In this excerpt of THE ACCIDENTAL MISTRESS, Lizzie had just admitted to John that she loves him... something he knows already but with his chequered emotional history, has found difficult to process. Unsure of his own ability to love, he still wishes he could say the words and make her happy...
The Accidental Mistress is book #2 in The Accidental Trilogy.
Put a pin in it, she’d said.
John tried to, as he tasted Lizzie’s luscious lips, and the sweetness of her flowed from them, through his body. His cock stirred, rising to full hardness with shocking rapidity, even though his mind still whirled with the simple words she’d said.
I love you.
He’d heard her say it before, of course, but only in those moments when most people said crazy things they didn’t mean at other times; when they were coming or pretty soon afterwards. This time, though, he knew it was a statement of honest truth, and it was how she’d been feeling for a while. Despite her innate sophistication, and her natural zest for erotic games, when it came to playing games with the finer emotions, she was an innocent, and unsullied. She was guileless. Completely unlike the other significant women in his life before her.
He squeezed his eyes tight, not wanting to think of those women right now, not wanting to insult Lizzie with their phantom presence. Even his ex-wife, Caroline, for whom he only had benign feelings of fondness and gratitude.
‘What is it? Have I mucked things up, saying what I said? Don’t think about it. Forget it.’ Lizzie eased away from him, peering into his face. She looked worried, and he wanted to kick himself for being an insensitive fool. He desperately wanted to be able to say the words himself, but somehow he couldn’t. When he’d said them before, they’d been thrown back in his face … not just once, but twice, the beauty of them sullied, perhaps forever.
‘No, no, you haven’t. Not at all. You’re a beautiful, honest girl, Lizzie, and you know that I adore you… But…’ He paused, sighing… ‘I want to say what you said, but I don’t think I’m able to. It probably sounds stupid, but I don’t think those words have enough meaning for me any more… They’ve been spoilt.’ He took her face between his two hands, marvelling again at the purity of her features, the innocence despite her magnificently carnal nature. ‘But they haven’t for you, so don’t feel bad. And … I’m honoured and touched.’
God, it sounded so stilted. So tight-arsed. Like the very worst of the repressed background he’d tried so hard to ignore all these years. And fuck it; he knew it must hurt her.
Unable to bear seeing that pain in her eyes, he almost threw himself at her, kissing her with all the energy he had in him, but cursing himself for a lousy coward at the same time. For a moment, she seemed to hesitate, holding a back a little, but then, in a heartbeat, she was there with him, kissing him back with all the generosity in her soul. Accepting and affirming with the sweet way her lips yielded to him, and the bolder way that her tongue fought back against his.
Something was on the television, some meaningless words and flickering pictures, but it was like a silent movie from another age, incomprehensible. Barely breaking the kiss apart, they rearranged themselves on the settee, kicking off shoes and half lying alongside each other, bodies pressed together. He growled in his throat when Lizzie rocked her hips invitingly against him, caressing his erection with her belly. Her arms were around him, travelling over his back and arse, exploring and encouraging him. All qualms about making out in the house where she lived were forgotten, by both of them.
John couldn’t stop now. He didn’t want to. And he could feel Lizzie with him, her bold, daring spirit rising to him, laughing at inhibitions. That was the great wonder of her, always seeking the best and happiest and most vivid parts of life, not dwelling on disappointments.
Maybe I do love you, my darling? Even if I can’t say it…
He slid a hand up her blouse, loving the feel of her hot skin against his searching fingers. Simply exploring her rib cage excited him. His cock surged. He kissed and kissed her, stroking her back, then, when he could hold out no more, he slid his hand around and pushed up her bra so he could cup her breast, just as hot, just as perfect. She made a thrilling, female sound, a tiny roar of encouragement as his fingertips settled on her hard little nipple. Beneath him, her thighs moved restlessly, parting and creating a cradle for his sex. Gladly, he shifted position, moving into that gracious space, pressing the very essence of his libido against the essence of hers.
‘Yes,’ he muttered against her mouth, using the arm of the settee to brace himself, so he could push, push against her, massaging her. The friction was heavenly, yet he wished that their clothing would spontaneously disappear so they were naked and he could work himself into the cleft of her sex, unhindered. When he squeezed her breast and rubbed himself against her, she moaned, almost as if the clothes were gone and he was stimulating her directly. Her hands closed tight against his buttocks, squeezing and massaging him in return, her deft seamstress’s fingertips pressing into the groove of his bottom and tantalising his anus.
‘Jesus, Lizzie, yes… Oh, that’s nice.’ Her fingers dipped and teased as he dry humped her. He could feel himself rising up, the excitement climbing through his entire body, encompassing more than just his groin, even while his genitals grew more and more ready, closer and closer to crisis. Sensing he might hit critical long before he wanted to, he tugged at her skirt. ‘Take your knickers off, baby … I need to touch you. I need to be in you before I explode.’
Still kissing him, she began to scrabble, dashing away his hands from her skirt, so she could get to it better. As she did so, he worked at her upper clothing – her blouse, her bra – so he could get to her beautiful breasts.
Switching his hands to himself, he was just unbuckling his belt when a series of small sounds filtered through to him, penetrating a hot haze of lust that was both tactile and auditory.
It was a key turning in the old Yale lock of the front door, barely yards away from them, then the creak of hinges. Then a voice cried out, masculine, and known to him, but in a put-on, sing-song tone:
‘Honey, I’m home!’
Brent Westhead, home from his travels, and heading for the room where they were.
Lizzie’s hiss of shock was accompanied by her jerking, jack-knifing upright with all the sudden force of panic. A force that sent both of them sliding off the sofa.
With a double thump, they landed on the rug, tangled together, already fumbling to put Lizzie’s clothes to rights.
Keys jangled, and there was a thump out in the passage too, a heavy bag being dropped. As Brent’s footsteps sounded, Lizzie shoved John’s hands away and fastened the buttons of her blouse at lightning speed.
As a rectangle of light appeared in the corner of the room, she was just about decent. If somewhat dishevelled…
Silhouetted in the illumination from the hall, John saw Brent Westhead’s hand reaching for the light switch, but before he could speak, Lizzie cried out, ‘Don’t put the light on, B, you’ll dazzle us … wait a minute.’
‘Us? Oh … oh my God, I’m so sorry! Beg your pardon…’ John could hear amusement as well as surprise in the other man’s voice. ‘Don’t mind me. I’ll be in the kitchen, putting the kettle on, for when you’re decent.’ With that he disappeared, and they heard him laugh as he went, heading down the passage.
‘Oops,’ whispered Lizzie, her eyes merry in the lamplight, and her face rosy.
‘Oops, indeed,’ echoed John … then he laughed too.
Caught making out on the settee, like a teenager. Whatever next?
But as they stood up, and shook out the creases, he felt strangely light and young, renewed by Lizzie.
He smiled at her, trying to communicate that in silence, and through the flicker of light and shade from the television … and thank God, she smiled right back, as if she knew.