Contents
Cover
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Portia Da Costa
Title Page
Dedication
From Call Girl to Mistress to …
1: In the Garden
2: Dark Knight of the Soul
3: Back to the New Reality
4: To Sleep, Perchance to Dream
5: Touching Various Bases
6: All Change
7: Serendipity
8: Pool Party
9: The Secret Thing
10: Brent and Tom
11: The Perfect Hostess
12: The Former Mrs Smith
13: The Next Step
14: Celebration
15: The Ring
16: Shelley and Sholto
17: Power Couple
18: His Daughter’s Hand
19: That Lingering Worm
20: Montcalm
21: Meeting the Marquess
22: Interlude
23: Clara … and Son
24: Showdown in the Red Salon
25: Discovering the Truth
26: Meeting Miss Page
Copyright
About the Book
Marrying a billionaire?
It’s every girl’s fantasy but ever since meeting brooding sexy tycoon, John Smith, Lizzie has never been entirely sure of his true feelings for her.
Has he proposed marriage because he truly loves her or just to keep her in his bed?
About the Author
Portia Da Costa is one of the most internationally renowned authors of erotica.
She is the author of over fifteen Black Lace novels, as well as being a contributing author to a number of short story collections.
Also by Portia Da Costa
Continuum
Entertaining Mr Stone
Gemini Heat
Gothic Blue
Gothic Heat
Hotbed
In Too Deep
Kiss it Better
Shadowplay
Suite Seventeen
The Devil Inside
The Red Collection
The Stranger
The Tutor
The Accidental Series:
The Accidental Call Girl
The Accidental Mistress
Dedicated to ‘himself’ for services to international cat rescue and general heroism
From Call Girl to Mistress to …
Previously, in THE ACCIDENTAL CALL GIRL and THE ACCIDENTAL MISTRESS
When Lizzie Aitchison first met John Smith in the Lawns Bar of the Waverley Grange Hotel he mistakenly thought she was an escort in search of a client. The chemistry between them was dynamite from the outset, and Lizzie couldn’t resist the allure of John’s fallen angel face and the way his lean body looked in a sharp business suit. In a daring leap, she decided to play along with his misapprehension, and become ‘Bettie’, the high-class call girl, if only for one night.
John was captivated too. Shaken out of a state of gathering ennui, he experienced an unstoppable urge to possess this beautiful young woman whose combination of a distinctive vintage style and a bold yet strangely vulnerable personality was the ultimate call to his senses.
They embarked on an intense, kinky affair, initially for just the duration of John’s stay in the area on business, but the two quickly became a couple, both realising they wanted more than a temporary relationship. But each had issues to overcome, and a troubled history. John’s need to control and Lizzie’s feisty independence were a volatile mix, both in the bedroom and out of it, stirred to flash-point by John’s insistence that they live together.
But when a dark shadow from John’s past falls over their happiness, Lizzie realises that she has a dangerous rival …
Now read on …
1
In the Garden
The garden was mysterious after dark. The air heavy with the scents of pine, lemon and night-blooming flowers. Lizzie had never visited this part of France before, and had never stayed in a villa. Everything was new to her, latent with promise, thrilling to the senses.
Where was he, this man of hers whom she lived with? He was as mysterious in his own way as the garden and its ambiance, yet closer to her, and more intimate with her, than any human being who’d ever lived.
The path amongst the trees was uneven and not lit, although she could see a lantern ahead. Glad of her flat sandals, she picked her way along it, nervous. He’d promised her a treat, but knowing the perversity of her lover’s imagination sometimes, well, that could mean just about anything. Something to long for, or something to fear. Well, a little.
The night breeze was warm and balmy, riffling through the branches and making the leaves dance, but she shivered in her thin, loose-fitting cotton dress. It wasn’t her usual style, and she wasn’t wearing underwear, but that was what he’d suggested – specified – so she’d complied. It was like being more than naked, lightly clad like this, and somehow the spirit of the garden was mischievous, and had searching hands and probing fingers that sometimes brushed against her body beneath her thin dress. She would have paused on the path, to touch herself, but she knew he was waiting for her ahead, her beautiful man.
Speeding up, she strode down the path. So what if she tripped; she just had to be with him. And there was nobody to see her tumble except the flitting night insects, and whatever scary snakes or frogs lurked in the undergrowth. Another reason to get a move on and reach him!
Ahead, now, the lamp flickered. Yellow light that seemed to dance. Intrigued, she hurried on, and after a moment, emerged into a little clearing. What was it about them and clearings, in woods? It’d brought the very devil out in them in the past, and she sincerely hoped it would do the same tonight.
It’d certainly created a demon out of her lover. She scudded to a halt, breath knocked out of her by the sight of him, so magnificent.
The glorious man she lived with was sitting at a long, rustic table set in front of a little summerhouse-like structure. Like a Lord of Darkness or the monarch of the night, he lounged in a high-backed wooden seat that fit his lithe body like a throne. It was turned to one side, and he’d stretched out his long legs before him; his pose was relaxed. Despite her awe of him, she had to bite her lower lip to stop herself grinning at the sight of his strong, gorgeous thighs, and his knees, and his calves.
He was wearing black denim jeans and low black canvas boots. Not exactly the leather trousers and riding boots she’d once described to him from one of her mad fantasies, not long after they’d met. But a good approximation, all the same. The giggles threatened as she imagined him really wearing ‘leather strides’, as he’d call them. He’d look fabulous in leather, of course, but it was such a 1980s rock god dominant-master-type cliché.
‘What’s so funny?’ he said as she drew near, then halted at respectful distance.
Ack, he’d seen it. Seen her fighting not to laugh. She was for it now. His brilliant blue eyes were dazzlingly fierce behind the black silk domino mask he wore. Another ‘prop’ straight out of her fantasy, pure drama, and all the more so against the gold of his curling blond hair.
‘You may speak,’ he said, his voice soft and husky, and musical with an amusement that matched her own.
This was going to be fun, even if it would hurt a bit too. There was a broad strip of black leather draped across the table, in the pool of light created by the old-fashioned oil lantern. Beside it lay a thinner, much more dainty strip, this one with a buckle. Alongside these sat a small, carved wooden box and a black silk mask much like the one he was wearing.
‘Nothing is funny, master,’ she said, eyes lower
ed, even though it gouged her not to be able to look at him, at his dear, handsome face. ‘I’m just a little bit nervous, master. Sometimes I laugh when I’m on edge …’
‘On edge, are we?’ Stirring in his seat, he reached for the big strip of leather and toyed with it for a moment, as if demonstrating to her how fearsome it was. When he let it drop, he laid his long, elegant hand across his chest, as if he were demonstrating, or exhibiting that to her too. He was naked from the waist up, and his smooth skin gleamed lightly gold, having already caught a little bit of a tan from their sojourn here. The soft peppering of his sandy body hair made her fingers tingle, wanting to touch it, to tug it, or perhaps to fondle and pinch his nipples in the way he liked so much, and which sometimes made him growl and throw her on her back to ravish her.
‘Well, I certainly am. I don’t know about you.’
Uh oh! She’d done it again. As she always did. Acknowledging herself as possibly the world’s most useless submissive, she stared down at her sandal-clad toes again, trying to get back into her role. The way he hissed slightly, through his teeth, told her of his amusement, and his fond despair of her ever getting it right.
You wouldn’t want me to, even if I could, though, would you?
He liked her the way she was, lack of discipline and adherence to the niceties notwithstanding.
‘That’ll cost you, slave.’
I thought it might.
She didn’t speak, though. She was getting to the stage now where it was difficult. It was hard to frame words, and stay in a role, when you were being turned inside out by rampaging lust. He was the most gorgeous man on the face of the earth to her, and possibly might be to the majority of other women who set their lucky eyes on him. It was still hard to believe he was hers, this gilded god, or as near as dammit. He’d chosen to be with her. She had no way of knowing whether that choice would last for ever, but now was not the moment to debate the unknowable future.
All she did know was that he was honouring her fantasy. This wasn’t the dungeon she’d told him about, all those weeks ago, on the phone. But like the jeans, it was near enough.
‘Move a little closer.’
She shuffled forward across the brushed flagstones, still fighting the irresistible temptation to just ogle him. Closer, she could smell another delicious odour in the night-blend. His distinctive cologne: spicy, fresh, yet fruity. A bit like him. Nearer, if she were allowed to look, she’d see the distinctiveness of his beauty too. His elegant, sculpted face, his sensuous mouth, and the faint lines around his eyes, just visible behind the mask, the weathering that made him far more handsome than a younger man would have been. He had the bearing of a mature man, and an aristocrat. Which was just exactly what he was, even though he was wont to dismiss the latter as meaningless.
Attempting to stand statue-still, she shook, overcome anew by him as she always was.
‘Don’t be afraid, slave.’ There was a smile in his voice, familiar to her, and beloved. ‘I won’t hurt you.’ He paused again, and the faint creak of old wood told her that he was adjusting his position in the throne-like chair. Was he aroused? Oh, silly question … Was the sky above the trees midnight blue? ‘Well, I won’t hurt you any more than you want me to.’
She drew in a deep breath, conscious of the way it made her breasts lift beneath the thin dress. The pale fabric was barely more than voile, and he’d be able to see her nipples straight through it. He could probably see the dark hair of her pussy too, and he’d most likely planned it that way. Putting a girl with jet black hair in a flimsy, light-coloured dress …
‘You look very pretty in that frock, sweetheart. But I’d like to see your tits and your cunt now, so let’s have you naked, shall we?’
Oh, she loved it when he was crude like this. In their everyday dealings, his manners were perfect, and his language sophisticated. Which made it all the more of a turn-on when he got down and dirty. But he’d slipped there. Forgotten himself for a moment. She’d been ‘sweetheart’ not ‘slave’. Still, nobody was perfect, not even him.
‘Well then? Strip off. Enough with the daydreaming.’
Dipping down, she crossed her arms, grasped the frock’s hem and pulled it up and off over her head in one movement. It was loose, with no fastenings, so really easy to get off when her handsome lover required her to be naked. She’d been wearing quite a few similar dresses during the days they’d been here. He wasn’t the only one who wanted to fuck at a moment’s notice.
‘It isn’t day,’ she said, flinging the garment away with a flourish. The light frock seemed to float, even though there was barely a breeze, and ended up draped across a bush.
‘And enough with the answering back too.’ His voice was amiable, amused. He never shouted or got harsh and stroppy in these situations. His dominance and self-possession didn’t depend on posturing.
They’d only been together a relatively short time, and yet in that little while he’d seen all of her, and somehow, seen her more intensely than any other man had. He had some kind of ‘sight’, a beautifully focused way of looking that revealed not only the intimacies of her flesh, but her heart’s secrets too, and her soul. The way he looked now was like that: perceptive, penetrating, like a laser. Idiotically, she tried to cover herself, a hand over her pubis, and an arm across her breasts.
‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’ He laughed softly, his smile like the sun rising in the dark of night.
‘Um … sorry.’ She dropped her arms to her sides, and tried to stand proudly, without meeting his eyes. Slaves were supposed to be modest and humble – fat chance of that.
‘Better. Now come here.’ Lifting her eyes again, as she knew he probably expected her to, she caught his elegant, beckoning gesture. His shapely hands were as gorgeous as the rest of him, and they settled on his black-clad thighs as he made space for her between them.
In slow, even steps, she approached. Right up to him, her bare legs just an inch or so from his clothed ones. Without speaking, he nodded to the mask, and the leather collar, lying on the gnarled wood of the old table, beside the box. Curious, and a little fearful of what the casket might contain, she lifted the mask and fastened it around her upper face, framing her eyes. It created a weird shadow round the edge of her vision, and vaguely reminded her of another mask, a far more elaborate and costly one, that she’d once worn to attend a risqué party with him. Tying the black ribbon at the back of her head, she managed to get it right, first time. She’d been practising in the mirror, imagining how the great Bettie Page might have looked, in one of her fetish films.
‘Good,’ he said, reaching out and touching her cheek, just below the mask, the contact feather-light in a way other contacts, coming soon, would not be. ‘Now kneel.’
She sank to her knees, trying not to shake, but it was hard to avoid. The smell of him, and the sight of him, were like the yummy, rambunctiously rustic local wine they’d been drinking. Wildly and intensely intoxicating. Heady. His skin gleamed like satin this close up, and beneath the soft, weathered denim of his trousers lay a huge bulge.
‘Uh oh, naughty, naughty. None of that until later.’ In an efficient gesture, he swept up the thick, black curtain of her hair. ‘Hold it out of the way,’ he instructed, and when she did so, he fastened the little leather collar neatly around her throat. Then, hooking a finger into it, he tugged, drawing her face towards his denim-covered erection, and just holding her there. She could feel the raw heat of him, through the fabric, against her cheek.
‘You’d like some of that, wouldn’t you?’
She nodded, rubbing her face against the object in question. Rubbing more enthusiastically than he probably wanted her to, but not caring. In a bold, pre-emptive strike, she kissed it through the dark cloth. She’d pressed her face to his crotch like this on the first night they’d ever met, in a quaint, old-fashioned hotel room, in another country.
‘I’ll fuck you, slave, but you’ve got to earn it.’ He tweaked on the collar. ‘You k
now that, don’t you? You’ll have to indulge my nasty foibles and predilections. Let me spank that perfectly beautiful, perfectly creamy bottom of yours until it’s pink.’
She kissed his crotch again.
‘I take it that’s a “Yes, I concur” then?’
She nodded.
He slid his fingers beneath her chin, compelling her to look up at him, her mate – and despite everything – her equal in his matching black mask. ‘You haven’t forgotten our safe word, have you?’
‘It’s “chintz”. But you won’t hear it.’
‘Is that so?’ His smile was like Lucifer’s, beautiful yet infinitely dangerous.
‘Yes!’
‘Well then … Let’s see, shall we?’ He touched her hair, her cheek, her mouth, rubbing his thumb over her lower lip. ‘Up you get!’
As she started to rise, he slipped a hand beneath her elbow to help her. Even at his most magisterial, his manners were faultless, ingrained in him by his background and his natural humanity. These were the qualities that made her happy to submit to him. To her, he was worthy of her awe, as no other man ever would be.
Guiding her with his touch, he positioned her across the table. The old wooden surface was firm against her crotch, and the urge to massage herself against it was powerful. Her pussy ached. For touch, and for him, but there was a road to travel yet, and it was one that promised to be hard. But still she could barely control her excitement, and she savoured the feel of the polished wood against her mound, her belly and her breasts. Cradling her head on her folded arms, she attempted to harness the biofeedback techniques he’d started to teach her. But it was hopeless. She was a turbulent mass of fear, anticipation and raw lust.
‘I think we should make this a bit more interesting, don’t you?’ His hand was cool as it smoothed over her back and her buttocks, testing her resilience. Each fingertip was distinct, especially when he dipped two into the cleft between her buttocks, coasting teasingly over her anus, but not lingering. What was he planning? There was something in that wooden box, she was sure of it. Something that would go somewhere, but she wasn’t quite sure exactly where. It could be something for her mouth, her pussy … or her arse. A long shiver swept through her.
The Accidental Bride (Black Lace) Page 1