Driven Wild

Driven Wild

By

Jaye Peaches

Copyright © 2014 by Stormy Night Publications and Jaye Peaches

Copyright © 2014 by Stormy Night Publications and Jaye Peaches

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Published by Stormy Night Publications and Design, LLC.

www.StormyNightPublications.com

Peaches, Jaye

Driven Wild

Cover Design by Korey Mae Johnson

Images by The Killion Group featuring Jason Aaron Baca

and 123RF/Fiona Deaton

This book is intended for
adults only
. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults.

Prologue

“A driver!” said Leah indignantly. “I don’t need a ruddy driver. I’ve just spent a month with Mum in Italy and she let me drive myself.”

“Watch your language! You should be grateful that I take care of you,” her father snapped back. “And I have spoken to your mother,” he added.

“Grateful! This is about you not trusting me. A driver, you mean a spy, to keep an eye on me when I start university.” Leah began to pace about the open space before the fireplace. The ancient stone surroundings seemed to echo her annoyance, projecting her voice far beyond the room.

“You have yet to prove to me, Leah, that you can take care of yourself. All that mischief-making at school.” Her father remained in his seat, unperturbed by her outburst. “I despair of your behaviour sometimes and this is one way to make sure you don’t come to any harm.”

“I don’t need anything from you, Daddy,” said Leah, wringing her hands together, trying a different tactic. “I’m nearly nineteen.”

“Your forthcoming birthday makes no difference. You don’t come of age until you are twenty-one and until then you are dependent on my allowance, and if you don’t accept my stipulations, you will find it greatly reduced.”

Leah’s mouth opened to say something about ‘unfair’ and ‘coercion’ and she thought better of it. Her lips pressed firmly together and she stamped out of the room as noisily as possible.

Her best friend had a completely different reaction to the news.

“You lucky cow,” said Jane, when she met Leah at their favourite pub. “A chauffeur!”

“I don’t need one. I can drive myself,” said Leah petulantly, tossing back another mouthful of wine.

“But just think, you can get drunk as much as you like and there will be somebody to drive you home. Don’t forget about impressing the boys,” added Jane with a wry smile. “The back seat.”

“True, I suppose,” said Leah, seeing a different light on her predicament. “No late night stinking buses or taxis either.”

By the time the evening’s drinking session ended, Leah had been converted to the idea of having a driver. Her imagination began to run wild as she envisaged turning up at the best clubs and bars: the car door would be opened for her and the admiring young men would gawp as her long legs eased out onto the kerb. She even overlaid a few popping light bulbs from flashing cameras to her picture. A new wardrobe would be required to add to the glamorous effect. Daddy’s allowance would stretch; it generally did.

She slipped in her agreement over dinner one evening as her father chewed on his steak and read the newspaper at the same time.

“Good,” he said with a nod and then buried his face in the business section. “He will start on Monday.”

Now Leah had something else to think about over the weekend—a mysterious chauffeur. She wondered what he would look like.

Chapter One

Shiny black shoes. So immaculately polished, even the blue sky above reflected off them. They reminded her of soldier’s boots—black leather buffed into mirrors. Her eyes tracked upwards and next came the drainpipe trousers. Black again. Now she was thinking of an undertaker or perhaps a police constable in uniform. The black jacket came to his hips and there were no pockets, just a line of buttons done up smartly and a thin tie. At least the tie was dark blue and the shirt white, no more black.

Leah had to hold her breath as she moved her eyes up his body, examining him, the vision before her improving with each passing inch. Narrow hips, flat belly, and then the delicious broad shoulders. Nothing brawny and he had a distinctive neck too. She hated the thick bulldog neck found on some beefy men.

Finally, she allowed herself to look at his face. Dark chocolate hair cropped short, darker than her own, and accompanying the hair, hazel eyes surrounded by long eyelashes. Eyes that were almost feminine in nature, as if a hint of mascara had been added to their outline. The handsome masculine cheekbones and square forehead saved him from such an inaccurate description.

She smiled at him. Then remembered she hadn’t intended to be so presumptuous. Having stomped downstairs and found the car waiting—a brand new Mercedes S-class—she had been determined not to be friendly or appreciative of the driver. It hadn’t been her decision and though her friends had given her ideas of how she could put the situation to her advantage, she remained piqued about her father’s request. No, not a request, an order.

The driver’s face didn’t shift in expression, his hands remained clasped behind his back and his feet firmly planted on the driveway. A younger man than she had expected. Her father’s chauffeur, a seemly ancient man with a craggy face, had been Leah’s role model for the position. She hadn’t envisaged a youthful man with handsome features and a tall, lean body.

Her tongue unconsciously ran around her lips, moistening them and she tilted her head slightly. She couldn’t help it; something inside her had begun to buzz and it made her body do things she believed she had no control over. Her throat constricted, narrowing as she swallowed; she felt flushed by a rush of pulsating blood and tiny goose bumps formed on the back of her neck; she shivered as if swathed in invisible coldness, even her scalp prickled spontaneously.

“Miss Andrews,” he said her name in a low voice. She heard more than her name, she perceived a quiet richness almost genteel overtures in his tone. She wondered if he would be a talkative driver or be like her father’s boring chauffeur, who so rarely spoke that as a child Leah had thought he had been a mute.

His hand came forward, and she almost hoped he would touch her. Instead, his long arm shot past her and opened the rear door. Leah peered down at the black leather seats, the silver trim and paintwork—brand new and in pristine condition. No expense spared by her generous father. At times like this, she adored her daddy.

Being chauffeured was not unusual for the heiress. Since childhood, she had been ferried about with her father, always together in the back of the car, sometimes chatting, mostly not. Now she tingled with delight; she had her own car and driver. Perhaps it wasn’t as bad as she had made out to her friends.

He held the door as she shuffled into the rear seat, adjusting her mini skirt as she went, not that she minded him seeing her long legs or her garter. Settling in the cool seat, she waited for him to take up position behind the steering wheel. He didn’t turn towards her as he spoke; rather, he chose to adjust the rear-view mirror so he could catch her in the reflection. His dazzling eyes stared at her.

“Where to, Miss Andrews?”

She could get used to this and she intended to have fun, plenty of fun. Six weeks to the start of her first university term and she was going to enjoy the summer of ‘65 being driven here, there, and everywhere. Liverpool wouldn’t know what had hit it. She didn’t care, he was going to drive her wherever she wanted, and with it came the freedom to be as wild as she desired.

* * *

For the next few weeks, Rick drove her almost daily, shuttling his young charge from home to numerous locations. Mostly nightclubs or wine bars, the tennis club, or the department stores in the city centre. Occasionally when the weather was especially good, he drove her and a couple of girlfriends north to Southport and the seaside.

While he waited for her, he drank coffee out of a metal flask and read books. Sometimes he stretched his legs and walked. He never missed her return, generally because she always arrived back later than she had promised. No, not promised, she never went as far as that, but he had assumed she would be a better timekeeper.

He sometimes frequented the backstreet establishments for food and a fresh drink, and he found the kind of greasy spoon cafés, which served badly presented wholesome food, sufficiently cosy for his needs. Around him were the locals, speaking in the Scouse vernacular, which he just about understood. His life had been spent mainly in the south, or occasionally abroad. Only the need for a job had brought him north to Liverpool.

She hadn’t even asked him for a name. That seriously pissed him off. A rude girl. An adult by age, but in maturity she still had all the habits of a teenage schoolgirl. Her friends weren’t much better.

He tried hard not to judge her. Her father may have paid for the car and a driver, but he didn’t spend much time with his daughter—he was too busy running a business empire. Gripping the steering wheel tightly on one occasion, he had listened to the girl’s stories of nights out with her admirers. He suspected she embellished the tales to impress her friends, but all the same, it troubled him to see how close she came to being completely out of control and wild.

Glancing in the rear-view mirror now and again, he would spy her face. Pretty with pale skin, dark hair, and brown eyes. Celtic colouring with typical northern attributes. Other things he noticed that proved harder to ignore—brash, loud, and happy to say what was on her mind, yet she spoke with a prim English accent, probably acquired through a posh educational establishment.

She had another side to her though. One he saw from time to time, more often when she was alone in the car. A soulful sad expression would drift over her eyes as she stared out of the window. Other times, usually with one of her friends called Jane, she let loose a wicked sense of humour. The girl had observant eyes and ears, a decent brain tucked away out of sight, and he would hide a smile as she joked. Two very contrasting sides of Leah Andrews and he was intrigued by her.

Over the weeks, his intrigue and desire to know more about her grew. He didn’t ask. It wasn’t his place and he stuck religiously to his remit: drive her and keep her safe. Her father, via an agency, paid him and it was to Mr Andrews he had to answer. Once a week, he wrote his report, noting the places visited, the mileage for the fuel, and the hours he worked. The details of his other agreement was left unspoken so the girl didn’t know a thing about it. She probably suspected though. Leah was being watched.

The bubble burst on her ignorance one week before she was due to start at Liverpool University. Rick had maintained a level of tolerance, but she had gone too far and he had finally had enough. Late back from a social event at her tennis club, the kind where nobody played much tennis but enjoyed drinking at the bar afterwards, she had on her arm, as she exited, a young man.

A lanky youth with red hair and a white polo-neck sweatshirt. Bowl-shaped hair, the style Rick’s father deplored, and fake army boots on his feet. Leah laughed excessively loud at his appalling bad jokes. Stumbling into the seats, she shuffled closer to the youth as Rick started the engine up.

“Home, miss? I assume you wish me to drop off your companion on the way?” He tried to make it sound like a suggestion, but it wasn’t what he was thinking.

“Oh, drive around for a bit,” giggled Leah. “We want to natter, don’t we, Clive?”

“Sure, sweetie, natter!” Clive laughed raucously.

“Excuse me, are you drunk, miss?” asked Rick.

“No! Clive here has been making me merry. It was a sobriety evening, raising money for Alcoholics Anonymous. So boring, wasn’t it, Clive?”

“Yeah,” agreed Clive.

The kissing began before Rick had reached the end of the street. In the rear-view mirror, he could see their tongues and their sloppy kissing. He grimaced at the frantic nature of the couple: no sense of passion. It was as the young man’s hand drifted down her front, fingering the buttons of her yellow blouse that Rick’s heartbeat shot up a notch. Kissing he could tolerate; roving hands had to be watched carefully.

Finding it harder to concentrate, he drove somewhat erratically. There was the familiar wildness in her eyes, the lack of thought at her predicament.