On the point of asking him what it felt like, Lizzie paused. As an experienced escort, she was supposed to know that. But, well, she wasn’t experienced, not in that. And she supposed it was different for a man, with different anatomy.
She just said, ‘Wow.’
‘Wow, indeed. Fuck, it hurt. He wasn’t very gentle. We were both pretty much virgin idiots. He didn’t know how to push smoothly and, bossy as I was, I was excited as hell and didn’t know how to relax properly. There was a lot of moaning and most of it wasn’t in ecstasy, I can tell you.’ He drew in a deep, sharp breath, as if back there, tense and tight, not knowing whether he was enjoying himself or hating every minute. ‘But after a bit, we seemed to get a rhythm, and it started to be nice . . . very nice. I wanted it to last, to go on for ever, but that was never going to happen. He started to come, and come like a bloody jackhammer. We fell in a heap, and I was face down, chewing the floorboards, but in heaven. I thought he’d lost it completely and forgotten about me as anything more than a tight arsehole, but just as I was about to come, he scrabbled around beneath me and held my cock as I shot my load . . . I think that’s when I really thought it was love . . . Because he thought of me, and tried to make it nicer when it mattered.’
Silence descended over them. A blanket of deep thought, of mild shock perhaps. John stared away across the garden, as if he was staring away across time, and Lizzie stared at him, as thunderstruck by the degree of intimacy he’d shared with her, as she was profoundly aroused by his description.
‘Do you ever hear from him?’ she asked, after a while. She felt hot and bothered, stirred and confused still, but it would be time to move on soon, and they needed to act normally, somehow.
John turned to her. He looked tranquil, as if unaffected by his trip down memory lane, but fondness crept into his blue eyes as he spoke. ‘I get a Christmas card from him every year. Sometimes with a note. He lives in Scotland now. Married and as straight as straight can be, but blissfully happy by the sound of it. I’m glad for him. He’s a good man, and he was good to me when I needed it.’
‘So, you were just a youthful fling?’
‘More or less. Like I said, we barely lasted a few weeks at school, but it was sweet at the time.’
Were all his relationships like that? Sweet at the time, but transitory? What about his mysterious marriage, that she knew from the internet had been to a much older woman? And other relationships, surely, surely, there must have been some? Many? Who knew? She wished she’d trawled the web more assiduously now, or taken more notice of Brent’s Googlings.
His life is none of your business, Lizzie. He’ll be gone in a week or so. You’re just a fling yourself. Don’t start obsessing and yearning for more.
John looked at his slim but probably ruinously expensive watch. ‘I think we should be moving on now, sweetheart. Are you ready?’
‘I’ll call at the ladies’ cloakroom, if you don’t mind.’ Awash with wistful thoughts, her desire still hadn’t waned in the slightest. She wanted to touch herself again, but to have the moment alone. In case tears came at the moment of truth, when she couldn’t fool herself.
But in the pretty, immaculate, pink-painted cloakroom of the Bluebell Café, her body and her mind wouldn’t work together. She was aroused, but her head whirled with thoughts, and she was left uncomfortable, unresolved and confused.
Her own fingers weren’t what she wanted. She wanted John. His touch. His voice. Hurriedly she spent a penny, and washed her hands, then stared at her flurried face in the mirror. Her eyes were bright and a bit wild. She looked like an ingénue, not a supposedly confident woman of the world. She just wanted to get back to her man, even if he was only hers in the most temporary and superficial way. He’d gone to chat with the proprietors of the café, in the kitchens, where his driver Jeffrey, a friend of the family who owned the establishment, was enjoying his own coffee and presumably that delicious lemon cake.
While she was combing her hair, the cloakroom door swung open. It was a small room, and there was no way she couldn’t immediately react to the presence of a newcomer . . . especially as it was John himself.
‘What are you doing in here? This is the ladies’ room . . . the ladies’ room!’
‘I know,’ he said, reaching her in two long strides, then grabbing her, and her bag, and propelling her towards one of the toilet cubicles. ‘But I’m not sure it’s a lady I want right now.’ He hustled her inside, and then bolted the door. The Bluebell was an old building and the cubicles were generous-sized, with enormous antique toilets like shining white porcelain thrones complete with sturdy wooden seat covers. ‘I want a woman. I want you. A delicious, randy hussy who’s always ready for my cock.’
Dropping her bag to the floor, he cupped her head in his hand and pushed her up against the side wall of the cubicle, kissing her fiercely and hauling up her skirts to slide his hands between her legs. Whatever had brought on this sudden surge of lust, so intense it compelled him to seek her out in the seclusion of an all-female enclave, she did not know. But it was as thrilling as it was fierce and unexpected.
She wanted him. She always wanted him. He grunted with approval, still kissing her as he found her wet and ready.
Marauding her mouth, he rubbed the edge of his hand against her clit, gripping her. The caress was rough and intense and she ground herself against it, gasping hard. He leant his other hand on the wall now, for purchase, inclining towards her and pressing with all of his body.
Every nerve on fire, Lizzie surged towards orgasm, but just as she was about to reach it, he snatched away his hand and stepped back, chest heaving. Glancing around the small space, he seemed to assess its possibilities. ‘You’ll have to ride me, gorgeous,’ he said with a wicked wink, then flipped down the seat cover and settled down on it, unzipping his flies. His cock sprang out of his underwear as he pushed it out of the way, a thick, ruddy rod. He’d told her his youthful lover Benjamin was huge, but Lizzie couldn’t imagine John’s paramour being any bigger than he was himself. Her mouth watered and, unbidden, she dropped to her knees, reached for him and started licking his hot glans, lapping him with her tongue.
‘You dirty, greedy girl.’ He dug his hand into her hair, to control her. ‘I was thinking about touching you all the time while we were out there. I was talking about Benjamin and him fucking me, but I was really thinking about fucking you. Especially when you were wriggling in your seat, hitching about with desire . . . so horny and ready.’
What was it about him? He’d looked so pensive, so wistful about his former lover, and yet, somehow it had been a mask, perhaps one of many he wore. But the slick head of his cock didn’t lie. He was running with pre-come, as horny and ready as she was. She jabbed at him with her tongue, seeking a tender spot, and he gasped, then grabbed her hair. He didn’t pull, he just held, delicately menacing.
‘Oh no, you don’t. I want to be in you. I’d like to be in your arse, but I’ll settle for your cunt on this occasion.’
The raw language made her tremble, shake in her entire body, and ripple between her legs, longing for him.
‘Here,’ he said, fishing in his pocket for a condom and putting it into her hand, ‘cover me. Hurry. Someone might come, and I don’t want it to be me until I’m buried deep in your tight, delicious pussy.’
Fumbling a bit, she nevertheless managed to get the contraceptive on quickly, then, not sure how he wanted her, she got to her feet, looking into his blazing eyes for direction.
‘Turn around and pull up your skirt. Show me that wonderful arse of yours.’
She complied, feeling somehow both shameful and glorious.
‘Now wiggle a bit . . . part your legs . . . show me what you’ve got.’
Blushing, and feeling sweat pop out on her brow, and beneath her breasts, she obeyed him, rocking her hips and circling her bottom. She bent her legs, thrusting at him, the action lewd but infinitely exciting.
‘God, you’re fucking fabulous, you are, Bettie. The
re’s no one like you. I’ve got to be in you. Now sit down on my cock.’
She started to turn. ‘No . . . facing away. So I can play with you at the same time.’
Her skirt and petticoat in a bunch, she faced the door, holding the bundled cloth at her waist. As she positioned herself, she felt the touch of John’s fingers on her sex, opening her, dividing her labia to give himself easy access.
‘That’s it. Sit on me, you dirty girl. Do it now.’
His glans butted her entrance. Huge. Hot through the latex. Demanding. Unstoppable. Once he’d pressed in a little way, he grabbed her by the waist and jammed her right down on him. Lizzie could have sworn her eyes crossed, and could almost imagine the top of her head flying off.
He filled her, filled her more than ever before and, as he adjusted her position, the movement tugged on her clit and made her whimper even before he’d touched her there. The bare skin of his belly, and the sensation of his pubic hair tickling her bottom, felt wickedly intimate and she rocked against him, drawing a sound from him too, more of a growl again, though, than a softer sound like hers.
‘Yes, that’s it. Sit right down. Take as much of me as you can.’
It didn’t seem possible, but she tried, feeling the pushing pressure of his rigid length displacing her own inner structures in a way that made her want to take him even deeper. She braced her feet, ground down harder.
‘Grip me. I know you can do it. Grip me and caress me from inside. Do it! You’ve got the cunt of a goddess!’
She clenched her inner muscles, grabbing him as hard as she could, embracing him fiercely. The effort set her on a hair trigger. Her thighs shook. Her clitoris trembled.
‘Touch me, you bugger. You said you would!’
As he started to obey her, the outside door to the cloakroom swung open and someone came in.
Lizzie froze, suspended between pleasure and apprehension. It was as if she and John were a still life, a tableau, and yet at the same time her senses were sharpened. The smell of the pot-pourri in the bowl on the window sill was almost overwhelming, especially when combined with John’s cologne and a faint hint of some pine-scented cleaning product. It was like a cocktail that made her even dizzier than she already was, and she swayed as she listened to the footsteps beyond the cubicle door. The newcomer seemed to pause by the mirror a moment, and their stillness only made the fear of discovery escalate.
Shaking, Lizzie was almost relieved when John’s hand settled gently but firmly over her mouth, but that sense of relief shattered when he continued his efforts to fulfil her demand. She tried to struggle as silently as she could, even digging her nails into his trouser-clad thigh beneath her, but it was hopeless.
Like an evil magician, he found her clit with his fingertip and initiated a slow, circling caress.
His touch was divine, despite everything. Maybe even more divine because of it, because of the gathering dynamic tension, the pressure building, building, building as he touched her. Moans bubbled up inside her and, sensing them, his hand clamped harder across her face. When he bestowed a series of fast, remorseless flicks against her clit, she closed her teeth on the muscular pad at the base of his thumb.
John made not a sound, but inside her head, she heard his hiss of pain and his curse. Between her legs, he went at her with greater fervour, rubbing her hard and rough, deliciously fierce and unrelenting.
As the unknown someone knocked against their door, she came in a rush of silent white ecstasy. She was still riding the gorgeous waves, when John called out ‘Occupied!’ in a higher, assumed, but not entirely unconvincing voice.
Still immersed in the pleasure of climax, it was almost as difficult not to laugh out loud as it was not to whimper and cry in ecstasy.
‘Sorry,’ came the response, and a moment later, the sound of the other cubicle door being closed and locked. Fortunately, with the building being old, that meant proper walls between them . . . and a moment of respite.
Lizzie shook her head, dislodging John’s hand, and twisted her body a bit on his lap, so she could see his face out of the corner of her eye. He was grinning his golden wicked grin, and his eyes were like black stars, pupils enormous with arousal. He flicked her clit again as she glared at him, but she clamped her lips together, keeping in her gasp.
Devil! Bastard!
Bracing herself, she sat down hard on him, as hard as she could, and at the same time clenched her inner muscles fiercely around his cock. Gripping him she rocked a little, as much as she could without making any noise, and her triumph was sweet as she strained to look back over her shoulder again.
This time it was John who was in trouble.
With his teeth gritted, and his face a mask of stress, he was somehow more beautiful than ever, and when she massaged him yet again, his eyes almost rolled up in their sockets as his long lashes fluttered down.
Touché!
With that thought, she too succumbed again, inevitably, to pleasure.
13
Uneasy Lies the Head
She was sleeping. Lulled by the smooth glide of the car, or rendered drowsy by a surfeit of pleasure, he knew not which. It could be neither. Might she simply be feigning sleep to get a break from him?
Whatever the cause, she looked adorable.
Talking of feigning, you finished your business correspondence ten minutes ago, so where’s the difference?
Setting aside his laptop, John laced his fingers together and let his hands rest on his abdomen, and his gaze on Bettie. She was dozing in her seatbelt, her phone on the seat beside her. A few strands of normally immaculately styled black hair lay across her cheek, and though he wanted to brush them aside, he couldn’t bring himself to disturb her.
What was it about this woman? This girl? She was only in her twenties, and he was a good twenty years older than her, but somehow she had a depth about her, a humour and a sweet sense of gravitas that made him feel almost as he had back with Benjamin, back when life was simpler . . . less marked by time.
He wanted more, but he knew there just wouldn’t be more. He was merely passing through, his business already almost all completed, and she lived where she lived, with a life of her own.
Don’t be stupid, man. It’s just a fling. A very nice interlude, with a woman who’s somehow more special than most, but you are what you are. Not the settling down type now, and certainly not with a frisky, tricky young woman half your age, whom you’re letting play a rather expensive game with you.
Bettie wasn’t a prostitute. Well, certainly not a full-time one, he knew that now. Armed with her address, his investigative people had easily turned up her identity. She was Elizabeth Aitchison, aged twenty-four, and she worked as an office temp. She and Shelley Moore and Brent Westhead shared a rented house, and were apparently long-standing friends. There was much more in the dossier, but somehow he’d felt reluctant to delve deeper. Even though she’d taken his money, she was far less about selling her body, if truth be told, than he’d once been. But she seemed to be having fun pretending to be a working girl, and he was fine with that. It added even more of a delicious edge to their sex together.
She also seemed to lap up BDSM play like an experienced connoisseuse, even though he had a shrewd idea she was little more than an ingénue. It was rare that one so inexperienced understood the heart of the mystery, but Bettie seemed to.
Smiling, and feeling a stirring – again – in his cock, he let his mind roam back over the escapade in the ladies’ cloakroom at the Bluebell. How was it that a hurried little shag in a toilet cubicle could be as stirring as a long, extended session on silk sheets in one of his high-end hotels? It’d been a thrill. He’d felt like a goat. But he still wondered why he’d initiated it in the first place.
Maybe it was because she’d got to him, too deeply, and unawares. Somehow, she’d wiggled her way through his rigorously constructed defences, and triggered feelings he didn’t quite understand, or want to accept. And hustling her into a rough, low-down, sleazy
little fuck in a lavatory had been his subconscious way of getting everything back into his comfort zone.
Where everything, though pleasurable, was physical and temporary.
It’s better that way. Much better . . .
She’d shown no sign of wanting to push for hearts and flowers or any big romantic gestures. Pragmatic and realistic despite her masquerade, he sensed, she seemed to be perfectly happy to be along for the ride, and the more rambunctious and kinky a ride, the better.
Hell, she thinks far more of that house-mate of hers than she does of you, you idiot.
He tried to ignore the absurd pangs of jealousy he’d experienced as she’d sat beside him, texting Brent, occasionally smiling. ‘He seems in good spirits,’ she’d said, on his enquiry about the other man. ‘I was a bit worried about leaving, with Shelley being away too, but it sounds as if he’s OK on his own, and he insists that he’s eating. And look he’s sent me a lolcat of Mulder lying in a daft position.’ Not quite sure what the hell he was going to see, he’d found himself looking at a picture of a small, rotund black cat, stretched out on a rug with its legs stuck up in the air.
Yes, she had her life with her house-mates, and her cat, and she was devoted to them. Especially this Brent. The jealousy surged again and he squashed it. One of these days, the romantic relationship between Bettie and her Brent would rekindle, he suspected, despite what she’d said about her friend’s supposed sexuality. They’d probably marry. Maybe have kids who’d end up playing with that cute little cat?
A weight seemed to press on John’s chest, and he dragged in a deep breath. Once, foolishly, he’d wanted that, the kids and the cat. Hell, he’d wanted it twice, with the same woman, and the second time he’d even known it was an illusion . . .
But now he knew better.
Looking out of the window at the gliding sight of trees in a vast plantation at the side of the road, the scene suddenly seemed grey and flat, despite the yellow sun overhead.
The Accidental Call Girl Page 18