged golden rip. The amusement in his eyes made my heart thump.
A slight, but distinctly raw, grin of appetite tugged at his lips. “Really.” His voice was big and low, like hot, thick caramel. “We haven’t gotten to the starters yet.”
My mouth was dry. I wanted to speak, to say something light and witty. Show him a confident woman. A little smile, a turn of my head as I showed the length of my throat. But I knew that wasn’t how it would go.
He would dangle me on a string for a little longer, while it amused him, then he would ask. Then I would tell him. And that would be that. This dream, this phase of my life would be over. A man at the table behind me snapped his heavy, leather-bound wine list shut.
But I should start at the beginning. I would, if I could be sure where the beginning was. Probably, I should start from my marriage. But I can’t. That would be too painful.
How I even survived all of what happened is kind of a mystery and I don’t mean in terms of safe sex. All the time I keep pretty strict practices, although somehow that’s not a part of what I remember. How I got through it all intact I don’t know. Was I trying to find something, fix something emotional, or did I just let my inner wild child loose, t
he risk-taking side of myself that I’d kept completely chained in all of my younger days?
If I could rewind, do it all over, undo it all over maybe, would I trade the possibility of something starting with Marston Quinn tonight, and resist, miss out on, all of those fantastic, outrageous encounters, those stolen moments, would I? Could I?
Chapter 1
HERE DID IT ALL START? What I remember first was the morning about a year before, at home in the dazzle of the Californian morning light. The kitchen was drenched in sun and I squinted through the sliding glass doors at the dazzling, dappled patio and pool.
There were estate things, taxes, and a whole mess of other legal tangles to be combed through and settled. The ’gift,’ my husband had called it. My lawyer, the law firm my husband had always used, had been great at keeping the whole mess at bay, but his letters and, increasing emails, and now even phone messages were becoming more urgent by the week.
I wasn’t ready to begin wading through it all, nowhere near it. Not yet.
Kurt. Tall, ripped, and buff, the perfect image of a pool boy. Exactly what you want to see in the early morning light, padding around the edge of your pool. Or diving in.
A blond tousle he couldn’t ever control, a big brow that made him look permanently confused, and watery blue eyes that you could melt in. Young, dumb, and full of cum. Eighteen years old, with the naive look of a much younger boy.
When he came yesterday, when he arrived that is, he looked so exhausted, I said, “Out partying all night, Kurt? You look worn out.”
“Well, truthfully, Mrs. Harper, I was up all last night.”
“Sit out by the pool a while, unless you’re in a hurry to be done. I’ll bring you some iced tea.”
He flopped and draped himself along the lounger in the shade, khaki knee-length shorts showing off his shapely shins in their hazy blond fuzz. The strong torso rippled under his t-shirt. Seeing him stretched out there made me hunger and yearn.
He made me think of nights under the stars, nights in cars, teenage nights when we were all discovering what it was to find each other, to open each other’s secrets and find the hidden keys to each other’s bodies, and our own. We were intent on learning all of the pleasures that we could give. And the pleasures that we could receive.
I had on a dark blue dress, cut like a man’s shirt, and pulled together with a belt. The front was open low enough to catch my lacy bra.
None of the buttons were done up, only the belt cinched it together. It showed my long legs to advantage with a pair of high-heeled sandals. Through the scoops of the shirttails, he may just have gotten a flash of tiny, cream silk panties. Particularly from that prone position, lazing along the lounger.
I took the iced tea out and stood over him, looking down at his lean body, lazily stretched out. I leaned over to hand him the tea and he got a look at the top of my cream lacy bra, too.
His blue eyes flicked up under the ridge of his brow and a charge bolted through me. This was going to have to stop and I was going to have to stop it. Stop it before something awful happened.
A woman my age, he would laugh in my face. The thought made a hard knot in my stomach.
He had his t-shirt hiked up to cool off and his golden skin shimmered in the sunlight and he hurried to pull it down saying, “Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Harper.” His eyes went instinctively down, and straight into the front of my dress. He spluttered, but I put my hand on his.
“Oh, don’t worry, Kurt. Your muscles aren’t going to upset me,” not strictly true, they upset me considerably, though I didn’t want it to stop. But I didn’t want to confuse him further with that detail.
As I took my hand from his, I let my finger drag along the line of downy fuzz that ran from his big chest to his navel. Farther down, his shorts rose in the front, and were growing before my eyes. I told myself to stop this now, ’before you really make a fool of yourself.’
First, I had to ask him, “Up all night to get lucky? Did you get laid much last night, Kurt?”
He frowned and blushed. His shorts became fuller, then he blushed even more. A breeze blew around my soft undies and made my dress flap around my thighs. I said, “Didn’t you want to get laid?” He was struggling to speak, so I went on, “We’re cool, aren’t we? You can talk to me, Kurt.” He peered up at me, still fighting with his embarrassment.
“Oh, I wanted to get laid, Mrs. Harper.” he blushed, furiously searching my eyes for approval, disapproval, for any kind of clue for how to go on. “I wanted to, Mrs. Harper, and I thought that I might. I saw girls looking at me, more than one of them, but whenever I tried to talk to them, they just giggled, or they ran away.”
His shorts were straining now.
“You’re too good looking, Kurt, that’s your trouble.”
His voice was thicker and quieter, “That doesn’t seem right, Mrs. Harper,” I tingled when he called me ’Mrs. Harper.’
“It’s true, though. You’re too damn sexy and it scares them. Plus, they may not think you know what to do. That can make girls jumpy. Especially if they don’t know what to do.”
“I know what I want to do, Mrs. Harper,” and a shock of sweet tingling pounded through me. I knew that I should stop this before I made a complete idiot of myself. But he went on, “I know what I want to do, but I don’t think I know how.”
I gulped. My mouth was becoming dry and my thighs quivered.
“What do you want to do, Kurt?” A tall, firm tent rose in his shorts now.
“I want to touch, Mrs. Harper, and to… taste,” and he gulped as he looked up at me, his eyes burning.
After my lovely years of marriage, I thought that all the good parts of my life were over. There was the money, of course, but almost all the great fun in my life had been with my husband. How little I knew of the world, living as I had in the cocoon of our life together. I had taken for granted how much he had protected and insulated me.
It turned out that I had never had to fend for myself before, not really. And, as I discovered, I had even less of an idea of what was to come.
Kurt had looked at me that morning with a storm of pleading, confusion, and desperate embarrassment. I wanted to release him from the anguish, but it stirred a deep well of emotion in me. A well that I knew I should cover or cap, but I couldn’t. I wanted him to open up to me, to tell me what he wanted to do with the girls. I yearned to hear exactly what he wanted to do.
Those doors had been closed to me for what seemed such a long time that I realized I had become comfortable inside, closed off from the risks and the thrills of company. That kind of company.
The company of a hot, hard male body.
What Kurt wanted to do, I wanted to hear, specifically and in detail. To hear, and more. The truth was that, whatever it was, I wanted him to do it with me. Do it to me. But I was sure that that the body of an older woman wouldn’t interest him, much less inflame him.
So, instead, I wanted to settle for hearing about it. Like a kind of a romantic tourist. And I knew that it could only end in humiliation or embarrassment for me. I should stop it.
“I want to touch you, Mrs. Harper.” My heart pounded. I looked into his eyes and I felt the agony he had been through to say that, to expose himself, in the way he hadn’t been able to with the girls at the party. I so wanted to stretch my fingers, to reach out and caress his tanned abs, lay my cheek against his bulging chest, and feel the muffled thump of his heart.
“You can touch me, Kurt,” and I sat beside him on the lounger. I leaned across to kiss him. His lips trembled and his breath caught as my breasts pressed through the thin dress onto his chest.
My nipples tingled as they felt his skin, his muscles, his big, firm chest through the thin material. My lips, soft and wet, met his, firm and trembling. His wide, full lips softened as I let my tongue moisten them.