The Accidental Call Girl (17 page)

‘Oh God. Hell. Yes,’ he proclaimed through gritted teeth, canting up and grasping her by the hips. His fingers caught a sore spot as he held her, and she grunted, but for once he didn’t seem to notice, so lost was he in his own sensations.

Yes, yes
, she answered him, but silently, wiggling in his grip and wanting him to reignite the fire in her stripes. They were badges of honour, and the soreness only stoked her desire all the more. The pain, and the pleasure of him, were indivisible, each increasing the other. She almost felt like inviting him to slap her bottom while his cock was lodged inside her.

John’s blue eyes snapped open, their wild colour so glorious that her sex rippled around him. ‘What is it, Bettie? What are you thinking? Tell me . . . tell me now.’ He snagged his lower lip as she clenched on him, almost coming.

‘I . . . I thought about you slapping my bum. Now . . .’

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

Before she had time to change her mind, he fetched her a ringing slap on her sore left buttock and she shrieked, pain hurtling through her loins and turning to the sweetest bloom of ecstasy between her legs. Grabbing at John’s shoulder, she loomed over him, reaching down and rubbing her clit as she came and came and came, mashing her body against his . . . and yes, riding him. Riding him hard.

Tossing her head, her hair flying around her, she rode the pleasure too. John made a harsh, almost ferocious sound, his hips thundering as hers did, lifting again and again as he came along with her. His hold on her was a death grip, tormenting her stripes, and the burn of it only drove her higher. As she soared, she was dimly aware of her own fingers, her fingernails, digging deep into the muscle of his shoulder.

But the madness couldn’t last and, as she pitched forward, overcome, his arms slid right around her, holding her close, cradling her now, his embrace protective. For some minutes, she couldn’t move, and neither, it seemed, could he. Wrapped together, they held on as the rain still teemed down and lashed their joined bodies.

Eventually, Lizzie blinked and reached up to sweep her hair out of her eyes. John’s arms were still around her and his face buried in her neck, and when she looked down at his shoulder, so close to her face, she saw the clear print of her own fingernails, outlined in blood that trickled over his lightly tanned skin.

‘I’ve hurt you, John,’ she whispered, then lowered her mouth to his shoulder, kissing it better and tasting the copper of the blood.

Against her, she felt the shake of his body as he laughed softly and, as he shifted, his subsiding cock slid out of her. The feel of it thus was so tender and intimate that she blinked, aware that some of the moisture in her eyes was more than rain.

‘Treasured battle scars, sweetheart,’ he said, cradling her cheek and urging her to lift her head. His smile was beatific.

‘Yeah, but it’s a real injury, not pain for pleasure.’ She hitched her hips a little, freeing him completely and feeling the glide of his fingers, too, on her punished bottom.

‘Worry not, fair maiden.’ He kissed her lips, softly brushing them with his. ‘It’s more than worth it. Far more than worth it. You could have scratched half my back off and I’d still be smiling.’

‘But still,’ she said, sitting up, then climbing off him to kneel at his side, grimacing at the twinges in her buttocks.

‘Still yourself.’ Straightening too, he pressed on her shoulder and made her turn so he could see her back view. ‘Did I hit you too hard? Was it more than you wanted?’ He reached around and touched the edge of one of her stripes, making her hiss.

‘No, not more than I wanted . . . but more than I usually allow.’ Which was the truth. She’d never allowed this before, because she’d never played this way.

‘I’ll compensate you for it.’ He took her hand and kissed it. ‘I’ll make it up to you. Danger money, you might say.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, John, you’re already paying way over the odds.’ She paused. Was now the moment, when he was feeling mellow and well shagged out? ‘Look, I’ve got to tell you. I’m—’

He pressed the tips of his fingers across her lips, and looked skywards, allowing the rain to patter hard on his face. ‘Not now, eh? I think we need to be moving. Let’s get back to the hotel, and the hot shower and the hot towels, and maybe a nice hot toddy.’ Lithely, he sprang to his feet and then, with no trace of self-consciousness, peeled off the used condom. ‘Do you have a tissue in your bag, sweetheart? Ecology and all that.’

Clambering up somewhat less gracefully, she cast around for her bag, found it slightly sheltered under a tree and not too wet, and fished in it for tissues.

Their clothes had avoided the worst of the storm, under the arboreal canopy, but they wouldn’t stay relatively dry long. The rain was increasing rather than slowing down. Pulling a face, Lizzie wrapped the basque around herself, ready to hook it up.

‘No . . . not yet.’ John stayed her hand. ‘Bundle your things up, as tightly as you can. We’ll walk to the edge of the woods, put our clothes on, and then run as fast as we can across the park. That way, they won’t get quite as wet.’

Lizzie opened her mouth to protest, then just laughed. Wild as it sounded, John’s plan made sense. He nodded, pleased with himself.

‘Lateral thinking, eh? Am I clever or what?’

You’re a know it all, Mr Smith. But I don’t mind a bit.

They gathered all their belongings and began to pick their way along the path, with John indicating the safest places to step with bare feet. It was one of the most bizarre episodes of her life, BDSM games with him notwithstanding, but she felt strangely safe, and nurtured, following his lead. And even though she was supposed to be watching her footing, a lot of the time she was observing the smooth flexion of his gorgeous male arse as he walked ahead of her.

‘I know you’re looking at my bum,’ he called out, turning briefly and catching her in the act. ‘If I wasn’t trying to stop you treading on stones and twigs and God alone knows what else, I’d make you walk in front so I could watch your lovely bottom and admire my own handiwork.’

‘You’ll get the chance later,’ she flung back, strangely excited. Despite everything, she wanted to exhibit herself to him. She was proud of the marks still. They were the sigils of his possession and her bravery.

At the edge of the park, they halted behind a thicket of bushes and dressed, at least partially. Lizzie thrust her basque into her bag as best she could. If she could keep that fairly dry, and her spare knickers, it was only her top clothes that she’d have to dry out when they reached the sanctuary of John’s room.

‘Come on, beautiful Bettie, let’s run for it, shall we?’ His expression was merry, like that of a wicked, playful imp and, clutching his shoes in one hand, he grabbed her hand with the other and urged her forward, out into the open.

Across the grass they hurtled, laughing crazily within seconds at the absurdity of it all, barefoot, squelching and sliding. It was so exhilarating that Lizzie barely felt where he’d beat her. Perhaps the endorphins or adrenaline or whatever it was had cancelled out the ache?

She wasn’t sure which it was, but she was sure she’d have followed him anywhere. And at a run.

Please don’t fall for him
, Lizzie, she told herself, as he turned and grinned at her, making a sunny day out of a torrential rainstorm.
You can’t
really
have him, and he only wants you for a while . . .

But it was far too late for that. The deed was done. As they almost flew across the lawn, she’d already fallen.

The stripes were quite red, but nowhere near as livid as Lizzie had expected. Lifting up the back of the thick, fluffy white bathrobe, she checked them one last time before returning to the bedroom to join John. She’d just enjoyed one of the most delicious and welcome showers in her entire life. In the movies, they would probably have shared it, but she’d been grateful for a little time to herself.

Although John’s room had been furnished and kitted out for a single, male occupant, a phone call to reception had produced a towering pile of extra towels, additional bathrobes, and a complementary basket of feminine toiletries and beauty products. She’d been able to pamper herself far more lavishly than she’d ever have been able to at home, in the process of washing away the last of the mud, twigs and leaves that had still been clinging to her skin despite the sluicing of the rain.

Tentatively, she touched one of the ruddy marks on her bottom. It was still sore, but not agonising. Goddamn, the man knew what he was doing! Even with a bit of branch he’d harvested randomly in the woods, he was a master of hand to eye coordination. Somehow, he’d managed to pull each stroke at the very last second, making it lighter yet still dramatic.

Letting the robe drop, she grasped the door handle.

John was sitting on the bed, bundled in another bathrobe, with his laptop across his knees. He seemed intent on something, and a cup stood on the bedside table at his side, along with a half-eaten scone on a plate. A trolley loaded with a lavish English afternoon tea had been delivered while she was showering.

‘Feeling better? Ready for some tea?’ John tapped a few keys and set aside his computer, then slid to his feet, coming towards her.

Wouldn’t it be nice if this were real?

He slid his arm around her, gave her a kiss on the cheek and led her to the bed.

‘Do you need a cushion? I didn’t hurt you too much, did I?’

How cool would it be if I really had this gorgeous man as my boyfriend? He’s handsome, intelligent, mature . . . and bloody hell, he’s even rich too.

‘No, I’m fine thanks. You’re a very clever man, John Smith. I’m really nowhere near as sore as I thought I would be. You have a very skilled touch.’

‘So I’ve been told.’ He grinned, and when she made as if to sit where he’d been sitting, he halted her. ‘Hang on a minute. I’ve got some balm that’s sometimes useful in these circumstances. It’s herbal, and I use it sometimes when my trick knee is bothering me . . . an old rugby injury . . . but it works just as well on spanked bottoms.’

‘You played rugby?’ She let him help her onto the bed, and to lie down on her front. This was a tantalising hint. She’d never have pegged him as a rugby player, but she supposed he might have the build for a winger, or whatever. The ones who ran and were fleet of foot.

‘I did indeed. At public school for my sins.’ As she got comfortable, he folded up her robe at the back to expose her. Curiously, the moment felt strangely asexual, just the action of someone who was familiar and comfortable. Someone there was no reason to be on edge or embarrassed with.

Even if he
was
an ex public schoolboy. The plot thickened.

‘It’ll feel a bit chilly. I’ve had it in the mini fridge. It works better that way,’ he warned, then a moment later, he applied the first dose.

The ointment, and the way he applied it, was heavenly. His touch was light as a feather, delicately stirring the pain at first, then ameliorating it with the cool potion. The keenest, sorest spots seemed to back right down to a gentle, almost steadying glow. A sweet reminder of challenge and pleasure. He dressed each stripe carefully, methodically, and at the edge of her perception, Lizzie acknowledged the renewed stir of desire for him. But it wasn’t strident. If he initiated sex again now, it would be nice. But if he didn’t, it would also be nice.

‘There, you’re done.’

The terrycloth settled back on her bottom again. So, no sex, then? That was OK. She rolled onto her side and watched John wiping the ointment from his fingers with tissues. He walked to the waste bin and flung them in, then turned to the tea trolley.

Hmmm, he did have an erection. And when he saw her notice it, he winked.

‘You don’t seriously think I could touch your beautiful spanked bottom and not get hard, do you?’

‘I don’t know . . . You’re an unusual man, John. I never know quite what to expect.’

‘Of course I want you. I always want you.’ With a quick smile over his shoulder, he inspected the teapot, and started preparing her a cup. ‘Milk? Sugar?’

‘Just a splosh of milk, please.’ She watched him being mother with the tea things, then buttering her a scone. It was quite bizarre to see a dominant man with a hard-on being so domestic. ‘It must be rather inconvenient in your business meetings and whatnot, always wanting me. Don’t people notice?’

He came towards her, bearing his gifts of tea and confectionery. ‘Ah well, I practise certain bio feedback techniques that keep the beast under control in such circumstances . . . although they don’t work on my mind quite as well.’

‘Crikey, I hope you haven’t missed out on some barzillion pound deal because of me!’

He grinned. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve always managed to snap back to reality at the crucial moment.’ He placed her scone plate on the bedside table and put her cup and saucer into her hands. ‘Now, drink up, you deserve it. I’m going to have a shower. Much as I’d love to ravish you again, you’re squeaky clean now and I’m still grunchy and grubby.’

‘I don’t mind.’

He shook his head and began to walk away. At the door, he turned and nodded towards his laptop, still set on the bed beside her. ‘You can look me up while I’m in the shower . . . I know you want to.’

‘How do you know I haven’t already?’

He gave her a steady look. ‘I just know . . . There are things you would probably have mentioned. I’m surprised, though. Most women in your line of work would probably have checked me out thoroughly before now.’

Most escorts probably would. If they were really escorts.

‘Do you trust me so much that you’d let me fool about on a laptop full of your crucial data?’

His lips quirked a little. It wasn’t quite a smile . . . or was it?

‘Yes,’ he said, then disappeared into the bathroom.

Now why the hell did I do that?

Why had he done it? Admittedly the most sensitive material on his laptop was encrypted and, clever as she was, he didn’t think Bettie was a hacker as well as a naturally talented if inexperienced prostitute. But still, there were revealing enough documents she would easily be able to open.