The Passionate Mistake

by Amelia Hart

  Her hands were clenched around the steering wheel and she relaxed them with an effort. What was she doing? What on earth was she doing?

  So self-destructive. So insane. But was she going to stop? No, never. Not until he made her. Not until he decided it was all over. Because there was no way she could make that decision. No way in hell.

  Chapter Sixteen

  They emailed again, long chatty letters debating, discussing, sharing, explaining and – not incidentally – exchanging sexual fantasies. Each night she lay awake, tossing and turning for a couple of hours before she finally fell asleep, so tempted to take him up on his invitation to visit.

  He was like a drug. She felt like she should hold back, for her own safety, in case over indulging made later withdrawal symptoms worse. But her willpower could only take so much. Wednesday night she cracked and decided she would sneak over.

  She waited for midnight, hoping an early riser like him would be soundly asleep by then, despite what he had once said about working until midnight.

  The streets were quiet. When she pulled up to his house the lights were out. Perfect.

  She had no intention of warning or waking him ahead of time. He’d be sure to meet her with the lights on, and what she wanted was to slip into a darkened room and pounce on a sleep-dazed man.

  It was a windy night, and the sound of leaves rustling as branches tossed in the wind covered the peeps of the access code. At least to her ears. She knew the double glazing inside made the house unnaturally silent. She took off her shoes by the door and crept over the soft carpet on tiptoe. There was bright moonlight shining in through the windows, and when she reached the door of Mike’s bedroom she bit her lip as she saw the pale light splashed right across the bed. That was completely hopeless. She’d have to close the curtains. But first she shut the door, stripped off her shorts, T-shirt and underwear, leaving them in a heap right next to the doorway where she could find them easily again in the darkness, and stealthily switched off the two bedside lamps at the wall.

  The curtains she closed in one swift jerk, deciding better to make a noisy ‘whoosh’ and plunge the room into blackness than try to be quiet about it and risk him waking anyway while there was still light to see her.

  “H’lo?” came the husky utterance from the bed.

  She moved quickly in the dark, fetching up against the edge of the mattress, pulling back the covers and sliding in.

  “What kind of a hotel is this?” she scolded. “There seems to be a man in my bed!”

  “What? Kate?”

  “This is outrageous. I shall have to complain to management. One can’t have strange men climbing into bed with one. You must get out. Oooo,” she had put on hand on his shoulder and now she pretended to feel it in assessment. “Ooo, you’re very big,” she cooed. “Mmmm. Impressive.” She stroked the hand over his pectorals, down his abdomen. “Maybe I was a bit hasty. Maybe you could stay a little longer.” She heard a quiet sound that might have been a stifled chuckle.

  Her hand discovered and wrapped around a truly stellar erection. “Oooo!” she breathed, the surprise in her exclamation only half pretend. Apparently even mostly asleep Mike was very quick on the uptake.

  “Oo, indeed. Think you could find somewhere to put that?” he asked, husky and compliant.

  “I think I might possibly have somewhere it fits. Somewhere around here.” She grasped his hand and pulled it down between her legs. “See if you can locate it.”

  He stroked and rubbed, his knowing fingers parting her and sliding easily inside where she was already wet. She gasped and moaned. Oh, he was very quick on the uptake. “Yes,” she sighed.

  “Was that a ‘yes’, then? Am I on the right track? I don’t want to get it wrong, you know.”

  “Good. Good. I won’t stand for you making mistakes of course. You . . . oh,” she lost her train of thought, hanging on to his shoulder and torso for stability as she quaked.

  “No mistakes,” he repeated obediently.

  “No. No. Quite. You’re on sufferance here. You have to . . . to be . . . be of service. Oh!” She finished on a stifled gasp as he shifted his pelvis across the bed to where she lay on her side facing him and lifted her thigh to his hip so the tip of his cock joined his fingers in touching her, stroking her, its blunt end hard and insistent.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t quite catch that,” he murmured.

  “Carry on. Carry on. You seem to have got the gist . . . hmmm.” He nudged forward another couple of inches, stretching her as he slid inside. His fingers strummed her clit lightly, slick and wonderful. Her leg was draped over his hip, heel against the back of his thigh. She used it to urge him further into her, crowding his fingers but not quite squeezing them out.

  She pulled his head down to hers, kissing him wetly, hotly, her tongue sliding over his. He rolled them both so she was under him, his broad shoulders only faintly outlined in the dark, his weight bearing down to press her deliciously into the bed.

  “Satisfaction is your destination,” he intoned, sounding like a holiday advertisement, and she giggled, tilting her hips to just the right angle as he slid fully home.

  Those were the last words between them as he exerted himself to please her, as if truly determined to make her glad she had come to visit. And she was. She was.

  Through climax after climax she moaned and sighed and shuddered, dominated by his knowledge and enthusiasm. As she heard his breathing quicken, his thrusts turning urgent and driving, she knew he neared his own crisis and she urged him on with her hands on his buttocks, lifting to meet him, enjoying as always the faintly ragged rhythm when he let go of his control in the rush to orgasm.

  As he stiffened and cried out hoarsely, pumping into her, she smiled in satisfaction, her arms going round him to gather him close. She liked his full weight on her for this long moment, as he shuddered and breathed hard, spent.

  She fought sleep as it came nearer, seeking to roll her into oblivion. She couldn’t let go. No tonight. She must stay alert. He rolled to one side, snuggled her close, her head against his collarbone, nestled under his chin. She blinked into the darkness, forcing her eyes wide open, struggling to stay conscious, struggling against tiredness from her late nights, the broken sleep of the weekend. Struggling . . . and losing, as that soft tide took her.

  She woke with a jerk, half-covered by the sheet, his hand warm on her hip. She was facing away from him. In front of her eyes the details of the room were perfectly clear in the morning light stealing around the curtains.

  A rush of adrenaline hit, and with a trembling hand she lifted his wrist, lay it down on the bed behind her, pushed up and away from the mattress and eased her feet to the floor. He took a deep breath and rolled to his back, his arms going above his head in a stretch, and she fled, grabbing her heap of clothes and leaving the door standing open. At the front door she took ten seconds to fling on shirt and shorts, disregarding underwear, opened the door, closed it behind her with only a small bang, and ran for her car.

  The engine turned over without starting the first time she tried, and she thought her heart would stop. Flat battery? Please no! But it caught the second time, purred into life, and she drove away with her pulse racing.

  Had she managed it? Had she got out of his room before he opened his eyes and saw her looking like Cathy, not Kate? She thought so. That had been much too close. Too dangerous. She mustn’t take risks like that again. She couldn’t see him until the weekend. No matter what the temptation.

  At a traffic light she rested her head on the steering wheel, sighed with the come down from the adrenaline spike, still shaking. Life had certainly got much more exciting in the past couple of months. Maybe she should take up meditation. Or otherwise she might just go crazy.

  Mike was very cheerful at work that day. When Hamish said, “Good morning, Mike,” to him, he responded: “The best of mornings, Hamish!” and strode away whistling.

  Hamish stared after him speculatively.

 
“What do you reckon someone got lucky last night?” he said aloud. Kate was the only one within earshot, so she assumed he was talking to her, but she said nothing, just lowering her blushing face towards the keyboard so all he could see was the top of her head, and typing a jumble of furious keystrokes.

  That weekend she drove straight to his house rather than waste time with a restaurant meal. She didn’t presume to let herself in, knocking instead, and he opened the door with his usual glad smile, folding her into a warm hug that quickly became a passionate embrace.

  Lying on the floor on a heap of crumpled clothes a few minutes later, she raised a languid hand to push the tumbled hair out of her eyes. “Well, she said breathlessly, “It’s nice to see you too.”

  He reared back on his elbows, looking contrite, though the pulsing deep within her told another story.

  “What can I say?” he said, shaking his head. “There’s something about you that just . . . I’m a caveman. I really am. Sorry.”

  “Did I ask for an apology?”

  “Not exactly, but-”

  “So there’s no need to apologize. I’m perfectly happy; if a little squashed.”

  “Sorry again.” He levered himself off her and stood, offering her a hand then stooping to pick up and give her her sundress sheepishly. She took it and slid it over her head, smoothing the crushed fabric with resignation.

  “Don’t sweat it. I like it. I like you, Mike Summers.” She said it straight out on an impulse, boldly, as if she wasn’t cringing inside to hand him that piece of power over her. Forcing herself to be as brave and open as he was. Immediately his eyes warmed, crinkling up around the edges.

  “I like you too,” he said without hesitation, as if the words had been right there waiting for her permission to say. Maybe they had. Maybe he read her skittishness and odd tensions better than she knew and had come to his own conclusions about the cause.

  Before she could bury herself in her inner turmoil he tugged on his own shorts and gathered up the rest of his clothes, carrying them in one lax hand into the lounge, asking her about her week, her latest adventures.

  It was hard to think what she could tell him, given she had spent the week working in his company and her evenings mostly mooning about him, so she said something vague and turned the question back onto him. Within minutes they were chatting freely as if they had never been apart, his beckoning gesture welcoming her to join him on the long couch. When she sat against him he scooped her in close and nuzzled the back of her neck. She heard him take a deep breath through his nose and wondered if he enjoyed the smell of her as much as she liked his scent.

  “So, what would you like to do today?” he asked, playing with the fine hair at the nape of her neck and making her shudder with the tingles that ran down her spine.

  “Ooo. Um . . . I don’t have any particular agenda. We could watch a movie?”

  “We could, but it’s a beautiful day. Seems a pity to waste it.”

  “That’s true. You know I can’t think when you do that.”

  “Sorry.” He took her hand and started sucking her fingers. She watched him, fascinated, as heat started to curl in her stomach. After a mesmerized minute she said: “That’s not any better, you know.” He grinned at her, unrepentant.

  “We could cook together,” he offered. “I could teach you how to make at least one decent meal for yourself. We could call it basic survival training.”

  “No, basic survival training is a lesson on how to use a mobile. Which I mastered a long time ago,” she said with a superior air. “A takeaway delivery is only seven keystrokes away.”

  “Hopeless,” he said indulgently.

  “Completely. But hey, we could make some biscuits.”

  “Biscuits?” he repeated, brows drawing together slightly.

  “You’ve heard of those, surely? They involve some flour and some sugar and some butter and I don’t know what else, and you bake them and they’re sweet.”

  “But not exactly a healthy choice.”

  “Oh come on. You don’t have to be virtuous all the time. Surely you sin every once in a while, Mister Perfect?”

  “There’s no nutrition in a biscuit. It’s just empty calories.”

  “As if you have to worry about calories,” she said, rolling her eyes towards his trim figure.

  “That’s not exactly the point.”

  “I feel like eating biscuits. I would love to eat some biscuits. Would you make me some biscuits? Pleeeese?” She batted her eyelashes at him, reverting to girlishness on the strength of vaguely remembered and similar conversations with her mother.

  He propped his free hand on his hip.

  “Only if you help,” he declared with some asperity, obviously doubting her commitment to the cause.

  But she was quite prepared to share the task so long as she wasn’t alone with the intimidation of his gleaming kitchen full of all its techno whiz gadgets. “You got a deal, handsome,” she said, patting him on the knee then giving him a fondle for good measure, giggling as she dodged the hands that immediately moved to take advantage of her own proximity.

  “No, none of that. Biscuits!” she said, leaping to her feet and dancing out of reach. “What do you want me to do?”

  He sighed in resignation, followed her to the kitchen and went to his small collection of cookbooks. Most of his recipes came straight out of his head, but, “Baking is a science. We need a precise recipe. What do you want to make, exactly?” He put two books on the counter, and gestured that she should pick something from one of them.

  The Joy of Baking and the Edmonds Cookbook. She eyed them uneasily and made no move. “I don’t know. Something simple. You choose?”

  He sighed again and stepped forward to begin flicking through the Edmonds Cookbook. “Afghans? Anzacs? Gingernuts? Peanut Brownies?”

  “Not crispy. Decadent.”

  “Custard Kisses? Melting Moments?”

  “Oh yes! Melting Moments!” That was a name she remembered from years ago.

  “I don’t know if I’ve got icing sugar,” he said, going off to rummage in a store cupboard and eventually emerging with a small bag he emptied into a measuring cup. “A little scant, but it will do. All right then. Biscuits.” He slapped his hands together and rubbed them, getting into the spirit of things.

  “Melting Moments!” she declared happily, enjoying the way it sounded.

  “Melting Moments,” he agreed.

  They measured and mixed, squabbled over quantities as they adjusted for the small quantity of icing sugar, and laughed and dusted cornflour over each other. He bossed her around, insisting she cream the butter and sugar until it was lighter and fluffier.

  “More! More,” he said, “or they’ll be Leaden Moments.”

  “Steel-Toed Moments.”

  “Granite Moments.”

  They debated over the exact size of the ‘large marbles’ the recipe book described, eventually rolling a range of sizes, his smooth, hers more lumpy and misshapen.

  “Mangled Moments,” he said, looking down his nose.

  “Monet’s Moments,” she defended, and when he looked puzzled, she clarified: “You know. Impressionistic.”

  “Marginal Moments.”

  She fetched a fork, floured it and – as the recipe specified, flattened one each of her and his ‘marbles’, after which they looked approximately the same.

  “Matching Moments,” she said in triumph. He harrumphed. She squashed a few more and then he joined her until they all wore impressions from the tines of the forks.

  While the biscuits were baking the two of them sat together on the tiled floor, gazing at them through the oven door. He held her hand and played gently with her fingers.

  “I haven’t baked anything since mum died,” she said. He stilled for a moment, then resumed his absentminded caress. “She loved baking things. There were always tins full of stuff. Cakes, biscuits, slices and crackers. I always took it for granted. As you do, when you’re just a kid. To me
, packet biscuits seemed like the treat. They came covered in chocolate and so on. Mum’s were always there. You could depend on them. The tin was never empty. And then she died, and after that it was always empty.”

  “My mum has always said baking for your kids is like mixing up a whole lot of smiles,” he said. “You make them, and hand them out, and with every one there comes a smile. Or when she put something baked into our lunchboxes she’d tell us: ‘I’ve put some kisses in your lunch box,’ and we knew that meant there was some sweet treat in there for us. Sometimes I’d look right away, so I could look forward to eating it at morning tea time. And sometimes I’d save the surprise. I go to visit her now and she’s all about vege stir fries and soups and lentil this and bean burger that and tofu the other thing. Working hard to keep herself and dad young forever.”

  “Which would you be? If you were the parent, would you hand out biscuits or tofu?”

  “I’d like to say it would be health food all the way, but . . . well. When you love people you do tend to indulge them. Even if it’s bad for them.” He spoke lightly, as if his words carried no weight. To her they seemed very meaningful, though she hadn’t quite tracked down the specific impression she had received before he started sucking on her fingers again, and distracted her totally.

  “Mmm. You’re all sweet,” he said.

  “Can’t say I hear that a lot.”

  “But you are. You’re sweet. You’re just slow to warm up.”

  “O ho!” she said with heavy irony, recalling her unabashed seduction of him. “Slow to warm up, is it?”

  “You know what I mean. There’s a big difference between being blazing hot – which you most surely are – and being tender and vulnerable. But underneath all this savvy, tough girl exterior you’re just a real sweetheart.” He punctuated his statement with a kiss on her nose, and she smelt the scent of sugar on his breath.