Divertissement (2 page)

Just like
a good chunk of the time they spent together. John had a fetish for nudity, her
nudity at least. “Goodbye.” Best end this before she started panting aloud.
There were other people in the carriage.

“’Bye, my love.”

She had an
hour to Lille.
Time enough to compose herself.
She
hoped.

* * * * *

John
snapped his phone shut and closed his palm around it, as if holding the damn
phone brought her closer.
Crikey
! He had it bad,
longed for her, needed her and, hell, wanted her, here, right now. But he knew
better than to hold her too close. Ellen had had a life before he found her.
She had old friends, as did he, work contacts and family. He hated to share her
but that was the reality of loving someone. And dammit, he loved Ellen Forsythe.

She was
right—a week wasn’t that long, and besides, it gave him time to visit the
island and make plans for their visit together. He somehow fancied she’d enjoy
getting fucked on a
clifftop
.

* * * * *

Nine days later

How the
hell did John Kent have this effect on her? Not that she was complaining, but
the mere sight of him waiting for her at St.
Pancras
Station was enough to set her cunt flowing, her clit tingling with anticipation
and her nipples to become hard enough to rub against her bra.

When he
smiled and stepped forward, she’d swear her knees wobbled. Not that the latter
mattered much with his arms around her and his mouth plastered on hers. She
hugged him back and parted her lips, pressing her tongue against his as every nerve
ending in her body responded to his presence.

“I’ve so
missed you,” she said as they both came up for air and he thoughtfully kept
hold of her. She wasn’t too sure she could rely on her legs just yet. And no
doubt he wanted to let her know just how hard he was and what she had waiting.

“Good,” he
replied. “I hoped you did as I missed you like hell.”

“It was
only a week.”

“Ten
days.”

“Nine, if
you don’t count today.”

“We’ll
make it nine then.” The look in his eyes and the wicked twist at the corner of
his mouth convinced her he wasn’t talking about twenty-four-hour periods.

“Nine, what?”
Why did she have to ask? She’d find out soon enough.

“I’m
trying to decide.” He paused to grab her suitcase, good thing he did as she’d
all but forgotten about it, and, taking her hand, walked across the station and
toward the taxi rank. “Maybe my belt,” he continued, “it’s really been missing
your touch, or perhaps the occasion calls for a cane.”

“John! You
know how I feel about a cane.”

“Yes, my
love, I do. I don’t understand why women have such an aversion to a nice,
whippy cane.”

“Because a cane bloody well hurts!”

“And that,
my dear Ellen, is the whole point.”

They’d
joined the taxi queue, so she was not about to continue the conversation.

“I bought
a new one,” he went on, obviously not possessing her reticence. “Very slender
and supple, and I did try it on myself a few times, so I know just how much it
will suit.”

Him or her?
She let out a deliberately long sigh.

Damn him,
he chuckled.

Of course
it was a bit illogical to protest when her clit throbbed in anticipation. Why?
She loathed and hated any cane, slender and supple or not.
But
in John’s expert hands…
She couldn’t hold back the smile, but nine?
Cripes!

“I thought
you’d prefer to eat in,” John said once they were settled in the taxi, his
thigh pressed against hers and his hand rested on her knee.

“Super.
I’m not that hungry.”

“An omelet and salad?”

“Perfect.”
It was so nice to have a man who cooked, and cooked very well at that.

“I really
wish you didn’t go away so much,” he said after a pause.

“What I
earn pays my rent and keeps me in silk undies.” He loved her underwear.
Especially when they came off.

“You know
I’d gladly pay your rent and anything else you need.”

And he
could well afford it…but. “John, if I can’t stand on my own two feet, how could
kneel at yours?”

He went
silent. So, come to that, did she. That pretty much said it all.

He didn’t
say another word, but his hand moved from her knee to clasp hers, and when she
glanced sideways, he was smiling.

Ellen’s
words sunk in.
Deep.
Much as it rattled his need to
provide her everything, take care of her and pretty much orchestrate her entire
existence in and out of his bed, his playroom and his twisted fantasies, he
understood. Ellen needed to be utterly self-sufficient before she could
surrender completely, and to share in the surrender, he’d accept that. How
could he not? It was part of what made her so splendid. No, that wasn’t good
enough,
she was far, far more than a mere “splendid”, she
was magnificent, incredible, sexy beyond his wildest dreams and utterly and
gloriously submissive.

After
Adele died, something inside him had shriveled up. Oh yes, he’d had lovers
since, some who were happy to respond to his dominant needs. Fellow dominants,
on occasion, had loaned him their
submissives
. Not a
single one had aroused in him the emotion and commitment he felt toward Ellen.
He’d freely admit—at least to himself—he was the proverbial fool in love. All
he was waiting for was the right moment to tell her.

Trouble
was, he’d postponed the deed for weeks—out of dread she might not feel the
same.

He was a
dominant but a dithering one when it came to the pinch.

“John.” It
was Ellen shaking his arm. No, his hand actually, which was warm in her grasp.
“We’re here.”

Damn, they
were. The taxi had pulled up in front of his flat and the driver was looking
back at them.

“We’re
here, guv,” he said.

Right.
Time to take back control.

Driver
paid and pulling Ellen’s case behind him, John walked through the automatic
doors and slipped his key card into the lift.

In moments
they stood in the hallway of his flat. He turned on the light and sat on a
straight-backed chair against the wall.

“All
right, my love,” he said. “Get it off.
Every last stitch of
clothing.”

How
luscious it was that she still blushed. And even more wonderful, her calm
confidence as she pulled off her jacket and hung it on the hall stand just as
she kicked off her shoes. Skirt unzipped, she let it fall. Smiling at him as
she stepped out of it and bending over very slowly, giving him a full view of
her splendid
arse
as she picked up her skirt, shook
it out and laid it over the back of a chair.

She was
wearing red silk French knickers and stay-up-on-their-own black stockings that
she rolled down slowly, one leg at a time, as she rested her foot on the chair.

The dark blue blouse coming off—after she unbuttoned the row
of pearl buttons with wicked slowness—showed a matching bra.
Yes, he could appreciate her comment
about keeping herself in underwear. Although he was rather tempted to grab her
and rip off those decidedly provocative French knickers, he restrained himself.
Worth it really as she leaned over and unhooked her bra before easing down the
aforementioned French knickers and stepping out of the little pile of silk and
lace that descended to her feet.

It was the
smile that almost did him in.
A wonderful mix of fun,
sexiness, anticipation and the confidence of an experienced submissive.

He stood
up and crossed the meter or so between them. “Don’t move,” he said as he ran
the flat of his hands across her shoulders and down over her breasts, rubbing
her nipples even harder than they were already before stroking down her belly
to cup her pussy.

Her breath
caught as he gave a gentle tug on her piercing and slipped a fingertip between
her pussy lips. “You keep yourself bare here just for me, don’t you?” he asked.

“Yes, I
do.”

“Does it
hurt when it’s waxed?”

She
swallowed. “Yes.”

“But
you’ll do it again and again as long as I want, won’t you?”

“Yes.”
This came on the tail end of a gasp.
Most likely because he
caught her piercing with the back of his hand as he slipped his finger deeper.
She was lusciously wet.
For him.

He kissed
her shoulder as he withdrew his hand and whispered, “Would you like mushrooms
in your omelet?”

He almost
chuckled aloud, watching her face as she tried to process that request with a
mind fogged with arousal and excitement. She managed it though.

“Yes
please,” she replied. “And I really need to pee.”

“Go
along,” he replied, giving her a slap on her
arse
.
“And while you’re there, take a shower and put on the garment I’ve laid out for
you.”

He called
it a “garment”—a red leather belt with interesting loops and studs. Not that
she’d ever complain about anything John wanted. Well, almost anything. She did
have her limits, but he respected them totally and life around him was
incredible. No. “Incredible” was wildly insufficient to describe it. John
brought joy and sex into her life. Filled up the empty pits left by Edward’s
death, and renewed in her the perfect pleasure of total submission.

And if she
took too long showering he’d no doubt give her a few extra swipes of the damn
cane.

She was
ready quickly, taking time to rub her body with the sandalwood-scented oil he
always kept for her, before adjusting and buckling the belt around her waist.
It was impossible not to notice the twin rings were exactly on each side.

Restraints.

To keep her in place for the caning?

Her pussy
flooded at the thought.

She was
still a little wobbly-kneed when she walked across the hall and into his
kitchen.

His smile
had her grinning back.

“
Here.
” He held out a green olive on the end of a small
fork. Knowing what he expected, she opened her mouth and let him feed it to
her. “What do you think?” he asked. “I found them at Fortnum’s.”

The
saltiness of the olive spread over her tongue. She bit into stuffing in place
of the hard stone. What was the familiar taste? Not the pimentos, almonds or
anchovies she’d encountered before. This was tangy, sharp and like…
“Cheese?
Stilton?”
Definitely a strong blue cheese.

“Almost
right,” he replied. “It’s gorgonzola. Sit down.” He indicated a leather-topped
stool under the table. “Keep your legs open, remember?”

“Of course
I do!” Honestly, was she likely to forget?

“Just
wanted to make sure you hadn’t forgotten; it’s been nearly two weeks.”

She
smiled, not about to get into the ten days/nine days, ten/nine strokes of the
cane conversation again. Not that he’d forget. “Mushroom omelet, you said?”

“For you, my love, yes.”
He turned back to the stove and got busy, leaving her
to sip on a glass of sparkling water and watch as he cracked eggs, beat them in
a bowl and heated butter over the gas.

She fought
back the urge to get up, wrap her arms around him and tell him she loved him
utterly and completely. What if he didn’t feel the same? Suppose he loved
playing sex games with her but didn’t love her. Damn! She was not about to ruin
things. John Kent was the best thing to happen to her since Edward, and she was
not about to wreck things.

She took a
sip from her glass and watched as John reached for two plates from the warming
drawer, deftly folded over the omelet, divided it into two and slid each half
onto a plate.

It tasted
every bit as good as she’d expected.

Everything
John did, he did well. Maybe he just avoided the things he couldn’t do well. If
she had time she ought to investigate what they were. Or why bother when he was
smiling at her over his glass?

“Had
enough?” he asked as she finished and drained her water glass.

“To eat?
Yes.”

“Good.
Stay put.”

Took him
all of five minutes to put their used plates into the dishwasher and then he
dried his hands and said, “Follow me.”

He went
straight into the playroom beyond his bedroom. She’d rather expected that. What
she hadn’t expected was the new article of furniture. Where did he buy these
things?
A kinky department of John Lewis?
Or Selfridges?