The bar was not large and she crossed it swiftly, heading for the main lobby, where, after a brief exchange with a concierge, she took a room key and went up to the third floor, sunglasses still on. Her hair was loose, still with the wonderful Nicky Clarke blow-dry; she had showered and changed before heading out, but been careful to keep the glossy waves dry, and they hung around her face, providing her with extra cover. She wore a beige belted Burberry raincoat, the most neutral outfit possible for these surroundings.
The room was a deluxe king, its decor instantly recognizable as Claridge’s. It had a distinctive, signature blend of art deco furniture with a colour palette of beige, greys and browns, offset with the occasional touch of navy in the upholstery of the leather bench at the foot of the huge bed and the decorative throw across its base, trimmed with pale-gold satin. The colours were intended to convey tradition, luxury and calm, and were far from being Charlotte’s taste. But then, her Sash hotels were a very different category of hotel to this one. It was classic: hers were boutique chic.
And frankly, Charlotte had no interest whatsoever in what the room looked like. She had chosen Claridge’s primarily because it had a separate entrance to its bar, so that her driver could legitimately say, if questioned, that he had not left her at a hotel per se. This was far from being the only early evening ‘business meeting’ that she had had, and while one drop-off at a hotel might be perfectly reasonable, repeated ones, if they came to her husband’s ears, would not.
She unbelted her raincoat and tossed it on one of the shell-curved, 1940s-reproduction beige suede chairs by the window. Pulling her phone out of her bag, she sent a swift text and then placed the phone on one of the bedside tables. Then there was nothing to do but to pace back and forth across the room, watching her reflection in the four huge glass wardrobe panels that comprised most of the wall on the far side of the room from the window embrasure.
Beige, blue, brown. Heavy sand-coloured curtains with a navy trim, a visual echo of the bed throw, the colours reversed. Pale greige carpet beneath the heels of her shoes, its design architectural, classic art deco, strong lines and circles in dark blue and dark grey. Three framed pictures above the dark wooden frame of the bed, specially commissioned deco motifs in more beige, blue and brown. The more she paced, the more the quiet elegance of the room annoyed her. Charlotte found it almost as muffled, as smothering, as her sad sack of a sister’s Hampstead Garden Suburb house. No passion, no energy. It was enough to make you crave a lemon velvet sofa which would irritate you, yes, but at least it provoked some emotion—
A knock on the door broke into her increasingly irritable thoughts; she practically ran over to open it. An immaculately dressed room-service waiter wearing burgundy trousers, a white shirt and a neatly buttoned burgundy waistcoat stood there, a silver tray balanced on the palm of one gloved hand. On it was a bottle of white wine in a silver cooler, two chilled glasses and a plate of small, perfect hors d’oeuvres.
‘May I come in, madam?’ he asked deferentially.
‘Of course,’ she said, standing back, holding the door as he crossed the room and set the tray on the slender-legged table that served as a desk, letting the door swing shut behind her.
The waiter turned, but without producing the slim leather folder that he would customarily hand to the customer, waiting for her to sign for her order and add a tip. Instead, he advanced towards her.
‘You want it, don’t you?’ he said in an accent which was much more London now, much less the RP which every British employee of a five-star hotel was required to use.
‘What?’
Charlotte’s beautiful features stretched into an expression of sheer disbelief. She backed away, moving in the direction of the door, darting a glance back over her shoulder to judge how far it was.
‘You want it, I can tell,’ he said, and now he edged around, mirroring her movements so that he was partially blocking her access to the door. ‘I know just what you posh birds are like. Ordering some booze from room service so you can get a waiter up to your room for a nice dirty fuck behind your husband’s back.’
He looked her up and down, his expression insolent. He was extremely handsome, very well built: it was entirely plausible that bored and horny clients of the hotel would regularly try to seduce him. His colouring was classic Mediterranean. With his smooth olive skin, dark hair and eyes, and his accent, he could have been North London born but Cypriot in origin, as so many are in that area of the city.
‘I think there’s been a huge misunderstanding—’ Charlotte started, holding her hands up to ward him off.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Okay. If that’s how you want it, love.’
He smirked, his full, well-shaped lips quirking at one corner. It was not a pretty smile.
‘Not my fault,’ he said, advancing on her again. ‘The nasty man fucked my brains out but I told him no, so I don’t have to feel guilty. Don’t worry, I got the message.’
Reaching out, he grabbed the neckline of the white blouse she was wearing, ripping it open. Buttons flew and scattered as Charlotte’s white lace bra was revealed.
‘No!’
She looked down in horror for a split second, then turned to run for the door. He grabbed her, swinging her back, tearing at her blouse more, dragging it out of the waistband of her pencil skirt. Frantically she brought up her hands, clawed, trying to scratch at his face. He grabbed her wrists, blocking her: as she opened her mouth to scream he wrenched her round and marched her across the room, shoving her down onto the bed, mashing her face into the coverlet.
‘Don’t you fucking scream. If you even try, I’ll knock you out,’ he hissed, bringing her hands into the small of her back, pinioning her down, straddling her. She writhed frantically as he dragged up her skirt, revealing thigh-high stockings with a wide lace band and white lacy hipster underwear that matched the bra.
‘Pretty,’ he grunted. ‘Shame I’ve got to do this—’
The next second she felt his hands on her buttocks, grabbing at the lace. With a loud rip, he tore the hipsters open, baring her completely. She squealed into the coverlet, hardly able to breathe, imploring him, begging him to stop, not to do this; he told her to shut the fuck up and spread her legs. Instead she managed to get her elbows under her, dragging herself across the bed, away from him. His response was to sink a hand into her thick tresses and wrench her head back, making her scream involuntarily.
‘I told you to fucking shut up!’ he said, and flipped her over, grabbing one of the decorative pillows from the bed and shoving it into her mouth. ‘Spit that out and I’ll break your nose!’
She stared at him, wide-eyed above the pillow, as he shoved his knees between hers, her skirt around her waist, her underwear hanging in lace rags. Swiftly he ripped open his trousers, and she saw that he was wearing no underwear. The pillow dampened as she moaned, her head thrashing from side to side, her blouse hanging open, her screams getting louder as he raised a hand to his mouth, spat on it and rubbed his palm between her legs, his expression wolfish, predatory. He shoved her torso down with the heel of one hand, half-knocking the breath from her, and with the other he took hold of his big uncircumcised cock and shoved it between her legs, driving into her like a battering ram.
Charlotte screamed again, but this was an entirely different sound from before. Her arms flew out wide, gripping the coverlet, and her groin thrust up to meet him and take him in as deep as she could. Reaching down, he grabbed the pillow and pulled it from her mouth even as he drove into her again and again, a hard, fast fuck that was exactly as he had promised her, just what this scenario called for. She bounced again and again on the mattress, her hair rippling like a shampoo advertisement filmed for a porn channel. His hands braced, Charlotte’s lover pumped away, watching her face flush in pleasure, her eyes roll back in her head, her slender body arch towards him.
‘This what you wanted, rich bitch?’ he said, still keeping up the pretence that he was an anonymous assailant. ‘You wa
nted to get the brains fucked out of you by a room-service waiter?’
‘Yes,’ Charlotte moaned, ‘yes, Jesus, fuck me hard, you dirty bastard, fuck my brains out, make me take your big cock all the way, all the fucking way, up to the knot—’
He pulled out, making her moan in frustration, his cock huge and red and practically dripping, she was so wet.
‘Get on your knees in front of the mirror, slut,’ he ordered, grabbing her hair, pulling her up as she screeched in genuine agony, wincing. ‘Watch yourself get fucked by a room-service waiter, come on—’
As she scrambled to obey, he pulled her knees as wide open as they would go; she gasped again in shock and pain as, having opened her up, he drove into her once again, twisting her hair into a rope, using it to force her to watch the sight in the huge mirror, him rearing behind her, his upper body still dressed in his shirt and waistcoat, his thick dark hair slicked back, the perfect image of the gorgeous waiter from an illicit fantasy.
Reaching down, plunging in and out of her, he grabbed at her bra, dragging the straps off her shoulders, baring her small breasts; hair roped round one hand, the other snaked down over her shoulder and pinched a nipple. She shrieked; this, as he knew, drove her crazy, and her pelvis danced against his frantically. The sight of her, eyes mad with lust, face red by now, practically sobbing with satisfied desire, drove him over the edge. His pounding became frenzied, a shuddering, out-of-control pile driver, and just in time he pulled out and shot over the pencil skirt that was wadded up around her waist, collapsing on top of her, pancaking her flat to the mattress.
‘Fuck,’ she sobbed against the coverlet, her face mashed into it, barely able even to move her lips. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck . . .’
Her hips still bucked against his, his cock juddering against her buttocks. They were both covered in sweat. He was dripping through his shirt and heavy wool waistcoat. Charlotte had showered just forty minutes ago, working her favourite body wash, Rose Silence by Miller Harris, into every crevice, and then scented herself with matching perfume and body cream, layering it to smell exquisite for him; his face was pressed against her neck, and he took in a long breath, sighing in pleasure.
‘Fuck, you smell good,’ he said, his voice now back to RP instead of the North London accent.
‘It’s the smell of rich bitch,’ she mumbled. ‘A rich bitch gagging for a good seeing-to from the dirty waiter.’
‘You didn’t come,’ he said apologetically. ‘I was going to do it, but then I thought that wouldn’t be in character for the waiter – we didn’t discuss that bit—’
‘Oh God, no problem. It was amazing. So fucked up. You really went for it! Let me up.’
Charlotte started to squirm, and he eased off her, rolling to the side. She turned languorously to face him, smiling, reaching one hand between her legs, the other pinching at her nipple. It took barely a minute for her to start coming, and he watched her as she worked away at herself, one knee bent so that he could see exactly, explicitly where her fingers were moving.
‘You dirty rich bitch,’ he said, back into the waiter persona. ‘I knew you fucking wanted my big cock, I knew you were getting wet for it . . . you wanted me to throw you on the bed and give it to you like the whore you are . . .’
‘Oh!’ Charlotte’s face flushed a furious red again as she slipped back into the fantasy, surrendering to it completely. ‘Yes, yes, yes . . .’
She shook all over, losing control as she came, thrusting hard against her hand. When she collapsed limply, bonelessly back onto the coverlet, he pulled her towards him, turning her so that they were spooning, sliding his own hand between her legs to keep going.
‘No, no . . .’ she protested, but she had no more strength to fight him off.
‘Say the safe word if you want me to stop,’ he whispered. ‘If not, the dirty waiter’s going to finger-fuck you no matter what you say, with his spunk all over your back. I’m going to give you the rich bitch seeing-to of a lifetime, you fucking slut! Come for me, come all over my dirty waiter hand . . .’
Charlotte moaned and writhed and grabbed at his wrist to pull him away, but feebly, and he easily wrested it away and held her hand captive as he kept on.
‘No, stop, no, stop . . .’ she sighed, even as everything about her body screamed a yes, the turn-on clearly intensified by the pleasure of the contradiction.
‘I’m getting hard again,’ he said. ‘I’ve been saving myself for this. You want another waiter fuck?’
‘No! No! Basingstoke! No! Please! Give me a moment!’
Charlotte was half giggling, half serious. She batted him away, and now that she had said her safe word, the name of a town she had never visited but which sounded like the least sexy place imaginable, she rolled onto her back.
Neither he nor Charlotte was to the slightest degree concerned about the bodily fluids they were smearing all over the coverlet and throw. Luxury hotels were their playground, and they were utterly careless about their surroundings. It was a very upper-class attitude, although neither of them were from that social stratum. Charlotte would check out of this room in an hour and a half, throwing a twenty-pound note on the bedside table without the slightest degree of embarrassment that the cleaner would have to bundle up a coverlet and throw smeared with their sweat and come.
‘I need a break,’ she said, gasping, still flushed right down to her breastbone. ‘And my bra’s killing me . . . ow . . .’ She reached behind her, unfastening it. ‘It’s so hard to get sexy push-up bras that don’t dig in! I do not wear this kind of thing to work, let me tell you.’
‘Aww,’ he said, grinning, as he sat up and unbuttoned his shirt and waistcoat, pulling them off. ‘You’re ruining my fantasy! You mean women don’t wear thigh-highs to work?’
‘About as often as we wear garter belts,’ Charlotte said, wriggling off the bed, unfastening her skirt, shrugging off her blouse. Clad in only her thigh-highs, she walked with complete nonchalance over to the silver tray, extracting the bottle of Sancerre from the cooler and starting to open it. ‘How did you manage this, by the way?’
‘I ordered it an hour ago and carried it over when you texted,’ he said, dropping the shirt and waistcoat to the floor and kicking off the trousers that were puddled around his ankles. Sitting up, he unlaced his shoes and peeled off his socks. He was a magnificent physical specimen, his chest thickly furred with tight dark curls of hair, which were now plastered to his dark-gold skin with sweat. An almost palpable energy emanated from him, and as he had told her, his cock was getting hard once more, heavy and half-distended in its nest of dense black curls.
Charlotte filled two glasses and brought them over to the bed.
‘Get the snacks too,’ he suggested. ‘I could do with an amuse-bouche or three.’
‘Amuse-bouche,’ she echoed mockingly as she handed him the glass and went back for the plate, setting it on the navy leather bench at the foot of the bed. ‘Listen to you! So where did you get the uniform?’
‘Bought it online, of course,’ he said, drinking some Sancerre. ‘It was terrifying coming down the corridor and thinking I’d bump into an actual room-service waiter.’
‘Hopefully it added an extra bit of spice,’ Charlotte said. ‘God, this wine is good! I should have had a glass at home to take the edge off. I was absolutely shaking with nerves waiting for you. I had to pace up and down, I couldn’t sit still – I didn’t know if I was going to go through with it—’
‘It was okay, though?’ he said. ‘I was listening out really closely – if you’d even tried to say your safe word, I’d have stopped—’
‘No, it was amazing!’ she said, reaching over to touch his thigh reassuringly. ‘I definitely want to do that one again. What about you?’
‘Shit, yes.’ He grinned, his teeth very white against his glowing skin. ‘I just have to be careful not to mark you, that’s all.’
‘Yes,’ she said a little regretfully. ‘It’s actually more the kids than Paul – they notice everythi
ng. A bit of a mark here and there I can blame on my trainer, or doing boxercise, but nothing bigger than that.’
He nodded. ‘Finish your wine.’
Once she had done so, he took the glass from her and set it down with his on the bench.
‘I’ve had my dominance switch flicked on today,’ he said, pushing her down to lie flat. ‘And I can’t turn it off. I’m going to do that slow thing we thought we invented back in the day, when I finally got some control of myself.’
‘Oh God, I love that! Flashback!’ She smiled up at him deliciously as he reached down and grabbed his trousers, pulling out a condom, tearing it open. ‘Do we have time?’
‘If we start right away, we do.’
She licked her lips, watching him roll the condom onto his cock, which had sprung to attention as soon as he had started talking about what he was going to do to her. It was big and veiny and had made her sore just now; she was still sore, and yet she couldn’t wait for it to be inside her again. She stretched out, curling her fingers and toes, arching her back, knowing exactly how beautiful she looked, how much he wanted her; as he knelt between her legs, she tilted her hips up fractionally, and sighed in bliss as he slowly entered her.
His body lowered onto hers, almost flattening her. In this position she took almost all of his weight, their hips nearly fused together, just his forearms bracing on the bed to make sure he didn’t crush her ribcage. His tongue slid into her mouth and she closed her eyes, sucking on it, as he began to rock infinitesimally back and forward, his cock barely leaving her, just an inch in and out, rubbing against her clit every time it returned, a rhythm that, if kept up steadily, would eventually bring her and then him to bone-shattering orgasms. He would come inside her this time, hence the condom.
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