The Three Rs (12 page)

He silences me, just one upturned palm sufficient to halt my flow of not especially well chosen words.

“Hold it, before you dig yourself in any deeper. You’re right, I did think that, or something along those lines, at first. But you’ve told me you had nothing to do with my uncle’s decision to write that will, that you never even met him. I’ve no reason not to believe you, so you’ll get the benefit of the doubt. And I
do
trust you. I don’t blame you for the situation we’re in—that’s entirely James’ doing, though I don’t have the first idea why he did it. And I believe you when you tell me that you don’t either. And I definitely don’t dislike you.” His serious expression becomes mischievous as he continues, “And finally, just for the record, sweetheart, you are entirely welcome to put your hands on what’s mine. And I’ve every intention of reciprocating.”

I stare at him, just one phrase from his answer leaping out at me. “You believe me?”

He nods, serious again. “Yes, I do. We’re in this together, as I see it. For reasons of his own, my uncle seems to have locked us up with each other for the next five years. I see no reason to take that out on you, and every reason to make the best of it. Don’t misunderstand me, my solicitor—Mr Stephenson, you hung up on him, remember, when he tried to set up our first meeting?”

I nod slowly, feeling I may have treated Mr Stephenson less than courteously, on reflection.

Cain continues, “Right, well he has his instructions which are to keep on looking for a way of overturning the will. If he can find a legal loophole I’ll take it and extricate both of us from this, this…”

“Mess?” I put in helpfully.

He glances at me, and I suspect that’s not the word he might have chosen left to himself. “Situation,” he corrects me firmly. “If that happens, well, we can rethink our options. But for now it’s just you, me, our business, a mutual enthusiasm for spanking, my throbbing cock and your incredibly tight pussy—which I’m thinking, hoping, might need some more attention quite soon. I can live with that if you can.”

I stare at him, not sure how a perfectly serious discussion about his uncle’s last will and testament became transformed into something much more promising. And intimate. But it does sound like a reasonable approach to me.

“I think I can live with that. Should we shake hands on it?”

“If you insist. I’d much prefer it if you were to suck my cock though.”

I manage to keep a stern expression on my face. “I could do that. But what about my tight pussy?”

His eyebrows quirk, and his lip twitches. My poker face is winning this round. But he’ll have his way. He’s already shifting his position to kneel over me, his once more fully erect cock delightfully close to my lips. “You really must learn to wait your turn, Miss Fischer. Now please, open wide.”

Chapter Seven

I wake up alone, still curled up snug and warm in Cain Parrish’s bed. Of him there’s no sign beyond his discarded clothes from yesterday still strewn around the room. Actually, that’s not strictly true. As I shift and stretch I can feel his unmistakable, lingering presence. I ache everywhere. In places I’d no idea I even had. A sure sign of his being in me, on me, all over me. I’m entertaining some hope I may have left him with a twinge or two, but nothing on this scale.

Cain is generous as a lover, I really have no idea how many times he made me come in the hours we spent rolling around in his bed. And when I wasn’t actually coming, I was hovering on the brink of it more or less constantly. He has an uncanny knack for knowing just when to hold back, how to make me wait until I’m literally begging him to finish the job. And his finishing touches are quite, quite exquisite. Remembering, re-living, I roll onto my back, gazing up at the ceiling and tingling still at the recollection.

And I become aware of another sensation, one even more insistent just now than my aching muscles and interestingly tender places. I’m hungry. Starving in fact. I need the loo first then food and hot, sweet coffee, and I need those things now. I ease my legs out from under the duvet and curl my toes in the deep pile of the bedroom carpet. I sit on the edge of the bed, and note that my bottom is no longer sore. Pity really, but more than made up for by the bone-deep aching in my thighs and the pleasant soreness in my pussy. I peep into the small waste bin beside the bed where there look to be at least five used condoms. Proof positive that Cain had a good time too. So, he made love to me at least five times in one night. A whole lifetime’s worth in my limited experience, all at once. No wonder I’m feeling the strain. And needing nourishment.

My clothes are in the room along the hall, so I opt to borrow something of Cain’s for now. There are a few shirts neatly ironed and stacked on an oak blanket chest under the window, so I take the top one and shake it out. It’s a black and red check, made of soft cotton. It’s quite thick, a work shirt, I expect. He probably won’t mind me borrowing it. I slip my arms into the sleeves and fasten the buttons. It hangs past my thighs, and is very loose on me. I glance in the mirror on my way to leave in search of Cain and food.

Is that me? I look—different. Sort of sexier, more alluring. It’s an image of myself I don’t recognize, but there I am. Large as life and twice as rumpled. My strawberry-blonde hair all mussed and tangled around my face and neck, my mouth still red and swollen from his kisses. The shirt looks seductive, inviting, as though I’m begging for someone to just slip the buttons open and unwrap me.

I’m not bad looking, but this sexy stranger in the mirror actually looks quite beautiful. I’m glowing, my eyes, normally a presentable enough blend of hazel and green, are now shining. My skin is flushed, still warm from the bed, but it’s more. It’s more an anticipation, a sense of something sweet and soft and intriguing just waiting to happen. Christ, even I’d fuck me at this moment. Is this the Abigail Fischer that Cain Parrish sees? How come I’ve never met her before now?

I gaze at my reflection for a few more moments, before my stomach growls loudly, pulling me back to the here and now. My immediate needs are gathering urgency. I leave the room and head for the bathroom before making my way downstairs.

I find Cain in the kitchen, several newspapers spread out on the table. He smiles at me when I appear in the doorway.

“Morning, Miss Fischer. Did you sleep well?” His morning tone is husky and low. And sexy.

I nod, and head for the worktop behind him, where the kettle is. “Yes. Eventually. Do you want more coffee? And aren’t we on first name terms by now?”

He closes his newspaper and stands. “Yes please. And ‘Miss Fischer’ suits you when you’ve got that just-fucked, sexy look about you. Toast or croissants?”

My stomach growls again in response, and my pussy clenches in joyful expectation. I wince, intensely aware of his recent presence inside me. But no matter how delightful the prospect of a repeat performance is, my need for other sustenance is acute, and I’m not convinced toast and croissants will quite do the trick.

He obviously hears my bodily functions issuing their protest, and his grin broadens. “Right, toast to start with, then you get dressed and we’ll go find some proper food. There’s a pub down the road where they do a mean Sunday lunch.”

I glance at the clock on the kitchen wall. It’s quarter to twelve. I never sleep this late. Ever. I’m astonished that I’m only just getting up and it’s already lunchtime. I could get into some really slovenly habits around Cain Parrish. He, on the other hand, got even less sleep than I did last night, I’m sure of that, but he looks to have been up for hours. He’s all fresh and showered, neat and tidy, while I look just-fucked and messy. I never even picked up a hairbrush before trotting down here. My mother would be turning in her grave if she could see me now. And I daresay she’d be spinning like a top if she’d seen me last night!

Still, we’re here now. And life’s pretty good from where I’m standing as I pour hot water into two mugs. I watch Cain drop bread into the toaster and press the lever. He grabs a tub of butter from the fridge and turns to me as he waits for the toast to pop. His smile is stunning, dripping with pure lust. He rakes his eyes up and down my body, as though noticing only now that I’m wearing his shirt. I tug at the hem self-consciously.

“It looks good on you. You can keep it. I want you to wear it often, and every time it’ll remind me of how gloriously sexy and utterly fuckable you look right now. If I do extra toast, do you think you could last another hour or so?”

I glance down, and his erection is unmistakable, straining the front of his black denim jeans. Even in my new-found state of sexual allure I never anticipated having such a profound and immediate effect, and especially not on a man with the experience and skill of Cain Parrish. He’s no doubt had breakfast with countless sexily rumpled bedmates in his time, but still seems to appreciate me. And his appreciation is now seeking more direct expression.

I’m even more conscious of my aches and pains as I contemplate a re-run of last night’s exertions, and I’m honestly not sure, no matter how willing the spirit, whether my flesh is going to be up to it. I grimace sub-consciously, but he catches the fleeting expression.

“Feeling a little sore this morning?”

I nod, blushing now. Surely he’s not going to ask for details.

He is.

“Where? Did I hurt you?”

“Not ‘hurt’, exactly. But we were rather—energetic. And I’m out of practice.”

“Well, you were energetic, certainly. And I’d suggest you’re not out of practice any more, though there’s no harm in working on your technique. I’d be happy to help…”

“Did I do something wrong?”

His tone was light, teasing, but my perpetual self-doubt is never far below the surface, coiled and ready to spring at the slightest whiff of criticism. My newly-discovered status as a sex siren is under scrutiny and seemingly found wanting.

He grabs the toast and drops it onto a plate before coming around to me and dropping a kiss on my mouth. “Not a thing, sweetheart. I’m joking. You were fucking wonderful.” He cups my chin with his hand, his expression thoughtful, and perhaps a little concerned. “You
are
okay?”

I nod quickly, and on impulse wrap my arms around his back and hug him. He returns the hug, nuzzling my hair with his lips as he reaches down to caress my bottom.

“So, a little tender just now, but you could do justice to a roast dinner with all the trimmings? Yes?”

I nod. “Yes. If that’s okay with you?”

“It sounds a like an excellent plan. And you’ll keep for later. You and your tight but slightly sore little pussy. So, eat your toast and then get ready. We’ll be out of here in half an hour.”

* * * *

In fact it took us less than twenty minutes, but now we’re comfortably ensconced in a quiet corner of the Fox and Goose, the remains of two monstrous carvery lunches strewn on the table in front of us. We’re sipping yet more coffee—we both seem to be caffeine addicts—and Cain’s reeling off ideas for how to spend the afternoon. Incredibly, hot and sweaty sex back at his house doesn’t seem to be on his immediate agenda.

“I could take you and show you the office and yard if you like, while no one else is around. But that’ll save till Monday either. Or we could go for a walk, maybe a bit of shopping if that’s what you want to do? We’d have to go to Newcastle though—Berwick is dead at a weekend.”

I wouldn’t mind a walk, but I’m not fond of shopping. Especially not with someone else who doesn’t know me that well. And that’s an odd thought—surely now Cain Parrish knows me better than pretty much anyone else. At least, he knows my body very well indeed. But almost nothing else about me.

I generally find shops a bit of a trial, if I’m honest, full of special offer posters and complicated buy one get one free price tickets. I can manage to make sense of all that, given time, but it’s all just a bit hectic and immediate for my liking. I usually go shopping with Sally, and that’s a nice girlie day out, but this seems different. So no, not shopping. Far too much danger of being rumbled for the illiterate dunce I am.

“I like walking. Maybe we could find a nice park or something?”

Cain shakes his head. “We can do better than that. Who needs a park when you’ve got the Northumberland coastline. Come on.” He leads the way back out to the car park where we scramble into his van. A few minutes later, he takes a sharp left turn and we’re trundling down a long drive between grassy sand dunes to a small clearing overlooking the sea. Several other cars are parked there. He’s right, it really is a beautiful place. I reach for my sketchbook, and he smiles wryly as he props his feet on the dashboard to wait for me. There are seabirds circling in the air and floating serenely among the gentle ripples. I do my best to capture their swooping motion as well as their calm companionship on the water.

“Fancy an ice cream?” His voice interrupts me, perhaps fifteen minutes later.

I glance toward the jolly little ice cream van parked close to the car park entrance. Our shared sweet tooth is asserting itself again. I nod and thank him.

“Just vanilla, please. With a flake.”

His sardonic grin is lost on me at first, the meaning of his muttered “hardly vanilla” not dawning on me until he’s halfway to the van. There’s a queue, he’ll be a few minutes, so I re-apply myself to my drawing.

I don’t see or hear him returning until he plonks himself down alongside me again, my ice cream just starting to melt on the cornet. I set the sketchpad down on my other side and turn my attention to the serious business of licking the dribbles away.