The Accidental Bride Read Free Page B

creating another fleeting orgasm. His fingers had plied her clit, all the while.
    The egg rattled and rolled across the flags when it landed, forgotten for the moment.
    The sound of his smooth-running zip was like heaven to her ears, as was the barely audible rustle and tear, the condom being unwrapped. The feel of his cock, hot and large, was the perfect pressure against her entrance, the longed for thing. She wiggled and he pushed in, sure and deep, barely noticing the way the teeth of the zip pushed against her burning bottom as he thrust and thrust, ploughing into her, his curse words of happiness almost like lighted sigils flying out into the perfumed air amongst the trees.
    ‘Yes! Oh John, my darling John! Yes! Yes! Yes!’ she cried, dishing her back, still gripping the table for purchase as she pushed her punished flesh against him, her hips working in a reciprocating action. She barely needed his touch, but still he bestowed it, caressing her even as he growled and blasphemed and flung his body at her.
    ‘Oh Lizzie,’ he answered, his own voice strange with pleasure, broken with joy. His hips hammered, hammered, hammered in the old familiar strokes, and deep where the egg had rocked, his hot seed pulsed and spurted inside latex.
    As they collapsed against the table, she came again.
    It didn’t feel too bad. Not really. Not at all.
    Craning around to look over her shoulder into the mirror, Lizzie hiked her nightdress up with one hand and gave her pink bottom cheek a tentative prod with the other. It wasn’t even sore enough to make her yelp, but she did suck in her breath rather sharply.
    You clever devil. It’s just enough to make me know I’ve been seen to, but not so fierce that it’d ever put me off wanting it again. I knew a little bit about BDSM before we started, but I didn’t know people could do what you do. I never knew a man could have such crafty skills, Mr Smith.
    Her bottom actually looked quite pretty in a bizarre sort of way. The crown of each cheek had a ragged patch of rosy pink spreading across it, like the map of some obscure independent principality, and she could see faint, finer lines within the redness, which marked out the point of impact of the leather. She knew a lot of people would be horrified by the sight of her marked arse, but to her, the splodges were badges of honour, marks of regard, hard won, but richly rewarded.
    He’d been like a wild beast across that flipping table, though, and she was sure she still had splinters in her belly to prove it. Pulling up the long, peach satin nightdress at the front too, she hooked the slithery material in a bunch at her hip, and ran her fingertips over her abdomen. No splinters. Well, none she could detect. She pinched the fleshthere. No, no extra inches as yet. They were both eating like horses, here at the villa. The Provençal food was so sumptuous and fresh, with loads of tomatoes and olives and delicious fish. But she supposed the enormous amount of sex they were having, coupled with plenty of healthy walks, and even a few jaunts out on bicycles, was offsetting the billions of calories they were consuming.
    ‘Well, that’s the most beautiful view in the entire south of France, and I’ll fight any man who says otherwise.’
    Lizzie spun round at the sound of his voice. His dear, familiar, low, thrilling voice. John was standing in the open doorway, leaning on the jamb, admiring her. He had that twinkle-eyed predatory look in his eyes, and his lips were curved in a possessive masculine smile. When she prepared to loosen her grip on her nightdress, and let it fall over her belly and legs, he said, ‘Uh oh, leave it as it is,’ almost before her brain had sent the message to her hand.
    He strode towards her, and took up his station right behind her, peering into the mirror.
    ‘Turn,’ he instructed, and when she did, he ran his hand down the outer slope of her hip and thigh, thumb just skirting the rosy pink patch he’d created.