The Accidental Call Girl (24 page)

‘Um . . . yes, I think so, but I can’t remember what about,’ she lied, unsettled because he seemed unsettled too. Turning, she glanced out of the window and saw they were driving over a bridge across a familiar deep valley towards the centre of a fine old town. It was their destination, a seaside resort she was fairly familiar with from holidays and day trips.

‘We’re here, by the looks of it.’ She turned back to John, who was fussing with papers, shutting down his laptop, preparing for arrival. He was frowning. ‘Are
you
all right?’

He gave her a sharp look, then his face relaxed, and he smiled. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Just that you seemed a bit on edge, and you’re not usually like that.’

‘It’s just business. Thinking about the deal ahead. I’m determined to get this hotel because I couldn’t get the Waverley. Well, I want the chain, really, but I want it at my price.’

It seemed odd to be with John, the man of business, when up until now, he’d been John the sensualist, John the lover, John the effortlessly thrilling dominant. She’d no doubt he was as amazing in the boardroom as he was in the bedroom, though.

‘Are you mega rich?’ she asked, observing their progress through the finer, more exclusive area of the resort, the end of town she’d not much frequented on her previous visits. With Brent and Shelley, and sometimes a few of the pub chums, it had always been the touristy haunts they’d frequented. Fish and chips on the front; cheap shared flats; Kiss Me Quick hats, worn ironically. With her parents, it had been more traditional, very old-fashioned holidays, spent in genteel buttoned-up boarding houses, a bit stuffy but not entirely without their charm.

‘Fairly,’ replied John as the limousine pulled into the semi-circular driveway of one of the town’s handful of five-star hotels. ‘It’s taken me some years to get quite to this level, but yes, I’m a very rich man.’

‘A self-made billionaire?’

He laughed. ‘They’re very fashionable, aren’t they?’ He gave her a wink, as the car started to slow. ‘Not sure if I’m actually a billionaire, though. I’m thereabouts. I have a very good few millions, and I’m sort of self-made.’

‘What does that mean?’ Still watching him obliquely, Lizzie cast about for her bag, and found it half-kicked beneath the seat. Had she been thrashing about in her weird white dream?

‘It means that I generated the majority of my fortune myself, but that, originally, somebody else bankrolled me.’ He gave her one of his tricky, edgy little smiles, full of irony, but she knew not about what. ‘I earned that money too, but in a different way.’

‘What way?’ she demanded, snatching up her jacket and her bag as the passenger door clicked smoothly open, revealing Jeffrey ready to assist her from the car.

For a few moments they were caught up with porters and instructions about luggage. ‘What way?’ she repeated as they strode through the foyer together. It felt like the arrival of some visiting king or maharajah. She half expected low bows and the doffing of caps. It didn’t quite get to that, but it must have looked like the arrival of some kind of royalty because other guests in the foyer glanced around, or looked up from what they were doing, as if drawn by some silent wave of glamour that emanated from John and washed over them.

His arm on her elbow, he leant close without breaking stride, and whispered in her ear. ‘I’ll tell you all about it later . . . but let’s say that you’re not exactly the only one here who’s been handsomely paid as an escort.’

Without the warm touch of John’s fingers sustaining her, Lizzie might have stumbled, but because he was there, and she didn’t want to spoil the effect the pair of them were having, she kept it together, and maintained her poise throughout the effusive greetings, at the reception desk, from what seemed like all the hotel’s senior management.

John was treated like a god, and that deference extended to her too. It was hard not to giggle though when he introduced her as his companion, ‘Miss Page’. She realised that he’d never actually enquired after her second name, and she’d never given one, sticking to ‘Bettie’, so it tickled her that he smoothly extemporised with the surname of the more legendary ‘Bettie’. The younger members of the greetings party didn’t seem to think there was anything out of the ordinary, but one of the more senior looking fellows, a polished looking guy with twinkle in his eye, seemed to smile to himself, and take a closer look at her, clearly taking in the classic styling of her shoulder-length black hair, and the vintage dress and jacket she had on.

Their regal progress continued as the manager escorted them in the lift, to their suite. The pleasantries floated over Lizzie’s head as she examined the import of John’s ‘escort’ remark. Somewhere, somehow, he’d had sex for money too. But not as a working boy, surely?

He’d been married, though, hadn’t he? Details on Wikipedia had been lean, and she reminded herself that she’d not followed links to find out more about his wife, for very feminine reasons. She hadn’t wanted to think about that marriage, even though she’d only be in John’s life for a few more days. It was just the way she always was with film stars she fancied, and her other crushes. If she didn’t think about their romantic entanglements, they didn’t exist. They could still be ‘hers’.

But now, she knew she would have to get over that, and either ask him about his wife, or find out for herself. Even if it hurt.

Their suite was sumptuous, enormous, the best in the hotel, naturally, and a universe away from the comfortable, cosy kitsch of the Waverley. With spacious separate bedrooms, and en-suites for each of them, it was an ocean liner of cream and powder blue, and the shared sitting room had more floor-space than all the rooms in the house she lived in stitched together. But of the two hotels, she would choose the Waverley, for preference. She’d always choose it . . . It was the place where she’d first fucked the man she loved.

Oh hell!

Sharply, she glanced across the room. It was absurd. He couldn’t read her mind, yet somehow, he was looking at her, a furrow on his brow as if he
could
.

‘It’s gorgeous. You should definitely buy it. I think I like the Waverley better, though,’ she babbled, turning away.

‘It is. I will. And I agree,’ he said, crossing the room to her, and grasping her by the upper arms, so he could look down into her face. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine . . . just in a new place, that’s all. That was . . . um . . . an interesting journey. Usually, when I come to the seaside, I’m all squished up on a train, and it’s a bacon sandwich and a magazine to read. It’s not quite as eventful.’

‘Even with Brent?’

It was her turn to frown. What on earth did he mean by that?

‘Of course. I explained to you. He and I are just friends. We have been for a long time. Long before we were a couple. And I hope we always will be.’

His blue eyes searched her face. His brow cleared. ‘Yes, it’s good to have friends.’

Do you have any?

Slowly, he kissed her, as if savouring her, trying to print the taste of her on his memory. Loving the touch of his lips, she tried to imagine his life. Travelling from one deal to another, in limousines or jets, confronting men like himself over polished tables covered in reports. Women in hotel rooms, for a few hours. Was he lonely?

‘Do you remember what you promised, in return for that story?’ he asked as he lifted his mouth from hers.

‘Indeed I do . . . but have you time? They seem to be expecting you for a power lunch.’ Despite her words, she moved against him, pressing herself against his crotch. He was erect, of course. A man of forty-six, he still had the wellspring response of a male half his age.

‘There’s always time.’ Behind her back, he was at work, plucking at her skirt and petticoats, pulling them up. Holding the bunched fabric with one hand, he explored her naked buttocks with the other, fingertips palpating her flesh.

Lizzie squirmed. The contact was light, but incendiary. Everything John did to her moved her out of all proportion. His erection was like a fulcrum on which she turned, and she buried her face against his shoulder, to hide her face, afraid it would betray more than lust for him.

‘I love your body. I love the way you move,’ he murmured, gripping her bottom cheek firmly, almost pinching. ‘I love that you don’t fake anything.’

‘What if I’m just a very good actress?’ she said, the words muffled against the fine cloth of his suit. Escorts
were
good actresses, wasn’t that what the media said? Although it wasn’t desire that she was falsifying, just the sudden, profound depth of her feelings that she was masking. Or trying to.

‘Your pussy doesn’t lie.’ His fingers dipped into her cleft from behind. She was simmering wet, and they slid in the abundant moisture.

Unable to speak, she rocked against him, sometimes rubbing his cock with her belly, sometimes trying to ride his probing fingers. The angle was awkward, though. He couldn’t exert the pressure she hungered for, on her clit. Her arm still around his waist, she used her other hand to drag at her clothing, this time pulling her skirt up at the front, so she could wriggle her own hand between their bodies and touch herself. Her fingertips knocked against John’s in her cleft.

‘Yes, that’s it . . .’ he breathed, ‘touch yourself . . . bring yourself off while I slap your bottom. Do it, Bettie, do it!’

Gasping, she flicked her clit, anxious to centre on herself before the spanks began. He seemed to pause, as if waiting for her to find a rhythm, then withdrew his hand.

Touching herself, stroking herself with him so close felt like him doing it. His gorgeous spicy cologne filled her brain, his presence every part of her body. He was fine and strong against her as she started to rub herself.

His hand was hard and hot like a thunderclap of fire as he struck her bottom.

It wasn’t actually a heavy blow. Holding her, he wasn’t able to swing his arm. But it impacted more in her mind, and between her legs, than on her arse. Sensations spun around, winding about her clit and her fingers. She wasn’t sure if it was pleasure, pain, yearning, exultation or desperation. She rocked against her own hand, pressing it and herself against him, still feeling him hard, against the back of her wrist now.

He slapped her again and again and again. The impact fused with her own ministrations. She was almost there, on the very brink but still awhirl, still confused. And he seemed to sense it.

‘Come!’ he commanded, his voice velvet fierce as his hand landed in another lazy slap, angled to jolt her finger and make it the agent of
his
caress. ‘Come now, Bettie, now!’

It happened. Her vagina clenched hard, exquisite sensation bloomed, her knees went weak. John held her close, clasping her sizzling bottom cheek now, not spanking it. Keeping her tight against him as she rode the shattering wave.

Limp, she slumped, knowing she was safe and he would hold her up. He didn’t even let her sway, but just supported her, his body sure against hers.

His cock was still hard.

Starting to surface, Bettie nuzzled him like a kitten. Her smacked bottom was hot, but as full perception returned to her, she knew it was just a mild sensation, and would be gone soon. The blows had been light, their impact falling more in the imagination than in reality.

But the erection against her belly certainly wasn’t imaginary, and something would have to be done with it if he were to attend his meeting . . . and rule it.

She smiled, feeling excited and exhilarated. He’d wielded power over her, and he would in the boardroom, but it was as if he had so much that it had leeched into her too, by osmosis. She straightened in his hold, and pushed away, hands on his chest. There was surprise in his face, but he let her go.

‘Bettie!’

There was a pure astonishment in his voice as she sank to her knees, reaching for his belt as she descended.

‘Bettie, you don’t have to do this. I don’t expect anything.’

Smiling, she stared up at him, attempting to compel him with her eyes, the way he so easily did her. ‘Shut up, John. I don’t care what you expect. This is what you’re going to have.’ Still making him look at her, she unfastened his belt, then his trousers, and pushed down his shorts.

The desire to laugh welled up in her, but she contained it, even though she didn’t know which was most amusing: the way his cock sprang up, hard and reddened in front of her face, or the expression of pure, flabbergasted astonishment on his face. He looked like a thunderstruck angel with a massive hard-on . . . adorable.

She plunged her mouth over his glans and began to suck like fury.

‘Oh, Jesus God, Bettie, please.’

His hands were in her hair, and she could sense his ambivalence. At first, he still seemed to be trying to prise her off him, and yet somehow he was holding her there at the same time.

‘Bettie . . . this isn’t . . . oh!’ His voice rose as she jabbed her tongue into the groove beneath the head of his cock, making his hips jolt.

For a moment, she released him and gave him a fierce look. ‘Just shut up and enjoy yourself.’ Before he had time to respond, she caught him again, and sucked even harder, flicking him with her tongue at the same time. Punishing him with her mouth, she pushed and scrabbled at his clothing so she could stroke his bottom at the same time, and tease his anus.

When she pushed her finger there, he cursed a blue stream, jerked his hips . . . and flooded her mouth with a jet of his come.

‘You could come to lunch with us, if you like? You’re an honoured guest here, just as much as me.’

John straightened his tie, emerging from the bathroom. He’d taken a quick shower, and changed his suit. He was wearing a very dark blue one, navy almost, with a fine chalk stripe. He looked all business now, a prince of commerce. It was hard to imagine him shouting profanities as he filled her mouth with semen.

Well, maybe it wasn’t too much of a stretch, but still.

‘Thank you for the invitation and, much as I’d love to see you doing your tycoon thing, I wouldn’t want to prove a distraction to you and bollocks up your deal.’