The Accidental Call Girl Read Free Page B

‘Hurry up, because if you don’t, I’ll come in there and get you.’
    When Lizzie emerged from the bathroom the first thing she saw was another small pile of banknotes on the dresser.
    ‘Just in case I have a hankering for “fancy”,’ said John amiably. He was lounging on the bed, still fully dressed, although his shoes were lying on their sides on the carpet where he’d obviously kicked them off.
    ‘Oh, right . . . OK.’
    Fancy? What did fancy mean? A bit of bondage? Spanking? Nothing too weird, she hoped. But it might mean they needed ‘accessories’ and she had none. You don’t take plastic spanking paddles and fluffy handcuffs to the posher kind of birthday party, which was what she was supposed to be at.
    ‘I don’t have any toys with me. Just these.’ The words came out on a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding, and louder than she’d meant to. She opened her palm to reveal the couple of condoms she’d had stashed in the bottom of her bag. ‘I wasn’t originally planning to work tonight, but the event I was at was a bit tedious, so I thought I’d take a chance in the bar . . . you know, waste not, want not.’
    What the hell am I babbling about?
    John grinned from his position of comfort and relaxation. A tricky grin, as sunny as before, but with an edge. He was in charge, and he knew it. Maybe that was the ‘fancy’?
    Something slow and snaky and honeyed rolled in her belly. A delicious sensation, scary but making her blood tingle. His blue eyes narrowed as if he were monitoring her physical responses remotely, and the surge of desire swelled again, and grew.
    She’d played jokey little dominance and submission games with a couple of her boyfriends. Just a bit of fun, something to spice things up. But it had never quite lived up to her expectations. Never delivered. Mainly because they’d always wanted her to play the dominatrix for them, wear some cheap black vinyl tat and call them ‘naughty boys’. It’d been a laugh, she supposed, but it hadn’t done much for her, and when one had hinted at turning the tables, she’d said goodnight and goodbye to the relationship. He’d been a nice enough guy, but somehow, in a way she couldn’t define, not ‘good’ enough to be her master and make her bow down.
    But golden John Smith, a gin-drinking man of forty-something, with laughter lines and a look of beautiful world-weariness . . . well, he was ‘good’ enough. Her belly trembled and silky fluid pooled in her sex, shocking and quick.
    Now was the moment to stop being a fake, if she could. Maybe explain, and then perhaps even go on with a new game? And yet she could barely speak. He wasn’t speaking either, just looking at her with those eyes that seemed to see all. With a little tilt of his head, he told her not to explain or question or break the spell.
    But just when she thought she might break down and scream from the tension, he did speak.
    ‘Toys aren’t always necessary, Bettie. You of all people should know that.’
    Had she blown it? Maybe . . . maybe not. Schooling herself not to falter, she shrugged and moved towards him. When she reached the bed, she dropped her rather inadequate stash of condoms on the side table and said, ‘Of course . . . you’re so right. And I love to improvise, don’t you?’
    Slowly, he sat up, and swivelled around, letting his legs swing down and his feet settle on the floor. ‘Good girl . . . good girl . . .’ He reached out and laid a hand on her hip, fingers curving, just touching the slope of her bottom cheek. The touch became a squeeze, the tips of his four fingers digging into her flesh, not cruelly but with assertion, owning her.
    With his other hand, he drew her nearer, right in between his spread thighs. She was looking down at him but it was as if he were looking down at her, from a great and dominant height. Her heart tripped again, knowing he could give her what she wanted.
    But what was his price? Could she afford to