Pippa's Cornish Dream

by Debbie Johnson

  One night, Ben Retallick, he told himself. One night to make Pippa forget. To make yourself forget. One night, that’s all.

  What had he expected? For her to be there, wearing a negligee and presenting him with a gin and tonic? To be so awe-struck by his skills in the sack that she fell madly in love with him?

  No, none of that…but it had still hurt, more than he cared to admit, to wake up without her. He’d rolled over, sniffed the pillow, gone immediately hard at the faint traces of lavender on the linen. Groaned with frustration and headed straight for a cold shower.

  And now here she was, all things bright and beautiful, showering in sunshine and bearing coffee. Maybe it was all some kind of crazy dream: he’d wake up any minute in his prison bunk, listening to the shouts and yells of the other inmates, his nostrils assaulted by the smell of hundreds of trapped men instead of lavender shampoo. One hour in a concrete exercise yard instead of a whole day in a Cornish summer.

  “I can see all kinds of things, Ben Retallick,” she replied, squinting up at his face, still smiling, oblivious to his inner turmoil. “Things you city types can only imagine.”

  She walked towards him and he noticed she was wearing a bra today. A bra that did all kinds of pushy-up things to her breasts. Not that he had any complaints about them unfettered, but the underwear thing was already distracting…he wondered what colour it was, if there was any lace involved, whether the panties matched. How quickly he could get it off. If he should be heading straight back inside for another cold shower.

  “Sorry I did a runner last night – I needed to be at home ready for Scotty’s crack-of-dawn wake-up call. He’d freak out if I wasn’t there. I meant to leave you a note, but I’d lost the use of my fingers, not to mention several other body parts. All your fault. How are you this morning?” she asked, placing the mugs of coffee down on the cobbles.

  She moved to stand close to him, so close their bodies skimmed. She reached up, dragged her fingers into his hair, moved her hips forward so she was crushed in to him, her lips inches away from his.

  “I’m…already turned on, you witch,” he replied, clasping her even closer to him, burying his face in her hair. He kissed the side of her neck, already knowing the secret places that made her weak, and smiled to himself as she started to sigh, to sag, to writhe against him.

  Pippa ran her hands over the breadth of his shoulders, down the ridged muscle of his back, slipped them under his top. She would never, in a million years, get tired of the way his body felt beneath her fingers. Iron abs wrapped in velvet skin, the jut of angular hip bones, the firm curve of his prize-winning backside. The feel of his erection trapped in the denim of his jeans, screaming how much he wanted her. That it might have been a one-night-only deal, but nobody had told his body that yet. It made her feel powerful, like some kind of earth goddess, that this Adonis of a man wanted her so much. That even with her messy hair, torn jeans and only one shaved leg, she could make him so hard so quickly.

  “Yes, I can sense that,” she said, rubbing herself shamelessly against him like a purring cat. “And believe me, if I had one of those, it’d probably be in exactly the same state.”

  “I have other ways of telling, you know,” he replied, snaking one hand up inside her t-shirt. “Secret ways.”

  He slipped her breast free of the bra cup, rolled his fingers around one taut bud of nipple until it was rigid beneath his touch. “Like that.”

  She moaned and the sound was like a heavenly choir singing into his ear: he could take her, right here, right now, out in the courtyard and she wouldn’t stop him. She wanted him to, he could tell from the way her body moved, from the fast rhythm of her breath, the sharp scratch of her nails against his skin. She wanted him just as much this morning as she had last night.

  “We’d better start behaving ourselves,” he murmured, pulling away slightly. “Or we might end up on Google Earth.”

  “I don’t care,” she replied, flashing him that wicked grin again. “The way I feel right now, I’d happily dance a naked rumba in front of the Queen. There are no kids here. No Patrick. And SpongeBob’s been there, done that, believe me. She won’t mind at all if you rip my clothes off with your teeth and bonk me senseless up against that old oak tree…or are you too tired? I know you’re getting on a bit, Ben. I wouldn’t want to over-exert you!”

  “It’ll be a cold day in hell when I don’t have the energy to bonk you senseless, Pippa Harte, but don’t we have other things to do this morning? Don’t you have guests arriving? And don’t I have a dishwasher to fix? I thought that was part of the deal.”

  “It was,” she said, picking up her coffee and sipping it, her eyes starting to clear as she focused on the reality of the day ahead. “In fact it’s the only reason I had sex with you, to avoid the plumbing bills. You know, I’d completely forgotten about the new arrivals – see what you’ve done to me? Filled my brain with all this orgasm stuff, turned me into a nymphomaniac. Okay. You’re right. Things to do. Pick up your coffee and follow me.”

  He did as he was told, admiring the view of her cute bottom striding ahead of him as he went. There were worse things to be doing with his time, he supposed…

  Within minutes, she’d abandoned him in the kitchen of Primrose Cottage. The layout was similar to his own, with an open-plan design, low-flying beams and chintzy curtains. He crouched down, started to inspect the dishwasher in question, hoping that he could, in fact, fix it after all. He’d feel stupidly emasculated if he couldn’t. That or secretly get a plumber out here without telling her. Stealth cheating.

  He spent half an hour tugging and pulling at the connecting pipes before he realised where the blockage was. Somebody had helpfully left an apple core in there and it had lodged itself firmly in the drainage hose. The whole unit was old and rusting and really needed replacing, but it would do for now.

  It was dirty work and uncomfortable, lying contorted on the tiled floor with his hands in strange places at strange angles. If he’d wanted something to distract him, he’d found the perfect activity.

  When he finally came up for air, Pippa was perched on the sofa, watching him. With a very naughty expression on her face.

  “I thought you were changing the bedding?” he asked, sitting up on his knees and wiping his damp hands down on the thighs of his Levis.

  “I was. I have, in fact. But I wanted to see how you were doing,” she said. “Check you weren’t reneging on our bargain. You look hot, Ben. Don’t you think you’d feel better if you did that without your t-shirt on?”

  She gave him a look of perfect fake-innocence, and he felt his jeans swell in response. If he’d been uncomfortable before, he felt even worse now. How long had she been sitting there watching him while he had his head buried in the dishwasher, legs sticking out, arse in the air? Long enough to have got a flush on her cheeks, that’s for sure.

  “Ah,” he said, smiling. “I think I’ve seen this film before. The one where I’m the plumber and you’re the bored housewife? Shouldn’t there be some cheesy seventies music in the background?”

  “I don’t know what you mean, you pervert. I’m just looking out for your wellbeing. It’s a hot day out there. You’re a paying guest. I wouldn’t want you passing out from heat stroke. Now take your top off.”

  He gripped the hem of the black jersey and slowly, slowly, raised it, dragging it inch by inch up over his stomach, his torso, his chest, and eventually all the way off. He threw it behind him with a flourish and it landed in the sink. Big Bad Burlesque Ben.

  Pippa looked on, for once lost for words. His hair was all mussed up where he’d pulled off the top, and his eyes were rich, shining chocolate. His body was perfect: wide shoulders, rippling muscle, all defined curves and ridges, glistening with the gentle sheen of sweat he’d built up while he was working. The Levis were stretched taut over his thighs and even tighter over his groin.

  “Now come here,” he said.

  She went.

  Chapter 9

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nbsp; “So…” said Ben, stretching out under the old oak tree. He was topless again – she seemed to like to keep him like that – and luxuriating in the feel of the June sunshine seeping into his bare skin. “Did that live up to expectations? After all, you’ve had over a decade to imagine it…”

  “Well,” replied Pippa, who had reverted to childhood type and was completely naked, “it was certainly better without getting thrown in the duck pond at the end of it.”

  “There’s time yet,” he added, raising his eyebrows wickedly at her. “Although I have other ways of getting you wet these days…”

  He turned on his side, ran one lazy hand over her breasts, smiling when her ever-reliable nipples perked up to say hello. She arched her back slightly, stretching up to meet even the most casual of touches. They’d only just finished, and she was already responding, ready to go again, he thought. Amazing. Mind-boggling. Brilliant. This wild, crazy girl, still running around the farm starkers, still shocking him beneath the old oak tree. Still driving him mad, for all kinds of reasons. Thankfully, at least, she’d given up on the camo paint and the war cries. That would be taking things to a whole different level.

  Pippa rolled over, snuggled into him, her head on his chest. Blonde hair spilled all over him, and she hooked one lithe, tanned leg over his body. She nipped at his skin and he yelped lightly, then wrapped her tighter in his arms. He was grinning so much he thought his face might break in two. Sunbathing with a post-coital, totally naked hot chick. Life didn’t get much sweeter.

  “You’re right, though. I’ve been waiting to do that for such a long time,” she said, nuzzling her face into him. “Even when you were a mere eighteen years old, instead of the OAP you are now, I fancied you. Obviously I didn’t really get the whole sex thing, but I knew I liked you. I was fascinated by you, in fact. So I jumped on your head, from those branches up there. This is historic, this oak tree. In terms of our relationship, I mean. It’s the tree from whence I first jumped your bones. I have to say you smell better now…you ponged like a scrumpy press that day, I seem to remember.”

  “The same is equally true in reverse,” he said. “You smelled of animal poo all the time back then. At least now you only smell like animal poo some of the time.”

  “I’d like to argue with that point, but it’s true…God! This is nice, isn’t it? Kids in school. All the other guests out and about. Sunshine and al fresco sex beneath our very special oak tree. I feel like doing a happy dance. We should mark the occasion, Ben. Maybe I’ll carve our initials in the trunk later. I can hobble back here on my walking stick when I’m as old as you and reminisce about the good old days. The days when a handsome stranger called Ben Retallick rolled up here in an Audi and rocked my world.”

  “And where will I be then, do you think?”

  “Oh, dead probably…” she said, laughing into his chest. “No, you’ll be a world-famous best-selling author, living like a hermit on a remote island in the South Pacific. The one with that old turtle, you know? The only one of its kind left in the world. You and him. Together forever. Sipping daiquiris and skinny-dipping, sharing little turtle moments, watching the sunset. No sex, though, I’m afraid. You’re not his type.”

  “That’s not a terribly happy future, is it?” asked Ben. “What would I do for nookie? A man has needs, you know!” he said, slapping her lightly on the bare bottom. He watched as the flesh rippled slightly, and felt his cock stir again. He was going to need intravenous vitamins if this continued much longer.

  “Don’t blame me. You’re the one who’s sworn off all contact with women.”

  “Not all contact…” he said, tracing the curve of her golden hip with his fingertips. All of this outdoor sex had given them both fantastic all-over tans at least. “I seem to be having plenty of ‘contact’ with you.”

  “That’s just sex, though, isn’t it? I know you like the sex. I like the sex. No, actually, I love the sex. Can’t get enough of the stuff. You might have noticed.”

  “I have. I thoroughly approve.”

  “But when we started this, we said one night only. It’s now been almost two weeks of this. I’m not complaining – in fact I’d complain if it stopped. But, well…you made yourself pretty clear, Ben. That this isn’t serious for you. That you don’t want anything serious, ever again. That Johanna – officially the stupidest woman in the world, if you ask my opinion – has switched you off from all that. I don’t expect anything more from you. And I certainly don’t expect you to give up your life with the turtle for me. To give up anything for me, in fact. I know that’s not part of the deal with you and me.”

  Ben held her tight, staying silent for a few moments while he mulled it over. When she put it like that, it sounded so…harsh. Cynical. It made him feel like he was using her, exploiting her, even though they’d both been honest about their feelings all the way through. The problem with feelings, though, was that they tended to change. Just as you got used to one, it morphed into something completely unrecognisable.

  He couldn’t argue with what she’d said. She was right, of course. He had said all of those things. And more to the point, he’d meant them. This was a fling, and one they’d both gone into with eyes wide open – although that didn’t tend to be the dominant body part when it came to Pippa.

  He’d liked her, fancied her, responded to her. Enjoyed spending time with her, admired her. And when she made him an offer he couldn’t refuse – well, he hadn’t refused. He’d challenge any other straight man not to have done the same in his shoes. Now, as she squirmed in his arms, all that lovely soft skin pressed up against him, he couldn’t find it anywhere in his heart to regret it.

  And for the last fortnight, there had been nothing to regret. Their one night only had turned into an extended run, by mutual consent. They’d had sex in Primrose, in Honeysuckle, in Foxglove. In his car. In her Land Rover. In the sea. On the beach. In Bottom Paddock. On a surf board. In the wildflower meadow. On one memorable occasion, in the bluebell woods, moments before the place had been invaded by a small army of ramblers complete with backpacks and flasks. And now, minutes ago, here under the historic oak tree.

  Everywhere, in fact, apart from in the farmhouse. He hadn’t asked why, and he hadn’t pushed – he understood that the main house was for her and the children. He could visit, but he couldn’t stay. With so many other love-making venues to explore, it hadn’t really bothered him. He was addicted to her and didn’t care where it happened, as long as it did.

  Beside, she was right. Venturing into the farmhouse would make it more…real. More serious. More permanent. Which neither of them was ready for. And in his case, he probably wouldn’t ever be.

  The novelty, he kept telling himself, would wear off eventually. Like in a hundred years or so. Or when he had to go back to London. To his real life. The one he wasn’t that convinced he wanted any more. He hadn’t got a clue what he wanted – but hurting Pippa was definitely not on the list. Had her feelings changed? Had his? He was already struggling to imagine life without her, and that worried him – he’d vowed never to give anyone that kind of power over his emotions again. Having power over his libido was one thing – she’d already conquered that one. But anything more? Anything that could come close to stitching up the hole in his heart that Johanna had left? He wasn’t sure that was possible.

  “You’ve gone all quiet,” she said, poking him in the tummy. “Have I offended you? I didn’t mean to, Ben. You probably shouldn’t listen to me. Especially not when I’ve just gone cross-eyed with sex. I’m not really thinking straight. I’m just rambling. Maybe you should kiss me to shut me up.”

  “That’s a very tempting offer,” he said, briefly brushing his lips against hers, “but maybe we should talk about this. I’ve been here for almost a month now. And it’s been great, really great. But I’ve taken it for granted that you’re happy with this arrangement. That you’re happy with me being here, sharing this time with you, knowing it won’t lead to anything else. At some p
oint, I have to go home, and I want to know that you’ll be all right when I do. That you and the kids will be okay without me. That I’m not doing anything here that is going to damage you in any way.”

  She sat up, grabbed for her bra and knickers, both of which were hanging decoratively from the lower branches of the oak tree.

  “If there’s no more loving to be had, I’ll make myself decent,” she said, snapping herself in place. He felt sad to see her lovely breasts hidden away again, but it was probably a sensible idea. Few men could think straight with a nice pair of boobs on display. She messed around for a while, taking a lot longer to get dressed than it usually took her. He suspected she was playing for time, stalling before she had to answer his question. She was probably as confused as he was.

  “Come on,” she said, holding out a hand to help him up. “Let’s walk back to the farm. I collected some nice fresh eggs this morning, we can have them on toast for lunch. And yes, I’m sure I’ll be fine when you go. Either I’ll be fine or I’ll have a nervous breakdown, but if I do it’ll only be a very small one. I won’t have time for anything dramatic.”

  She set off, fast, and he dashed to catch her, his longer legs eating up the distance. He grabbed hold of her hand, whirled her around to face him. He was horrified to see what looked like tears in her eyes. Tears that he’d put there by being a pushy bastard. By insisting they talk about things when she’d been perfectly content to ignore all the complexities and focus on the moment, the here and now. The incredibly perfect time they had been having together, until he went and put his foot in it.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, as he held her face gently in his long fingers, wiping away stray tears with the tips of his thumbs. “I’m being a complete rubber duck about this. It’s just that I was about to do a happy dance and I was all floaty and loved-up, and then you – ”

  “Made you think about it all ending. It’s me who should be sorry. We do need to talk, but only when you’re ready. Only when you have something you want to say. Not just because I want to sort my head out, or assuage my potentially guilty conscience. Look, Pippa. I don’t know what the hell is going on with us. This has become more than either of us expected it to, certainly more than I expected it to. And it’s not just sex, is it? I know we intended it to be, but it’s not, no matter how many times you or I say it is. We can’t keep kidding ourselves – we’re both in a lot deeper than we ever intended. In fact, I don’t think it ever was just sex; there was always a connection there between us. And…and maybe I was naive to think we could ever escape this without collateral damage.”