The Accidental Mistress (4 page)

That done, she obeyed him, sliding the hand to her own body, finding her clit, giving it a little rub. It was all she needed.

Sweet sensation bloomed again, and she rippled around him, seeing stars and his beautiful face in her mind’s eye. Gasps and little cries fell from her lips, and she collapsed forward, only to be held tight around the belly as John came too, hammering into her, painting the air with divine profanities as his semen pulsed and spurted.

Time seemed to muddle, but somehow, they ended up in tangled heap together on the rug, spooned and breathing heavily. The steady lift of John’s chest against her back was reassuring, like a wave slowly beating against the shore. His raw cries of pleasure seemed to echo still in Lizzie’s ears, unfettered. She loved that about him. He was a sophisticated man … and a primal male. Like no other lover she’d ever had, and none she’d even imagined.

Oh, God, how I love you …

Why not just tell him? Just whisper it now, put it right out there, while they were both mellow?

But her gut told her it was too soon, and maybe, perhaps, always would be.

He missed her. She was only in the bathroom, yet he missed her. The sensation was so intense, it almost made him dizzy.

Oh Lizzie, what have you done to me? I haven’t felt like this for years, and I’m not sure I wanted to feel like this when I did … Yet still, I can’t turn away. I can’t not want you as much as I do.

The tea in the pot was long cold, but he would have loved a cup. Anything to settle him, any normal act, to get him out of this hyped-up state so he could think straight. He took a bottle of water from the mini fridge and sipped slowly. It was fresh and pure and cool … and goddamnit, that only reminded him of her.

Fresh and young, cool and composed, and still pure even when at her most carnal.

When he’d received that email from Brent Westhead, the one that seemed to clarify the younger man’s relationship with Lizzie, John’s heart had begun to sing. And even while such an out-of-control state alarmed him, he’d still exulted, knowing she was missing him as much as he was missing her. With barely a moment’s hesitation, he’d rearranged his schedule as best he could. Then, he’d flung some clothes in a
bag, fired up the Bentley, and just set off north. He hated to think how many anxious voicemails, texts and emails would be waiting for him when he turned on his phone again, and he’d specifically asked the staff at the Waverley not to forward any but the most urgent messages to him, while he was in residence.

He had a huge, unavoidable meeting in New York in a couple of days’ time, and no desire whatsoever to be there. All he wanted was to be here: looking at Lizzie, talking to Lizzie, touching and kissing and fucking her.

And spanking her too. Oh hell, yes … how he’d missed that. Not once in his years of exploring BDSM had it ever been the way it was with her. With Lizzie, even the simplest and most playful games had moment, and significance.

Was it wrong to feel like this? This driving urge to possess her utterly, and make her his, even knowing his own shortcomings? The need was so strong, he feared he might crush her with it, and that must not happen. He needed to keep control of himself, and take things slowly with her, for
her
sake.

It’s not all about you, man. You mustn’t overwhelm her and you mustn’t just fuck the living daylights out of her because she makes you so horny. Behave like the gentleman you’re supposed to be, even if you’ve never believed you are one.

And yet, the lust was there. He wanted her now. His cock was hard beneath his robe. Again. Still …

Striding to the window, he opened it, breathed in the fresh air from the garden. There were techniques he’d learned, to regain control of himself, and to calm fears and urges, and he tried them now.

Their effect was minimal.

But he would not, should not, exhaust Lizzie with his
demands. It wasn’t all about sex, sex, sex, and he must never make her feel that was all she was to him. He’d told her he didn’t do hearts and flowers, and he knew she was too smart to expect that, but still, he ought to try, at least a bit.

And he was capable of some of the trappings of romance. He turned towards the bags and boxes he’d retrieved from the wardrobe. The booty that was the only other thing he’d paused to stow in the Bentley on his departure.

These were the gifts he’d so carefully selected for her while they’d been apart. Not the little fun items he’d sent to her at home, but the other ones. The treasures he’d been choosing for her in a sort of irrational dream. Lovely things he’d lavish on her if she were ever to become his girlfriend, his mistress … or whatever it was she was to him. A status that was far more than girlfriend or mistress, but much, much less than she deserved.

Eyeing the packages, he smiled. She’d resist, of course. He still remembered the almost pitched battles he’d had with her over money, when they’d still been doing their call girl and client dance, only a month ago. Lizzie wasn’t materialistic. Not like certain other women he’d known.

But she deserved good things. All good things. Everything he could give her.

John smoothed the shiny paper of one of the carrier bags, straightening the tiniest of creases that marred its perfection.

He was a persuasive man, and he’d use all the charms he had at his disposal to coax her into accepting these … even if he knew that it was something else, something far less tangible, yet far more significant that he wished to God he might have been capable of offering.

What the hell would the Waverley think of them? All these showers, all these wet towels, all this hot water. Lizzie ran her broad-toothed comb through her hair, and smoothed it into some semblance of a style. Her fringe was a bit floppy, not Bettie-fied at all, but it was the best she could manage at the moment.

At least the twinkle in her eyes and the subtle glow on her skin were flattering. The by-products of being freshly and very thoroughly fucked made-up for many deficiencies in the hair and make-up department!

As had become a habit with her, after her kinkier dealings with John, she flipped up the back of her robe, and checked her bottom. A bit pink, but weirdly, almost pretty looking. It was just a gentle glow now; there was no longer any real pain.

She pressed her finger against the rosy coloration, but still nothing of significance. John was clever that way. He knew how to hurt but not hurt, a very rare skill, she guessed. Letting the robe drop again, she reached for the pot of fragrance-free moisturiser from the hotel’s complimentary basket of bath and beauty products.

Hmm … they must have assumed that one of their most favoured customers was likely to have his ‘companion’ with him again, regardless of whether or not she was supposed to be an escort this time. There was a broad selection of high-end female goodies in and amongst the products that John might be expected to use.

Out in the room, their cosy haven of chintz and sex, Lizzie found John partially dressed. She’d urged him to shower first, so she could loll around a while and get her breath back. Now, he looked positively edible in a pair of fantastically fitting jeans and one of his favourite soft blue shirts. He hadn’t fastened it yet, and so there was still a nice wedge of firm, muscular chest on view.

‘I thought we might go down to the restaurant for dinner. For a change of scene, and to give me a chance to show off my beautiful girlfriend.’ He beamed at her, looking so masculine and so possessive. She’d never really liked the latter quality in previous boyfriends, but somehow with John, it was a positive not a negative.

Girlfriend, eh?
Was that what she was?

But Lizzie didn’t feel quite polished enough to be shown off. She’d never expected to see John when she’d set out, only this morning, to see Brent off at the station, so her jeans and simple top were a bit on the casual side for dining out. John was wearing jeans, of course, but
he
could get away with anything, anywhere. He had the unshakable self-confidence born of wealth and power and looks.

‘I’d love to, but I didn’t exactly dress for a posh dinner at the Waverley this morning. I … I never expected to see you.’
Ever again
, she almost added.

John crossed the room, and stood in front her. ‘You look like a goddess whatever you wear, sweetheart. And even if this place had a dress code, I think they’d pretty much be prepared to waive it for me, and anyone with me.’

‘What do you mean? You haven’t bullied them into letting you buy the hotel, have you?’ Lizzie wasn’t sure how she’d feel about that; she’d felt a contrary satisfaction in the fact that the management of the Waverley Grange had resisted her lover’s millions, preferring their independence.

‘No, alas not. The Guidettis have stood firm.’ He shrugged, and gave her a quirky smile, as if he’d read her thoughts. Lizzie remembered the handsome man with long black hair, the one she’d originally assumed was the manager of the Waverley. She’d since discovered that he owned the hotel too, with his wife, and even if she didn’t really know
either of them, she still wanted them to retain control of their distinctive hotel. ‘They won’t sell the Waverley itself, but they’ve been thinking of expanding, and they’ve got a business plan for a club in town, something a bit metro and fetish, for punters who don’t want to drive all the way out here for events. It’s very savvily costed, and I think it could work out well with the Waverley’s recherché reputation behind it, so I’ve agreed to float them some capital.’ He cradled her cheek with his hand, thumb moving gently. ‘So you needn’t worry about the filthy plutocrat gobbling up the little guy. It’s just an investment by a sleeping partner.’

‘Well, I’m glad to hear that.’ She turned her face, and kissed his palm, loving the way his long, strangely dark lashes fluttered down as if the touch of her lips induced ecstasy. ‘But it still doesn’t solve the problem of me looking like a scruff-bag in their lovely dining room.’

John took hold of both her hands in his, and then kissed their backs, one after the other. ‘Well, I thought of that. Keep your jeans … mainly because I want to imagine them snug and tight, pressed against your gorgeous rosy bottom, but you might find something amongst that lot to go with them.’ He nodded to one side.

Standing by the wardrobe was a pile of large, shiny, very suspiciously gift-like carrier bags and boxes, in white and various colours, all fastened with ribbons. Hanging on the front of the wardrobe was a plain, but intriguing, white garment bag.

‘What are they?’ She knew what they were. Presents for her. Oh, he shouldn’t have. How many times did she have to tell him,
he
was enough!

‘Just a few little things I thought you’d like.’ He smiled, looking like that young boy again, who, this time, had saved
up his pocket money to buy his sweetheart a treat.

Lizzie smiled. How could she be ungracious? John was thoughtful. He didn’t expect anything for anything and, if he did, she’d have given him what he wanted anyway.

‘Ooh, lovely … it’s like Christmas in midsummer. You’re very kind. May I look?’

‘That’s what they’re for, doofus,’ he said with a laugh, kissing her hands again before releasing her.

Lizzie carried everything to the bed, and spread it out. There was lingerie,
lots
of lingerie. Silk, satin, exquisite froths of delicate lace, but also some fresh, sweet items in white cotton, innocently styled and trimmed with cute embroidered motifs. It was typical of him not to go for all the most obvious looks. Some of it
was
very racy, and almost disturbingly abbreviated, but the fun knickers and bras and camisoles somehow pleased her the most. She picked out a set trimmed with tiny blue flowers.

The garment bag revealed a loose, casually fitted over-shirt in heavy, almost liquid silk-satin. The base colour was midnight blue, but it had a shadow design that made her smile: 1950s motifs, jukeboxes, diner signs, rockabilly cars. Just the job for a casual dinner, worn over her jeans.

John had chosen exactly the sort of shirt she’d have chosen for herself, if she’d had the money. Silk of that calibre wasn’t cheap, and though it wasn’t an obvious designer label, the workmanship was divine.

The damned man could read her mind … even when she wasn’t actively thinking about things.

‘It’s gorgeous, John. I love it! But how did you choose it?’

He sighed, as if revisiting some sorrow, some ennui. ‘I was in Dubai, for a deal. And I felt as if I had to get out of hotels and boardrooms for an hour. I didn’t know what to do with
myself and somehow I ended up rambling around a shopping complex in a daze. I took one look at that in a boutique window, and I knew it was “you”.’ He stroked a finger over the silk. ‘I was thinking of you … missing you … and knew you just had to have it.’

Had he really thought about her that much when they’d been apart? He’d said so, earlier, but it was still hard to imagine someone like John wandering aimlessly around a mall, thinking only of her.

‘Thank you, John,’ she said, leaning over to kiss him, moved beyond the ability to express it properly. ‘It’s perfect. Wonderful … I’ll get changed now. I’m really hungry, all of a sudden. What time is it?’

‘I don’t know. Around seven, I think.’ He consulted his watch on the bedside cabinet. ‘Seven-thirty, love … Doesn’t time fly by when you’re enjoying yourself?’ He grinned, clearly pleased with the idea that they’d been so lost in passion they’d lost track of time.

‘Oh God … Shelley! She’ll be wondering where on earth I am. I’ll have to ring her.’

Guilt pelted down on her like rain. She’d completely forgotten her friend, her other house-mate, Shelley. Brent might have gone to stay with his parents for a while, but Shelley was still in residence, and if she’d arrived home from a day out at work temping to find Lizzie not there, she’d be wondering what was going on.

This is what happens when you spend the day shagging your billionaire boyfriend, Lizzie Aitchison!
She’d completely forgotten she had things to do. Commitments. Heck, she’d even forgotten
meals
. No wonder she was ravenously hungry.