by Judy Jarvie
“And what if I want you to spank me?”
“Good. We’ll both be happy. I want to spank you and I want you to like it and loathe it.”
In a jiffy he’s propelled me onto his knee and he’s spanking me like a good-un. And no, this is no Guy with the Silver Tie tame spanking for senior citizens showcase. This is full-on slapping my behind and each time gets harder. Trouble is, I’m laughing hard and squealing and turned on all at the same time. Wowzer—who knew?
“A photo from the web hardly deserves extreme vibrato smacking on the behind.”
“Don’t play with fire, Izzy Tennant. From now on overstepping warrants penalties. You will be disciplined. Especially since I’m your mentor. And especially since I know you like some hanky spanky.”
I turn and grin over my shoulder. “More please.”
But instead he caresses my buttocks and he teases me with his fingers—dipping back to the place he licked so very well.
“You like this more.”
Oh God. I can feel my heightened state already and all he’s done is touch me once. But even that touch of fingers over my folds, forward, back, in slightly and out has me ready for a full-on straddle and mount.
“Will…”
“Yes, darling. But you should call me Sir, remember? Don’t slip up or there will be repercussions.”
Shit, did he call me darling?
“Sir. Don’t play with fire. When my backside gets it, I turn decidedly frisky.”
“Oh. But frisky fire is exactly what I like.”
He stops that tormenting finger as abruptly as the spanking had started.
“Let’s leave you panting for more, shall we? I find that has greatest impact and I’m all for raising the stakes. I want to leave you feeling like you’ve been hit by a train. In the nicest way.”
I’m peeved. My clitoris has woken up again and now he’s asking me to cancel the party and force her feather boa back in its box. No way!
“No, Sir. I promise to do better.” Wow. He made that sound as if this could be a regular gig. And now that my vagina’s ready to do the lambada, it’s having a minor strop in the corner that he’s stopped. Will that be it? Or will this be a regular tryst arrangement? How do I feel about that? Um… Going by the way my body feels, I’d love it!
“I want you down there again…” I admit. Hell, my cheeks are flaming—both bottom and top—and I don’t care. I’d rather be honest and blunt than left moist and panting.
“Good. Glad to hear it. But time isn’t on our side… I need a shower too. Keep your desire warm and willing for me. I’ll make it worth your while when I get back.”
Now back to the pronounced shaft that’s pressing against my upper thigh as I sit on him. “How do I say this…but…I’d quite like to make you feel good too? And there’s something here that says it’s not ready to take no for an answer.”
“I meant what I said about limits.” His gaze is firm and there’s a glint of threat. “As gorgeous as you are, I do have to go to school now.”
“With a hard-on? That could involve a night in the cells later.”
“I’ll take care of it. Work comes first.”
“Work certainly comes before Will. Which makes Will a very dull boy in my book.”
He replies, “We could revisit if you promise to stay the night?”
I don’t answer. I’m pretty shocked at this little turn-up for the books. “You want me to stay?”
“Oh, I want you all right. Tip…of…the…ruddy…iceberg, Tennant. Bet your life on it! I want you every which way I can get you.”
I watch Will pull on his shirt, then he takes me by the hand and leads me out of our pantry of passion.
This man who’s so ably turned our brief acquaintance into private lessons in sex has turned my world on its head yet acts like it’s all so easy, breezy business as usual.
“I’ll report back after calling into school. You’ll be here when I get back, won’t you?” Will asks. “We’ll go to bed. Then I’ll cook dinner tonight. For now I must go change.” He bends and kisses me softly on the forehead.
He disappears and I’m left to scan the palatial abode that is his home. But when Will returns in a fresh change of tracksuit and running shoes, he blows me sideways.
“Don’t leave. Or do anything exciting without me,” he warns. “Don’t answer the door. Or the phone. But stay here and wait for me to come back and pamper you! And most of all…”
“What?”
“Don’t you dare shave your bush. I like it that way. I suspect you’ll go all coy and manic with the shaving gel and razor. I like it the way it is. In fact… I love it. It’s perfect.”
Fuck.
And how did he read my mind? I’d never have dreamed of getting the jiggy on without a full body depilation session. But it seems he likes me warm and fuzzy.
“Can’t I shave my legs?”
“Only legs. That delight between your legs is all mine. And I like it perfectly formed the way I found it.”
F.U.C.K.
I do want to stay. And I want my private terrain between my legs to be his. And what the fuck have I turned into? I nod and wink at him.
“Consider it pass code protected in the name of Will.”
He laughs loudly and my womb tremors in delight at that. “You are the woman of my most scandalized dreams.” He blows me a kiss then departs. The door clicks and he’s gone. Damn, that man is good!
“I can’t believe I am doing this!” I say softly to myself. I think I might have slipped into somebody else’s life by mistake—but hell, fuck, bugger, I don’t intend ever giving it back when it feels this good.
* * * *
I stand at the hallway window, watching the deer on the outskirts of the grounds of Hangley Grange. I know how they feel—skittish, afraid, bewildered.
How will we hide our thing? Do we even have a thing? What’s with his ‘don’t touch me yet’ shit? I haven’t even felt his thing. Oh, so many thing issues. Can we keep such a big secret?
I still can’t believe I’ve let rash lust and hormones have free rein. The sublime echoes of Will linger on me like a favorite scent. But it’s a scary, dark parfum with an imperative secret under note.
In two days my world has been hijacked. By a man who’s intent on making me come and hiding his own stash of goods. But the sex is fantastic!
I mosey round the rooms and end up in the lounge. The cinema TV screen’s so wide and there’s a load of newspapers across the sofa. I pick up a couple to take them back to bed and something I see stalls me like a ghost sighting.
It’s Janey. On the cover of a tabloid daily newspaper. Fuck.
She’s with Ben Lindhurst but the words aren’t as flattering as her picture. “Football Ace’s Knockout Lady Has a Shady Sexy Secret,” reads the headline.
My pulse shoots off at knots and I know I have to do something. I’d call her but I don’t even know where my phone or handbag are. And the former is likely out of charge. Nor do I know how to lock the door. But I’m at the landline phone and I’m calling Mo because I have her shop phone number memorized. We’ll work the lock out later. Janey needs us.
I have to go. My friend’s in jeopardy. As much as I don’t want to walk out on what’s happened with Will, my friends’ needs come first.
Chapter Nine
Mo answers my summons without delay or comment. It’s only when I’d called her that I’d realized I don’t know where Hangley Grange is. I left it to Mo and Google Maps to find out and she arrived twenty minutes later. She’s shouting swearwords into the security entry phone by the time I work out how to open it.
“You took your time answering! Effin’ hell, Iz. Just look at this gaff,” she says, slamming her car door.
I know it’s grand. But I’m only appreciating a tiny inch of how palatial it is myself given that I’ve spent most of my time here in bed, in one way or another. But I’m not telling Mo that.
“How did you end up ’ere?”
; “I was ill and a shining knight helped me.”
“Rich bloody knight. It’s like an effin’ safari park. Has he got a woman? Is he lookin’ for applicants?”
“I’ll ask when I see him.”
“Tell him I’d give him free chocolate for life.”
Admittedly her tiny, battered Fiat 500 looks humorous in the driveway fit for a palatial Dorne set from Game of Thrones. But this is no time for comparisons. “Give me your phone. Mine’s kaput and this call’s urgent.”
“I need to leave,” I say to Will, on the number he’d left in the kitchen, as soon as I’m through. “How do I set the locks and shut the door? Must go. My pal Mo’s here and she’s going to drive me.”
“Sure you’re well enough?”
“Yes. This is a big problem. It needs sorting.”
“Let it lock on double bolt. I’ll get the property maintenance company to set the alarm. If you don’t mind hanging on for twenty minutes, they’ll sort it before you leave.” Will’s voice is all serious school master, so I can tell he’s occupied with people waiting for him to put the phone down. I’d smile if I wasn’t stressed.
“Tell them it’s your mad wife. I’ve escaped from the attic and I’m boiling the pot-bellied pigs.”
Come to think of it, he’d make a wonderful Mr. Rochester. He’s that kind of magical mix of dark and changeful grumpy bastard and super stud hunk. He also has strange secrets about nobody touching or getting access to his member. Shit. Why do I keep coming back to that?
“Thank you for your suggestion.” I can almost hear his teeth grinding and the image of that flexed jaw is so worth it.
“Later then, Mr. Stroppy.” With that, our conversation’s over.
No ‘Hi, how are you?’ No chitchat in the aftermath of his orgasm mastery. No friendly, brief banter. Just terse instructions. But right now Janey needs me more.
“Do we have to go?” Mo whines at me. “I’d give both my legs for a tour. It’s effin’ amazeballs.”
“Be sensible, Morag!” She hates it when I call her that.
Mo pulls a face. “You can’t call me here then not let me see. I want to look. I want to do cartwheels over the lawns and snoop through cupboards!”
“You have thirty minutes. Knock yourself out.”
As we leave, I put the offending newspaper article into Mo’s hands. “Take me to Janey’s. That needs fixing.”
Mo reads, “‘Teacher Janey by day. Pole dancing vamp by night. For demure-looking special needs teacher Janey Woodside sidelines as a pole dancing pro. Her sexy tricks are some of her many charms. And it’s her asset-showing moves that have Ben Lindhurst hooked! Close friends say Ben’s talking long-term futures.’ Effin’ hell on a fire-spitting Harley!”
I urge Mo to stop talking and get driving.
The action squad are on the case. From wrist-bound sex to S.O.S. Today I’m covering it all.
* * * *
“You look better than when I last saw you,” Janey tells me as we hug. She’s remarkably chipper for somebody whose life’s been tabloid-marauded. No sign of tears and she’s acting like her usual happy self.
“Thanks for sending me stuff. You’re a rock.”
“Ben, meet Izzy and Mo, my friends,” Janey says and we all shake hands and exchange ‘pleased to meet yous’ with the global football icon that is Ben Lindhurst. He’s handsome. And he has a nice vibe, as far as it’s possible to know.
“Didn’t you go to work?” I ask, fearing Janey’s hiding from the world now that she’s tabloid fodder.
“I had a dentist appointment this afternoon and Ben took me. Ben’s staying over. He’s cooking dinner tonight. Why?”
Janey’s golden, light-filled sunroom is decorated like a cream-themed film set fit for a princess to preside in. Bronzed, virile and dressed in neutral loungewear, Ben is the latest accessory to complement her perfectly executed tableau.
But while Mo and I are hyped and stressed about things, we’ve walked into serenity corner. Scented candles flicker, lilies stand in a gleaming vase. Tinkly spa music drifts on repeat. Ben’s outfit goes with Janey’s cream linen shirt and palazzo pants. It’s as if they’ve walked out of a catalog shoot. Um, where’s the drama? WTF? Why isn’t Janey in floods of tears?
I hold up the newspaper. “Have you seen this?”
We watch as they smile and blow tiny kisses to each other. If I hadn’t been so ill, this act may well have challenged my stomach’s fortitude.
I reach over and hand Janey the article, guilt stabbing me for shattering this little nook of Namaste.
She dismisses it with a hand wave. “We’ve heard about it from Ben’s agent.”
“It’s kinda bad,” I say.
“It’s toxic, Izzy. By absorbing the story, I’ll be contaminating my mind.”
“She’s right, ladies. Tomorrow it’ll be another headline. Another story. We must rise above the frequency of drama,” Ben advises.
I’m pausing here. This isn’t the Janey I know. She has been known to like Pilates and occasional yoga classes. She enjoys a trip into a hippie shop for the odd CD. She usually likes a good random wallow in the fountain of drama like the rest of us, however. Usually.
Am I wrong in thinking she’s somehow swum a good stretch farther into the New Age lake of mystical mellowness than we’ve realized? I’m thinking Ben’s big when it comes to vibes.
“So you don’t care?”
“No.”
I watch him with a pinch of worried wary. “It’s patently untrue. But Rogerson might get concerned when he sees it. Did you talk to him about it yet?”
“I have. It’s cool.”
“So he knows the story is lies? How did they get a pic of you coming out of a pole dancing club anyway?”
Janey stares at Ben. Ben stares calmly back.
Their serenity reminds me of the big Buddha statue on a lotus flower at the local museum. “I am a pole dancer. I don’t perform—I teach. Rogerson was shocked. But it’s not a problem. He won’t sack me. I’ve agreed to help with the BBC filming project.”
Mo and I are staring, our jaws dropped lower than low. “You pole dance? You’ve never told us.” Mo asks.
I’m glad. I need it repeated too. In triplicate.
“I’ve done it for years.”
“Shit.”
“It’s very good for body and mind. I don’t tell anyone. I don’t go to Pilates. I only tried it briefly. I consider it a white lie. Pole dancing is my passion and I go three times a week. But not in the seedy way you imagine.”
“So how did they know?”
“No idea. Somebody must’ve told newspapers or seen me with Ben and followed me. I taught a class on Wednesday. A photographer must’ve followed.”
“Holy Mariachi bands and jumping jalapeños!” Mo loves her Batman exclamation speak. Each one’s a creative event in itself.
“Wow. Janey. This is news,” I marvel.
“Actually, ladies,” Ben clarifies, “it’s only the start of Janey’s new future, taking pole dancing to the masses. We’re not doing drama, are we, Janey? You’re facing things and making your mark.”
Janey looks at us all in turn—so serene she could give the Mona Lisa a run for her money. “I welcome the opportunity. I’m an athlete and I’m creative in choreography. I am Janey and I pole dance—now the world’s going to know the truth.”
Um, it already does love, says the cynical voice in my head. And I have a hunch you’re going to be in the papers for a long, long time to come.
* * * *
I’m back at home, lying on my sofa, pushing Janey’s random, raunchy secret surprise from my mind.
I’m feeling better but as soon as I got in, I showered and donned my PJs. I’m planning on a solo chow mein takeaway from Wongkee Garden tonight and, hopefully, a chapter or two of my current erotica read.
The doorbell rings as I’ve pulled my coziest throw over my legs. I swear then get up to answer. I’m pretty sure from the male silhouette through the doo
r glass that it’s Will. Or a pretty damn good doppelganger.
“Will Darby.”
“You didn’t stay. I might consider that warrants a penalty?”
Shit. I’d forgotten about his arse-slapping preferences until now.
“Did you find your crazy escaped wife?” I ask him.
“Just have. She’s at home in her bunny pajamas. She’s lookin’ pretty hot too!”
My, but something inside me swells and thrums—ah, that’s it. Estrogen and the impact he has when he fantasizes about me as his wife. Fuck. What. Is. Wrong. With. Me?
“Hi, Temptress Tennant.” He raises an eyebrow. He’s debonair. He virile. He’s hot. Even in a shirt without tie, and chinos, he rocks. My womb is purring like a vixen escaped from foxy town.
“I knew those rabbit pajamas would be a hit.”
“Hardly.” I narrow my eyes. “Why are you here? Is it because I forgot to pay for them? Can I write a check?”
Will says, “Invite me in?”
“Isn’t that what vampires say?”
Will scowls. So I step aside, let him in and close the door. “I’m here because I wanted to check on the patient. And Jack was all for coming over and doing this job for me. I figured you might rather have me. Who would you rather give you a tuck in and a kiss?”
I sigh. “So Jack wasn’t available.” I suck in my urge to laugh. I welcome in the man who excites my loins like no other.
“Did you sort out your problem?”
“I’d tell you but it’s all so bizarre I can’t even begin. I’m feeling tired and emotional. Think it’s caught up on me.” I put my wrist to my head in a pure drama meets weary pose.
“Go lie down again. Have you eaten yet?” Will has a bag. It’s marked with the Italian deli’s logo. Crazy, given all the ingredients in his pantry, but I let it pass.
“I’ve nothing in—haven’t shopped. I planned takeaway.”
Will shows me the goodies. “I’m cooking. I said I would. Mario at the deli has gone a bit overboard. So…let’s get to it!”
