The Accidental Call Girl (14 page)

‘Circle your fingertip,’ he ordered, in barely more than a breath, ‘circle it round and round, but remember, don’t give in.’

The sensations were exquisite, yet also agony. Her whole body was one state of tension, holding back from pressing too hard, circling too hard, from battering her clit and surrendering into a huge orgasm. Still holding her wrist, John lifted his wine glass with his free hand and took a sip. She saw the moisture on his lips, and the undulation of his throat as he swallowed, and her desire surged higher.

‘Stop. Remain still. Finger still touching.’ As he drank a little more wine, he caressed her pulse point with his fingertip and it was exactly as if he’d taken over between her legs, the slow, tantalising stroke gliding against her clit, the action as stimulating as if she’d still been doing herself.

‘Now . . . push your finger inside. Explore further. Sample the well. The way you did this morning.’

Crooking her wrist, she obeyed him, her body glowing with heat and her thighs trembling. She brushed her clit with her thumb, gasping.

‘I wish I was there. I wish I was in you . . . deep in you . . .’ His lashes fluttered. If a man could look sultry, he did, a perfect icon of fabulous male seduction. His voice dropped again, barely audible, a whisper, almost miming the words. ‘I’d like to be in you right up to my balls, so snug in there, surrounded by you. Embraced by the feel of hot, wet silk.’

The words, the touch of her stroking finger on her pulse, it was all too much. She pressed a little harder with her thumb, and her body fluttered and melted in orgasm. Her spine trembled and threatened to give out on her, but John’s hand tightened hard on hers, giving her strength and keeping her steady in her seat while the waves of exquisite sensation assailed her groin.

It wasn’t possible to look at him. Of their own accord, her eyes were tight shut. But she felt closer to him than she’d ever felt to any man before. To any person . . .

‘Yes, we’ll see the sweet menu now, please.’

Lizzie’s eyes snapped open and, to her astonishment, she saw the waiter standing just a few feet away. How long had he been there? What had he seen, or heard? How long had she been out of it, sitting in a blissed-out daze with one hand still in her knickers and the other in John’s steadying grasp?

The handsome young man seemed unperturbed, unruffled. He’d either seen nothing at all, or he was used to such shenanigans at the racy Waverley. Watching his back as he retreated, Lizzie tugged her hand out of John’s grip, and her other out from between her legs, and rubbed her sticky fingers furiously on her napkin, not sure why she was doing it, other than her fundamental desire to be dainty – and normal – for a moment.

‘Why did you do that? I might have wanted you to taste yourself. I might have wanted to taste you myself.’

Her head snapped round, towards her companion, at the soft sound of his voice. He glanced momentarily at her hand, resting on the table now. She’d rubbed the spoor of her pleasure off her fingers, she was sure, but somehow she could swear it was still there, an invisible imprint of what she’d done at his behest.

‘It wasn’t hygienic. Not when I’m going to be eating.’ How prim that sounded, how old-fashioned. Almost hysterically, she imagined her old granny reprimanding her, saying nice young ladies don’t touch themselves ‘down there’, and especially not when they’re at table. Not that her grandmother would ever actually have acknowledged the existence of a ‘down there’ in the first place.

Lizzie knew she probably wasn’t acting much like an authentic escort, who would have done anything for the client and probably indulged in activities infinitely more dubious than she just had. But the simple fact was that no matter how good her performance was proving to be, she wasn’t really a call girl and she couldn’t change some things that were ingrained in her.

‘Still, you’re very wilful for a submissive, aren’t you?’ persisted John, his smile golden and foxy. ‘I’ll have to punish you all the harder for that later. I believe we agreed on the phone you’re in need of some discipline.’

The arousal that had barely faded suddenly surged back again. Her skin tingled as if it were aping the sting of punishment, glowing all over. She looked not at her own hands, but at his. They were at rest, relaxed now, but she knew they were hard, and implacable, when he needed them to be. Shuffling in her seat, she imagined their rigour on her bottom.

‘Ah, but I’m only a submissive when I want to be one. When I’m on the clock. At other times, I’m my own boss, John. I do what
I
want.’

‘But I’m paying you now, Bettie. The envelope’s right here if you want it.’ He patted his jacket, over the inner pocket area. ‘You should do what
I
want, not what you want.’

The temptation to bob helplessly on the great sea of his will was almost irresistible. It was so much easier to surrender than to fight. She imagined touching herself again now, and then offering him the evidence, her head lowered respectfully as she held out her hand.

Oh, what a load of bollocks you do think sometimes, Lizzie Aitchison!

‘Well, it’s . . . it’s a bit of grey area, I’d say. And probably better not to be seen exchanging money in a public restaurant, perhaps?’ She looked him boldly in the eye, fighting the compulsion to be completely dazzled, as usual.

‘So, you’ll masturbate in a public restaurant but you won’t take money for it. That’s an unexpected rationale for a woman in your line of work.’ He winked at her, then nodded towards the waiter now approaching with the sweet menus.

I’ll have to tell him, it’s no good.

The desserts listed seemed to total at least a billion calories each, but contemplating them was a welcome diversion. Sugar always helped her to think straight, and there was enough there to make even her into a genius.

‘Ooh, I’ll have some of that, please, it sounds divine!’ She tapped the description of an insane concoction of chocolate, cake, fudge and whipped cream.

‘Chocolate Paradise? Good choice, it’s the chef’s speciality,’ said the waiter, beaming as if he’d created the wicked melange himself.

‘I’ll have that too,’ John said, not even looking at the menu, ‘I like the sound of a trip to Paradise.’ His tone was normal, conversational, but Lizzie could still detect that sly, suggestive edge aimed directly at her.

A few moments later, they were both faced with a huge wedge of Chocolate Paradise and, for all intents and purposes, alone again in their private zone of intimacy.

‘I’m glad you’re not one of those women who turns down pudding.’ He took a bite of chocolate goo, with obvious, intense relish. ‘It always seems so repressed to resist. It’s just another sensual pleasure, after all.’

Lizzie narrowed her eyes. Gorgeous as he was, and adventurous, he’d let his inner chauvinist out from under wraps. ‘Ah, so you’re judging our entire sex because some of us want to eat healthily, and not get obese and be a burden on the health services?’

His fingers tightened on his spoon. Had she vexed him? Maybe he didn’t expect this kind of thing from a woman he’d paid?

‘I’m not saying that at all. It’s just that some women of my acquaintance don’t seem to be able to be in the same room as a calorie without getting nervous. I’m just happy you’re enjoying your dessert . . . because it
is
yummy.’

‘I’m not one of those women, John.’ Especially if those women were working girls.

‘No, you’re not. You’re not like any woman . . . or escort . . . I’ve ever met.’ He leant forward, scrutinising her, chocolate pudding apparently forgotten.

I should tell him. I should tell him now.

Lizzie opened her mouth, the words,
I’ve something I must tell you
teetering on her lips.

‘Come on, eat up,’ he encouraged, all chocoholic again, spooning up his Paradise. ‘I was looking forward to a stroll this afternoon, but I’ve a feeling it’s looking a bit ominous out there, all of a sudden.’

She followed his gaze to the window, the gardens outside, and the rolling parkland beyond, in which the Waverley was set. It’d been bright and sunny before, but now clouds had rolled in. It wasn’t exactly dark, though, not yet.

Around John Smith, though, the sun still seemed to shine.

Why haven’t I told him?

Is this a date?

Are we going to do it outdoors?

Will it rain?

The questions clamoured in Lizzie’s brain as she hurried through the foyer from the ladies’ cloakroom, heading for the front entrance of the hotel. John had said he’d meet her outside, and she’d tried to be quick, but then got involved in all kinds of maintenance of her personal grooming, and checking, checking, double checking. Mainly that she had condoms aplenty in her bag, wet wipes, clean knickers. Her whore’s ‘kit’.

She slowed as she left the foyer, looking for him. What if he wasn’t there? He was entitled to change his mind; he was a punter, after all.

What if you just dreamed all this? It’s crazy enough.

But she spotted him, standing at the edge of the stone terrace, hands in the pockets of his blue jacket, gazing out over the long lawns beyond. She’d expected him to be lounging on one of the benches, Mr Relaxation, but he had a vaguely troubled expression on his face, a stare that seemed to suggest he was seeing more than the grass, the trees and the slightly questionable sky.

About to call out, she almost reeled back when he turned towards her, bright as the sun again on this suddenly overcast day. His smile was all welcome, and showed genuine pleasure at seeing her, as if he too had been wondering about his ‘date’ doing a runner.

Looking up at the clouds, as she drew close, he said, ‘I think we might be all right, don’t you? And a spot of rain never hurt anybody anyway. Shall we walk?’ He offered her his arm, in old-fashioned courtesy, and she took it gladly. Just touching him, even platonically, seemed to bestow a sense of equilibrium that she didn’t have in her normal life.

They fell into step, walking companionably towards what looked like the beginnings of a rambling path through a thick copse of trees. As they approached it, Lizzie wondered whether other lovers passed this way from time to time, looking for a change of scene from the Waverley’s cosy chintz and the classic claustrophobia of the hotel room.

When they reached the Rubicon between parkland and woods, John paused, unhooked her arm from his, and reached into his inner pocket. ‘Lest I forget, in the excitement.’ He drew out a chubby envelope and passed it to her.

Now, tell him now!

‘John, there’s something I really have to tell you.’ She fingered the envelope nervously. Goodness, it really was fat. How the hell much was there in it?

‘Uh oh, nothing serious right now, please.’ He frowned, the pleat of his brow exaggerating the few faint lines there. ‘I’m looking forward to a nice, healthy ramble and a bit of fun.’ He winked again, broadly this time, favouring her with his ‘Lothario from a sex farce’ look. ‘Know what I mean? Nudge, nudge . . .’

‘Yes, I do . . . but really . . .’

She stopped, silenced by his forefinger against her lips. ‘No . . . hush . . . Nothing heavy. I’m in charge here.’ His voice was a low purr now, silky but implacable. That master was suddenly before her. No arguments.

‘Yes. Yes, you are . . . I’m sorry.’

‘No need to apologise. Well, not yet.’ Before she could protest, he reached out and took her bag, opening it up and peering in.

Lizzie blushed. The knickers and the condoms were clearly visible, and John grinned, although he didn’t remark on them, simply taking the envelope from her, popping it inside, and fastening the clasp again before returning the bag to her.

‘There, that’s all sorted.’ He sounded pleased with himself as he took her by the hand and led her forward along the path.

They couldn’t walk abreast now, because the way was uneven, but his grip on her was sure and firm and she felt strangely safe, even though a man she barely knew was leading her into deep undergrowth, far from prying eyes. At either side of them, trees stood close together, old and well grown, and within moments there was no sight of the lawns and the hotel behind them. It was like being on an expedition, a trek into the unknown. Birds sang, and the branches around them sighed. Rustling and scuffling was more problematical, and she gripped on to John’s fingers more tightly, making him pause and turn towards her.

‘Not scared, are you? I don’t think there are any dangerous wild beasts around.’

‘Except you, Mr Smith.’

He grinned again. ‘Very true. Come on, just a bit further. I found a nice little trysting spot when I was out running this morning.’

Running, eh? She tried to imagine him pounding this path, wearing trainers and a vest and shorts. No wonder he was fit and powerful and lithe.

Pretty soon, they reached what must be the trysting spot, an open yet intimate clearing amongst the thick trees, where a single trunk had fallen, beside a small, weed-girt pond. It was mossy underfoot and, on a bright day, the sun would have shone down, illuminating the entire area, making it almost like a magical arena for activities sacred or carnal.

Immediately, John turned to her, took her bag from her shoulder and tossed it aside, onto the woodland floor. Grasping her in his arms, he brought his mouth down hard on hers, holding her body very tightly against his. As she wound her arms around him, opening her lips to let in his tongue, he gripped her bottom and pressed her pelvis to his.

God, he was hard. Really hard. As he savoured her mouth, tasting and jabbing with his tongue, he ground the iron-hard length of his cock against her belly.

‘That’s what I’ve been wanting to do since the moment you appeared in the dining room,’ he murmured against her neck, breaking for a moment to kiss the skin there too. ‘That and a whole lot more.’ His teeth grazed the skin beneath her ear. ‘All the time, I wanted to grab you, throw you on the table and play with you until climaxed . . . then stick my cock into you and fuck you until you screamed.’

Lizzie’s hips jerked, pressing her sex against his, against that cock she knew beyond doubt
could
make her scream with pleasure.