The Accidental Mistress (14 page)

Slowly, she massaged the remains of his emission into her skin, watching his eyes every second as she did it.

‘Here.’ Whipping a snow-white handkerchief from his pocket, he leaned forward and dabbed her chest with it. Then he wiped her lips. ‘There, that’s better.’

She didn’t mind. But he was right, it would make her clothes stick to her. When she’d handed back the hankie, she started to set her bra to rights, but he caught her by the hand.

‘No, leave it. I like you as you are.’

Desire thrummed deep in her vitals. She loved being displayed to him, and loved it even more for the little frisson of danger, the slim threat of discovery. He’d probably given the strictest of instructions, but still … someone might not have got the message about the preferred client and his foibles; someone might blunder in on them any minute and discover her with her tits out. The room was warm, but her nipples tightened, stirred by the possibility.

‘We should inspect the upstairs now,’ announced John, rising to his feet and pocketing his handkerchief. With Lizzie still on her knees, her eyes almost at the level of his groin. He
was
already getting hard again. So much for his protestations that he didn’t have the recuperative powers of a younger man.

You’re a horndog, Mr Smith, and I suspect you’ll still be one for decades yet.

And especially so with that glint in his eyes. He had plans for the upstairs that went far beyond just inspecting the amenities.

‘John!’ she protested, for form’s sake.

‘Don’t fret, love. Estate agents can be pretty accommodating when their client doesn’t balk at the asking price.’

With a wink, he handed her to her feet, his hold light, but masterful. As she followed him from the orangery, her blouse still open and her breasts still revealed, she allowed herself a little smirk at the thought of what he clearly intended.

Once on the first floor, John ignored most of the open, inviting doors, and the hints of equally beautiful redecorations beyond, and made a beeline for one room in particular.

The master suite – decorated in soft, country meadow colours and with elegant ceiling mouldings. It was on a corner of the house, with stunning garden views in two directions.

‘And this will be your room.’ He presented it all to her with an elegant, courtly gesture – the vast bed with its mahogany head and footboards and wild flower-print duvet. Although his glance did flick momentarily upwards.

‘Now, wait a minute … It’s a bit soon to talk
my
room, isn’t it? Moving in and all that … If you count up all the time we’ve spent together, it can’t be more than a week or two.’ It was difficult to argue cogently with John at the best of times, but it was doubly hard now, like this. ‘I can’t just up sticks and leave my friends, just like that.’

For a fraction of a second, as he followed her into the quiet, harmonious room, and she turned to him, a stubborn, steely expression flashed across his face. The look of a super-rich man and a ruthless negotiator who could buy a hotel
chain or beautiful mansion house without a second thought. Then he pursed his lips, and made the slightest of huffing sounds.

‘You’re right, of course. I’m making assumptions when I shouldn’t. Let me rephrase that. When you stay for a sleepover, which I hope you often will, this will be your room.’

His eyes were persuasive now, but she’d seen that other side of him. When John wanted something, he usually got it, by fair means or foul. It was thrilling in a way, but also troubling. Being ordered about in the bedroom was the deepest of delights for her, but outside of it, not so much. She didn’t respond well; she never had. Just look what had happened when her father had tried to steer her life, and how disastrous the rigours of university life had been – predicated by rules and teachers, authority figures.

And she’d always been the worst of office temps too. Rebellious against bosses, even if they only held sway over her for a day or two; which was why she was a full-time seamstress now, and working with Marie, who treated her as equal.

‘But you’re the master of the house, John. You should have the master bedroom.’

‘Ah, but while you’re sleeping over, Lizzie, you’re the mistress,’ he countered, pacing to the nearest window and pulling aside the filmy, cream-white voile inner curtains, to glance quickly across the park. ‘And therefore the principal bedroom is yours.’ He spun back to her, his eyes still a boss’s eyes.

Yes, a mistress, that was what she was now, and the word was dual. It did mean a dominant, powerful woman, but it could also describe the companion of a multi-millionaire who was subtly trying to assert control over her life with his
wealth. Calling herself his ‘girlfriend’ seemed suddenly too freewheeling.

‘I don’t know …’

‘What’s not to know? I know that actually sleeping together is still … well, it’s still a way off. But how are we supposed to work on that if we don’t sleep in the same house occasionally, Lizzie? You’re a very stubborn woman sometimes.’

‘I’m not. It’s you … you always get your way, John.’

‘Ah, but don’t you like it that way?’

‘Yes … to a certain extent.’

She pursed her lips, knowing she was being just as stubborn as he claimed, yet inside still melting with desire.

Desire. Lust. Passion. All so much easier than grappling with ‘real’ life.

For an instant, her fingers itched to fly to her clothing, to cover herself. She did want to have it out with him, and exposed like this, she couldn’t negotiate. But … They were in a beautiful bedroom, a quietly seductive space, and John was John. And he too was still exposed, his strong chest a panel of golden temptation, framed by the white of his shirt.

They would return to this issue between them, probably go there quite soon. But not now. He’d only been home from travelling a few hours, and her priorities were elsewhere.

She gave him a firm look, and sashayed across to where he was, still by the window. ‘We’re not going to argue about this, are we?’ She laid her hand on his bare chest, where the skin was hot and silky. Energy shot through her from the contact. ‘Let’s put a pin in it. I can see you’re determined to ravish me in this bedroom whether it belongs to you or not, so shall we get on with that instead, and have a row or discussion or whatever at some later date?’

‘Consider it pinned.’ He placed his hand over hers, fingers curving. ‘No row.’

His blue eyes were lambent, all sex again. Maybe the source of their first conflict was simmering somewhere in the back of his sharp brain, but most of that organ, and other organs, had returned their attention to the matter in hand.

Reaching up, she drew him down to her, making him kiss her. It was barely moments since their last kiss, but it all seemed new, sweet and hot. His tongue pressed, then plunged in, and he whipped his arms around her, pressing their bodies together, her breasts to his naked chest, skin to skin. Against her belly, his cock had risen again, ready and potent beneath the fine cloth of his trousers.

‘What if the gardener is watching again?’ Lizzie was breathless when he freed her mouth, and her glance darted to the garden, beyond the window, and further, the parkland, rolling and serene. And all fortunately deserted given that she was still exposed. She imagined the view of that imaginary worker, maybe out there pruning one of the formal flower beds, when he looked up at the window. He’d see two figures together, breaking from a tight embrace: a golden god of a man, and a brazen brunette, bare breasted, clinging to him.

John kissed her brow, then the side of her face, nuzzling her hair. ‘Oh, let him watch. In fact, let’s really give him something to watch!’ Grabbing her by the shoulders, he turned her, face towards the glass, and set her hands, one by one on the window sill.

‘What are you doing?’

But she knew what he was doing, and she was right with him, excited. Standing behind her, his hands roved her body, roughly caressing her bare breasts, squeezing her and rubbing
her nipples with his thumbs. When she moaned, he slid one hand down to her crotch, cupping her there and working her through her skirt and her panties. What he was doing down there was probably out of the view of the mythical randy, voyeuristic gardener, but the way she rocked, and tossed her head would reveal all.

‘That’s it, baby, work it,’ hissed John in her ear, squeezing her harder, massaging her sex in a fierce rhythm and pinching her nipple. ‘That randy beast of a gardener wants you … he wants to touch you the way I’m touching you. But he can’t have you … you’re my lady of the manor, not his.’

Again with the possessiveness, but she didn’t care. It just made her hotter. Her pussy ached, crying silently for more of the same treatment, more pressure. For real contact. She surged against his hand, inciting him to go further, faster, rougher. Wanting more.

‘He’s out there … he can see your writhing body … he wants to fuck you.’ John’s finger pressed hard through her skirt, dividing her sex lips and settling on her clit, making her jerk, and gasp. Then moan as he jammed the cloth of her knickers and skirt against her, rocking. ‘He’s a big dirty bastard with a big hot cock … all ready and primed for Your Ladyship.’ Behind her, the only cock she was interested in jabbed against her buttocks, also ready and primed.

John leaned his weight against her; she had to hold on to the sill. Her arms were taut with the effort, but her fingers clenched, longing to cover John’s and to encourage him to work her even harder.

‘Do you want him? Do you want his cock inside you? He’s a very nasty man and he’ll be rough with you, and use you … Do you want that?’ Oh, he was enjoying this. She could hear the glee in his voice.

‘Yes! Yes, I fucking well do! I don’t care how nasty he is … the nastier the better. Bring it on.’

Her own voice sounded harsh to her ears, cracking with lust. It was either that, or scream at him, demanding he fill her. ‘Very well, Your Ladyship. I’m going to take your knickers off now, and I’m going to play with your pussy before I fuck your brains out. You posh birds are all the same. You like a bit of finger first.’

Lizzie laughed, despite the raving tension, the aching need. John
was
the gardener now, the rough man with the big hot dick and the crude vocabulary.

‘Oh, you think it’s funny, do you, milady?’ John was laughing too, his words full of unsupressed mirth. ‘You think you’re too good for the likes of me? Well, I’ll show you.’

His hands left her body, and started wrenching at her clothes. She’d thought he was going to pull her skirt up, but suddenly he was fishing around for the zip, and in a flash, he’d got it undone and was pulling the garment down, around her ankles.

‘Step out of it,’ he commanded, a gardener prince. When she did so, he kicked it away across the carpet.

‘Now … let’s get these knickers down, shall we?’ His hand slid into the back of her panties, teasing her bottom, squeezing the firm rounds as crudely as he’d manipulated her breasts. Crooking his wrist, he slid one long, flexible finger into her sex from behind, brushing her entrance, then plunging in, just a little way. ‘You like that, don’t you? Something in you … finger, cock … a bit of dildo now and again. Dirty slut.’ He flexed his finger, pressing, hooking, almost controlling her completely with the digit.

Lizzie let out a sob, her mind and body confused, loving what he did, but not knowing if she was Lizzie, begging for
more of it, or the fantasy noblewoman, awash with shame and degradation, being pawed by the crude man from her own garden who was bent on humbling her.

‘I bet you want me to finger your clit now, don’t you, ma’am? To give you a bit of something before I get mine?’ John’s face was in her hair, his voice in her brain. ‘Tell me, Your Ladyship! Tell me, you mucky trollop. Do you want your bit of rough to diddle your clit?’

‘Yes! Oh God, yes! Do me! Do me now, you obnoxious clod!’ Lizzie laughed again, loving the shadow-play as much as John clearly was.

‘Obnoxious clod? I’ll give you “obnoxious clod”, you stuck up mare!’ Jubilation in his voice, he shoved his other hand down the front of her knickers, diving in and going straight for her clit. ‘Is this obnoxious?’ he growled, rubbing furiously at her, pressing and knocking and kneading, and at the same time, flexing his other wrist more to get his finger further into her. With it deeply lodged, he lifted her, making her rise on her toes while he mercilessly drove her towards higher pleasure.

‘Do you like that?’ His mouth was against her ear, and a beat later, she felt the long, lascivious lap of his tongue as he licked her neck. His thumb and fingertip closed on her clitoris and he squeezed it.

From her mouth came a noise that might have been ‘yes’ but which sounded more like the uncouth, gulping cry of a woman enduring an intense, wrenching orgasm.

Somehow, Lizzie clung on to the sill, her pelvis jerking crazily as she came. Her hair flew everywhere as she tossed her head, lashing against John’s face in floating black clouds. His fingers were merciless, maintaining station, tasking her harder, sending her higher.

‘That’s it … come, baby, come … you can do it. You can come again, you sweet, sweet girl.’ She was his lover now; he was hers. The
dramatis personae
were gone.

Staggering, she slumped back against him, no longer able to brace herself. He was rock behind her, supporting her with his body even as he still played with her flesh. Tears were in her eyes, but they were tears of intense, sweet pleasure … and joy.

‘You’re amazing, Lizzie. You’re so gorgeous when you come … so raw … unbelievable … please … please … again …’

His fingers flickered and feathered her, gentler now, but still potent. Somehow, he wrung another from her and she shouted, cursing the air.

‘Fuck you, John! I want you in me … I fucking well want you in me. Now.’ She pitched forward again, filled with new strength, finding power from somewhere. Dragging in a deep breath, she looked over her shoulder, commanding him with her eyes.

‘Hell, yes!’ he cried, his blue eyes wild. His hands slid from her sex, but hooked at her knickers, dragging them down off her, baring her from the waist down, except for her shoes. Her underwear floated away across the thick, rosy-beige carpet to join her skirt. She watched him as he unbuckled and unzipped again, dragging his underwear down out of the way, then taking his cock in his hand, pointing rudely, and rigid again.