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.
‘Shit!’
‘Shit!’
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.
