The Choice

by Monica Belle

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Also by Monica Belle

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Poppy Miller is an exceptionally bright and ambitious student at a top British university. Determined to make her mark in politics, she has her mind set on finding a husband with similar aspirations to her own. Stephen Mitchell, a second-year law student, seems to fit the profile and the young pair begin a tender love affair and plan a future together. But then Dr James McLean, a rakish don, appears on the scene. Poppy knows that a liaison with the darkly seductive McLean will change the course of her life – but perhaps deep down that is what she wants after all? Poppy has to make a choice: should she go with her head or with her heart?

  Also by Monica Belle:

  Noble Vices

  Valentina’s Rules

  Wild in the Country

  Wild by Nature

  Office Perks

  Pagan Heat

  Bound in Blue

  The Boss

  To Seek a Master

  As I detached myself from his grip I looked down.

  ‘You’re proud of yourself, aren’t you?’ I asked.

  He gave an embarrassed shrug, unable to deny the state he was in.

  ‘Let me see.’

  His beautiful eyes grew a little wider in surprise, as if he could hardly believe his luck when I drew down his zip and burrowed my hand inside. He was rock hard, and big, making it difficult to tug him out of his fly, but I soon got him showing, his balls too. I took him in my hand, tugging gently as we kissed once again and tweaking open the buttons of his shirt until it fell open across his chest. He responded in kind, tugging my top up and spilling my breasts free of my bra, his huge hands pawing at my flesh, clumsy and too eager but still exciting.

  Only when he began to get really rough did I pull away, moving slowly down his body to brush my lips over his neck and the hard muscles of his chest. He groaned as he realised what I was going to do, and I couldn’t help but tease, flicking my tongue over the smooth lines of his six-pack with his cock still held in my hand. I was hoping he’d take me by the hair and make me do it, but he seemed frozen, as if the slightest movement or attempt to take charge might scare me off. That wasn’t so bad, allowing me to indulge in one of my favourite pursuits – worshipping a cock.

  1

  I WAS SAT astride him, my eyes shut but alert to every tiny sensation; the feel of Ewan’s hard thighs beneath my own, his big hands where they gripped my hips, my own hair tickling my back and bottom, the taut, urgent feeling of my nipples and, best of all, what was inside me, seeming to fill not just my sex but my entire body as I rode my orgasm.

  It looked as if Ewan had finished at the same time, to judge by his big lopsided grin, and as always I found it impossible not to smile back as I let myself slump forwards, nestling my head against his chest. His arms came around me in a hug, tender enough but very far from the cuddle I would have liked. I could tell he wanted me to get off, and I obliged, feeling the first touch of inevitable regret as our bodies came apart for what would probably be the last time. His voice came behind as I hurried for the bathroom.

  ‘Don’t you ever tell the boys I let you go on top, or else, and I mean that.’

  He didn’t, for all his macho image, and I was hardly likely to be describing the intimate details of our sex life to his friends in any case. Still his words gave me a familiar and delicious thrill, the strong man talking tough to his girlfriend, something I’ve always liked. I can afford to.

  As I began to wash he hauled up his jeans and briefs. In two years I’d only seen him naked a handful of times, while he liked me stripped as soon I got through the door. That was all part of the fun, a game I enjoyed because of the way it made me feel, while he seemed to take his natural dominance absolutely for granted, completely confident in his masculinity, just as he was completely confident of his status as number one among the young men of the town.

  My clothes were scattered along the hallway, and he followed me out of the bedroom as I went to retrieve them, applying a slap to my bottom as I bent to pick up my knickers.

  ‘And watch those geeks and ponces at uni. You’re my girl, Poppy, remember that.’

  Had there been the slightest trace of uncertainty in his voice my nerve would probably have failed me, but his sheer arrogance prompted me to speak out.

  ‘Actually, Ewan, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About us, and me going to university.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Well, we’re going to be a long way apart, I don’t want to think of you sitting here waiting for me on your own …’

  ‘Hey, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.’

  I was sure he would. There were half-a-dozen other girls queuing up to take my place and he’d almost certainly been to bed with at least two of them while we’d been together. That wasn’t the issue, but this was no time for the truth – or, at least, not the whole truth.

  ‘Exactly. I want you to be fine, and if Nikki, or Carrie, or anybody else wants to come around, don’t feel bad about me.’

  His brow furrowed. I’d broken an unspoken rule, admitting that I’d guessed what had been going on but not instantly going postal. He couldn’t handle it at all.

  ‘It’s always been you and me, babe.’

  I’d been dressing as we spoke, and hurried into my jeans before replying.

  ‘Please, Ewan, we’re not teenagers any more … well, you’re not anyway. Let’s be adult about this. We’re going to be two hundred miles apart, you’ve got your job and every girl from here to Exeter wants you. I don’t want you to feel guilty, and I don’t want to either.’

  He looked at me as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, once again sparing me the worst of my ill feeling as I went on. ‘It makes sense, Ewan, you know it does, and I’m not saying I want to find somebody else, not at all. Do you really think anyone at Oxford is going to compare with you?’

  He didn’t. We both knew that. Ever since I’d first said I was applying he’d treated the idea with mingled amusement and contempt, as a flight of fancy from which I’d eventually recover to take my place as his wife and the mother of his children – changing nappies while he enjoyed himself with Nikki or Carrie – both together if he got half a chance. It wasn’t going to happen.

  ‘Yeah, but, Pops …’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ewan. Look, I have to go. I’ve got a cab booked for eleven.’

  There could have been a lot more to say, all of it pointless. I left, not even kissing him goodbye, and there was a sick feeling in my throat as I hurried up the hill. I’d done it, but I didn’t feel good about it, even as I told myself that it was the honest thing to do and, more importantly, what needed to be done. I was not going to be pushing a pram by twenty, not me, not Poppy Miller. Some of my old school friends already were, and most of them thought I was a dreamer, or stuck up, or both. A few backed me and I’d always had my parents’ support, although for Mum whatever I did was never enough. I got my ear chewed off as soon as I walked through the front door.

  ‘There you are, Poppy. Please tell me you didn’t spend the night with t
hat awful Ewan Cooper?’

  ‘No.’

  She looked at me, still suspicious.

  ‘No, you didn’t spend the night with him? Or no, you’re not going to tell me you didn’t?’

  ‘No, I’m not going to tell you.’

  ‘So you did? Really, Poppy, he’s not at all suitable …’

  ‘I know. I dumped him.’

  She’d been meaning to go on, primed for what might have been the thousandth mother and daughter row, but fell silent for a few seconds before she managed to adjust to the news.

  ‘Then you’ve done the right thing, but it’s not before time. If you are serious about a career in politics the last thing you need is ghosts from your past coming back to haunt you when you’re trying to get on.’

  ‘He was my boyfriend, Mum, that’s all. Everybody has boyfriends, and no I didn’t let him take any pictures of me in the nude, or send him any dirty emails, or let him talk me into group sex with three other girls, the vicar and his dachshund, so just relax.’

  ‘Poppaea Miller, you can be extremely vulgar at times!’

  I’d already reached the top of the stairs, and her voice faded as I closed the door of my room behind me. Even when I’d got my exhibition she’d been disappointed because it wasn’t a scholarship, but we both knew that if she hadn’t pushed me so hard I’d never have made it at all. What she didn’t know, and would never have been able to understand, was that if it hadn’t been for Ewan and one or two other boys I’d have cracked up long ago. Maybe it’s a weakness, but sometimes I need to be held, and sometimes I need to be fucked.

  As I crammed a last few items into my cases I could hear Mum and Dad talking downstairs, not the words, just a low grumble. I knew what they’d be saying anyway, she fussing over what I’d been up to and he dismissing her worries. He was the one who’d really made me work, not by pushing me, but by his casual assumption that I would succeed in whatever I did without really trying, just as he had when he was young.

  Mum had calmed down by the time I went downstairs. I suddenly found myself feeling rushed and close to tears, with a choking feeling in my throat as I said my goodbyes. Dad was as calm as ever, but managed a last piece of advice as he loaded my bags into the boot of the taxi.

  ‘Remember three things, Pops. Aim for a good second, the Chamber’s more important than college, and don’t let yourself get distracted by boys.’

  ‘You told me, Dad.’

  I kissed him and got into the cab. The driver was one of Ewan’s friends, and kept up a monologue on how lucky my wonderful boyfriend was all the way into Exeter, leaving me feeling heartsick by the time we got to St David’s. Staring out from the train at the passing countryside only made my feelings worse, but I let myself have a good wallow until at last my emotions cleared to leave me impatient to reach my destination.

  Oxford, city of dreaming spires, nine centuries of academic excellence and a place which produces a disproportionately high percentage of the country’s most successful people. I aimed to be one of them, but as I rode the bus towards what was to be my college for the next three years I was feeling more daunted than ambitious.

  In Oxford, the station is well away from the university and the area around it looks much like any other town or city in the UK – same architecture, same shops, same billboards. Even as you go up the hill it’s not so very different or, at least, not so very different to Exeter, with ancient stone buildings and grand pieces of design mixed in with the modern and anonymous. Only when you get past the main shopping centre at Carfax do you really see how different it is, with the High flanked by twin rows of beautiful old buildings made of tawny stone; each college distinct, St Mary’s church towering above it all. Even the shops look as if they haven’t changed since the Regency.

  I’d been up before, for interviews, which had passed in a terrifying haze and in the company of other candidates, every one of whom was older than me and seemed infinitely wiser. The medieval surroundings and atmosphere of self-assured scholarship had left me feeling not only that I was certain to be rejected but also that I was guilty of gross impudence in even daring to apply. Now at least I knew that I was worthy, but I was still filled with awe as I got off the bus and dragged my cases down the narrow cobbled street onto which the main doors of St Boniface College opened.

  Another piece of Dad’s advice had been to make sure I got on with the porters, so I gave the two men in the lodge my most ingratiating smile as I asked for my keys. They took a moment to find them, with me imagining that there had been some horrible mistake and that I hadn’t really got in at all, before a white envelope was tossed down on the desk in front of me.

  ‘There we are, Miss. You’re one of the lucky ones. Old Quad four nine.’

  I had no idea what he was talking about, but managed to find my way across a wide cloistered quadrangle, flanked by tall buildings and the chapel, to another quadrangle, also cloistered, but so small that with the sun starting to go down it formed a cool dim well between towering walls. My staircase, number four, was on the far side, and I’d already guessed that my room, number nine, would be at the top. I spent a moment looking helpless in the hope of some gentlemanly passerby offering to carry my cases, but there was nobody about. That left me no choice but to lug them up three flights of stone stairs to a door, that looked as if it should have opened onto a torture chamber in some ancient castle, showed the numbers nine and ten.

  There was a modern lock in it, which responded to one of the keys I’d been given, revealing two more doors, both modern, in that they looked as if they’d been made fifty years ago rather than five hundred. Mine was on the left, marked by a brass nine and more importantly a name tag reading P. MILLER, the simplest possible statement, but one that at last brought home to me that I was, finally, an Oxford undergraduate.

  I quickly let myself in to a small oblong room with a high ceiling and view across low slate roofs to the whole of central Oxford; spires and domes and towers, high gable ends and long attics roofed with dark slate, tawny walls and sheets of lead or copper, windows and skylights glistening in the autumn sunlight, with here and there a tree poking up from among the buildings, yellow and russet leaves a perfect match for the muted colours of the city.

  I stayed as I was, indifferent to my immediate, rather stark surroundings, drinking in a view, as splendid in its way as the moors seen from the hill above my home, and which I knew would stay with me for the rest of my life. The porter had been right to say I was one of the lucky ones, because if everything else came to grief I would still have had my time in such a beautiful place.

  When I finally managed to pull myself away from the window I took stock of my room. It was bare and simple, with a bed, a chest of drawers and a desk on which sat a new and expensive-looking computer. A section had been screened off to provide a minute bathroom, without which it would have resembled a monastic cell, appropriately enough given the origins of the university. There was a small empty fridge and a kettle but no tea or coffee, and I decided I’d go on a shopping trip as soon as I’d unpacked.

  I was halfway through putting my things away when I caught the sound of music, very faint but clearly coming from the room next door. It was classical, or at least not pop, and unlike anything I’d heard, melodic but oddly dissonant, at once both exciting and disturbing. I immediately resolved to visit my new neighbour the moment I’d finished unpacking.

  Nobody could call me shy, but I hesitated before knocking on the door. The name tag was no more informative than my own, saying just V. AUBREY, which didn’t even tell me if the occupant was male or female, although it had me imagining the sort of sybaritic young man Evelyn Waugh liked to portray. The music suggested something similar, maybe even more exotic, and if so I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to introduce myself in a pair of sloppy jeans and a baggy jumper.

  As I stepped away my eyes were drawn to the invitingly large keyhole. One quick peep wasn’t going to hurt and would give me an idea of what to expect, althou
gh if she, or he, happened to open the door while I was kneeling directly in front of it I would have a bit of explaining to do. I did it anyway, ducking quickly down and putting my eye to the keyhole, through which I could see most of the room, including the desk, and the bed. V. Aubrey was a Victoria, or possibly a Valerie, but very definitely female.

  She lay on her bed, stretched out on her back, reading a book, her eyes rapt in concentration on the page. Her face was made up, skilfully but more heavily than I’d have expected, with a rich red lipstick and a lot of eye shadow, while her dark hair was cut into a short bob. All of which gave her a lazy, sensual look I wouldn’t have expected in an undergraduate, but more unexpected by far was what she was doing. All she had on was a pair of loose and very lacy French knickers, with one hand down the front, gently massaging herself as she read.

  It obviously wasn’t a good moment to call, and I retired from the keyhole, my cheeks hot with embarrassment but at the same time trying not to giggle. I moved back into my room, slowly and very quietly, although to judge by the look of sleepy pleasure on her face she wouldn’t have noticed unless I’d slammed my door as hard as I could. There was no doubt at all that she’d been playing with herself, something I’d only ever done in the warmth and darkness of my own bedroom, something very private indeed.

  I knew I’d intruded, badly, and should have felt ashamed of myself, but my fingers were shaking uncontrollably and I couldn’t get the image out of my mind. She’d looked so sultry, and so impossibly calm, completely and utterly relaxed as she teased herself towards orgasm without a care in the world or the slightest suspicion of guilt. I wanted to do it myself, just like her, which was very definitely not how I’d imagined spending my first afternoon at Oxford. I also wanted to watch.

  That was out of the question, not only because it was a dreadful thing to do, but because she was a woman, and because she might catch me. Then again, it wasn’t really very likely. If she got up I could nip back into my own room long before she got to her door, or if necessary pretend I’d been on my way out. Besides, she was the one who was being dirty with herself, not me. It was still a dreadful thing to do, but the fact that we were the same sex wasn’t really an issue. After all, I knew myself well enough to be sure I preferred boys, and I’d only be watching. Maybe it wasn’t even that dreadful …