Hard Bargains Page 7

  With a sigh I retrace my steps and head upstairs to find my new office for the next 72 hours.

  It’s better than I dared to hope. Peter has picked the best room in the house for me. The library. And it’s every bibliophile’s wet dream. Deep mahogany panelled walls, matching desks with red leather insets, velvety chairs arranged before a fireplace. And best of all – a spiral staircase leading up to a gallery level!

  The shelves are full of dusty old books and it takes a colossal effort of willpower not to simply pour myself a glass of wine (which I see Peter has also arranged) and sit before a roaring fire poring over ancient tomes.

  My laptop looks blasphemously out of place on the antique desk, but it can’t be helped. The easiest thing to do is just start writing. Something. Anything. I decide to drop amateur sleuth Lee Price into a renamed version of Blackwood House and see what she finds there.

  It’s easy enough at first. It always is. The words pour forth, Lee’s dialogue sparking off the page as she investigates the same rooms I’ve just seen. I give her client a double-barrelled surname to pad out the word count and watch the story begin to take shape. I’m nearly four thousand words in when I hear the crash.

  I freeze, my fingers poised above the keyboard like clawing monster hands. My heart pounds in my chest as I listen, expecting to hear the slow, dragging tread of footsteps coming up the stairs. But the only sound is the fire, crackling away in the hearth.

  I’m not a horror-movie fan, but I know the clichés. Even so, I can’t keep myself from calling out, ‘Hello?’

  The house swallows my voice and I shrink down in my chair. There’s no answer. I knew there wouldn’t be, but it’s no comfort. Mrs Chalfont-Tate had just been telling Lee about the creepy old mansion where her daughter had gone missing after being dared to spend a night there alone, relating all the by-the-numbers ghost stories people tell about such places. Cynical Lee wasn’t convinced at all and neither was I. Not until now.

  ‘Peter, is that you? Look, you’re not scaring me.’

  My voice doesn’t sound as bold as I hope. And while Lee may be fearless and reckless, I’m all talk.

  It’s just Peter, I tell myself. He’s trying to scare me. And distract me. Because he knows I can do this and he’s afraid of losing.

  I return my fingers to the keys like a pianist interrupted in the middle of a concert. I make Lee and her client hear the same crash I did, only Lee is much cooler about it than I am. She insists it’s just the wind. Or one of the many cats she saw wandering the old lady’s house. Or someone playing tricks on them both.

  There’s another crash. A real one.

  This one wrenches a cry from me and I jump away from the desk. Now I’m not so sure it’s Peter after all.

  I grab my phone and key in 999, my finger poised above the call button as I venture towards the open doorway.

  ‘I’m calling the cops,’ I shout. ‘Cops’ sounds tougher than ‘police’. More like I mean business. ‘So you’d better show yourself now or get out of here.’

  I listen, straining to hear. What I want to hear are frightened footsteps retreating through the front door, some kids having dared themselves to do what my characters did. I do hear footsteps, but they’re the slow, purposeful kind. And they’re coming towards me. Headed straight for the library from a room somewhere down the corridor. My blood runs cold at the notion that someone had already been here when I arrived. Waiting for me.

  ‘Don’t be frightened.’

  Despite the words, the deep male voice makes me jump and I drop my phone. It hits the wooden floor with a clatter and I scramble madly for it. By the time I snatch it back up and start to re-key the nines, I am no longer alone.

  A man is standing in the doorway, smiling. ‘Hello,’ he says.

  I stumble back a couple of steps at the sight of him, wondering suddenly whether I’m dreaming or hallucinating. He’s dressed like a character from a BBC costume drama, in a lavish blue velvet frock coat and silk cravat. And oh, my God, he’s gorgeous. Aristocratic face, chiselled features, glittering blue eyes. Everything about him speaks of decadence. No doubt there’s a portrait stashed in his attic he wouldn’t want me to see. I hated Fifty Shades, but this is a Mr Gray I can lust after.

  My foot catches on the edge of a rug and I fall, landing hard on my backside and dropping my phone again.

  The man reaches for me and I accept his proffered hand, desperate to reclaim my dignity.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asks, sounding concerned.

  I dust myself off, my face burning. ‘I’m fine, I’m fine.’ Then, swiftly changing the subject from my clumsiness: ‘Who are you?’

  He smiles like the roguish villain in a period piece, a sexy, wolfish grin. ‘Christopher Blackwood,’ he says, his voice silky and cultured. He even gives me a little bow.

  ‘Seriously?’

  He cocks his head at that, as though uncertain whether I’m teasing him. I’m not really. I’m just mortified at having fallen on my bum in an ungainly heap.

  ‘Seriously,’ he says, sounding very serious now. ‘You’re – ah, in my house.’

  I flash back to the time as a child when I was cornered in an abandoned house by a stern-faced constable. My friends had fled, leaving me to face the music by myself. Yes, I’d been told the place was dangerous. No, I wasn’t stealing anything. There wasn’t anything to steal, was there? No, sir, I’m not being sarcastic. I’m sorry, sir.

  This time I’m not a child and I have every right to be here. But that childhood incident had planted a seed in me, one that grew into a vine that flowered extravagantly whenever I found myself confronted by good-looking authority figures.

  ‘I’m here legitimately,’ I told him. ‘I paid to stay. For the weekend.’

  ‘Did you now.’

  ‘Well, my publisher did. I’m a writer.’ His expression hasn’t changed and I feel my face growing hot. ‘There was an ad,’ I say, flustered. ‘On the website.’

  The word ‘website’ feels out of place here, especially when he only frowns at my babbling. Is he a ghost? An actor? A time traveller?

  ‘Look, who are you really?’ I blurt out.

  ‘I told you. I’m the descendant of all those gloomy people whose portraits hang on the walls out there.’ He jerks his chin towards the open doorway. ‘But the real question is – who are you?’

  His eyes sparkle again with something like mischief. It makes my flesh tingle and I press my thighs together. He may be wrapped up in fancy dress, but the outfit is well tailored, accentuating a lean, fit torso and strong arms. Arms that could crush me to his muscular chest or pin me down on a soft bed.

  ‘My name’s Jess,’ I manage to say. ‘Jess Bannion.’ I hadn’t dared to hope he would recognise the name, so I’m not disappointed when he doesn’t respond like a fanboy. My readership is mostly female anyway. Or so I console myself.

  ‘Well, it’s nice to meet you,’ he says, ‘even if you are trespassing.’

  ‘But I’m not! Honestly! There was an ad online for booking this place for the weekend.’

  ‘That’s what you say.’

  ‘It’s the truth!’ Even as I insist I’m in the right, I realise it doesn’t matter. If I’d broken in like a criminal it would have been worth it to meet him. I imagine he’ll be the star of all my masturbation fantasies from now on. He can call the cops and send me to jail, I don’t care. Just as long as he fucks me first.

  It’s as though I’ve broadcast the image to him. His eyes narrow, he smiles, and suddenly the rogue is back. My eyes flick down to his crotch, where a pleasing bulge is growing. He notices me noticing, but maddeningly says nothing.

  I just want him to grab me and throw me to the floor, tear off my clothes and have his wicked way with me. Or tell me off for trespassing and haul me across his knee. Can he not read the signs? Is my desperation not coming off me in waves? I haven’t been fucked in so long.

  When I finally accept that he isn’t going to make the first move, I sta
re pointedly at his erection and then I boldly reach out and press my hand up against it.

  He closes his eyes with a little sigh of pleasure, but he doesn’t seem shocked or surprised. Well, I’m hardly making a secret of my desire. If he can’t tell I’m wildly turned on, he’s the most clueless man who ever lived.

  He responds by pulling me into a fierce embrace and crushing his lips to mine. I gasp as I clutch his hardness, groping to find my way inside his trousers to get at him. But he stops me, gathering me up in his arms and carrying me out of the room as though I weigh nothing. I wrap my arms around his neck as he takes me along the corridor and into a richly furnished bedroom, where there are no cobwebs in sight. A fire crackles in the hearth below an elaborate marble surround. It’s as though he’s been expecting me.

  My eyes widen as I take in the exquisite decadence of the room. Heavy damask curtains decorate both the gothic-arched windows and the enormous four-poster bed. On either side of it are two beautifully carved nightstands, and a matching dressing table dominates the far side of the room.

  I feel so out of place in my jeans and jumper and I can’t help but imagine myself dressed to match him, in a flowing gown with a tight-fitting bodice, one that makes my bosom heave. Now I know why all those romance heroines are always swooning.

  He sets me on my feet and steps back to remove his jacket and lay it over a velvet ottoman. I stand there, nervous and bewildered, excited and eager. I don’t know what to do with my hands and they flutter between my throat and my thighs like restless birds, refusing to light anywhere. His little striptease doesn’t take long. He slowly unbuttons an old-fashioned white shirt with a starched collar, but leaves it hanging open, offering me only tantalising glimpses of his killer abs as he kicks off his shoes, removes his socks and unfastens his trousers. He is wearing nothing underneath and my breath catches as his cock springs free.

  I want to tell him he’s beautiful, that he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, but I just can’t form the words. All I can do is stare as he moves towards me. I stand there meekly, submissively, as he pulls my boring jumper off over my head, revealing the lacy black push-up bra I wear to make myself feel sexy when I write. He makes a little sound of approval as he traces a finger over the swell of my breasts before trailing it down to my jeans, to unfasten them and expose the matching panties. They’re positively soaked.

  My hands finally come to life and I peel his shirt off and stroke the warm, firm ridges of his chest. He reaches behind me to unhook my bra, and my nipples harden instantly as he takes my breasts in his hands and squeezes them firmly. By the time he slips my knickers off, I’m incapable of standing and I sink gratefully onto the bed, writhing obscenely before him like a slave girl desperate to please her master.

  He lowers his body onto mine and I clutch his back as he kisses a line down my throat to my chest. I trap his cock between my thighs, squeezing it as I wriggle against it. I feel it twitch and grow harder in response. I want him inside me. Every inch of my flesh is crying out for contact with his.

  But Christopher has other ideas.

  I release a little moan of dismay as he pushes away and gets to his feet again. He looks down at me, still with that wolfish grin. It makes my sex pound.

  ‘Come back,’ I whimper, rising up slightly.

  He places a finger against my lips and pushes me back down with the other hand. ‘First we have to deal with the little matter of your trespassing.’

  I close my eyes as my stomach takes a roller-coaster plunge. My thighs press together, sending a little surge of pleasure through my clit.

  I must have murmured something that sounded like a question because he’s suddenly standing over me again, peering down solemnly. ‘I don’t think that can go unpunished. Do you?’

  I squirm, blushing furiously as I struggle with the idea that he’s sprung straight from my fantasies.

  ‘No,’ I whisper at last.

  His eyebrows go up. ‘No? No what?’

  Another powerful jolt of pleasure surges through me. ‘No, sir.’

  He smiles. ‘Good girl.’

  I watch as he crosses the room to the dressing table, where a selection of objects is scattered. An ebony grooming set. Christopher selects one of the objects and hefts it in his hand, as though testing the weight. I tremble as I realise what it is. A hairbrush.

  When he returns to the bed with it, I can hardly breathe. I just stare at it, wide-eyed and fearful, absolutely unable to speak. My silent compliance seems to please him. Although his expression is severe, at least there is the hint of a smile in his eyes.

  He lays the hairbrush on the nightstand and sets about unfastening the silken ropes from the curtains around the bed. He takes his time, gently untangling each knot before slipping it free of the material. My heart bangs in my chest, pounding in time to the throbbing between my legs.

  I want him to hurry, to get it over with. I want him to take all day.

  At last he comes back to me. He takes me by the arm, pulls me up and removes the pillows from beneath my head. He piles them in the centre of the bed and nods towards them. It’s painfully obvious what he wants me to do, but I can only stare at him pleadingly. My body simply won’t move.

  He moves it for me, hauling me across the pile of softness, positioning me diagonally on the bed, with my bottom raised high in the air. I close my eyes, feeling lightheaded. When he ties my wrists together, I sink even deeper into a kind of submissive bliss. The kind I’ve written about before but never actually experienced. It’s overwhelming.

  He ties the trailing end of the rope to one of the bedposts and repeats the procedure with my ankles. I squirm and tug at them, testing their strength. I am held fast.

  Christopher doesn’t prolong the torment by keeping me in suspense. I gasp as I feel the smooth, polished wood against my bare bottom. He presses it against my pristine skin, which he taps gently before he begins in earnest.

  I hold my breath as I sense the hairbrush lift away. It comes down with a sharp crack and for a moment I feel nothing. Then the stinging pain reaches my brain and lets me know I’ve been smacked. I cry out, wriggling over the pillows and straining against the ropes. Before the pain can fade, he smacks me again, evening out the glow across both cheeks. My head swims with lust at the sensation. Pleasure and pain. Teasing and tantalising.

  Again and again he brings the ebony hairbrush down on my tender bottom, wrenching gasps and cries from me. I clench my cheeks, squeezing my legs together at each stroke, stimulating myself almost past enduring. The heat penetrates my entire body, consuming me.

  When I can’t stand it any longer, I beg him to take me.

  ‘Please,’ I gasp, ‘please fuck me.’

  He plays the hairbrush over my burning cheeks, drawing it teasingly up and down the backs of my thighs, making me shudder. ‘Have you learned your lesson?’

  ‘Oh, God, yes!’

  He chuckles softly. ‘Yes what?’

  My face floods with warmth and I whimper, delirious with the pain and embarrassment, ‘Yes, sir. I’ve learned my lesson, sir.’

  He calls me a good girl again and I squirm in response, drowning in desire. I feel his hand then, caressing my punished flesh and stroking me like a pet. He unties my ankles and tells me to spread my legs. I obey. Gently he parts my cheeks and I know he can see how wet I am, how lasciviously I’ve responded to his treatment.

  But he doesn’t untie my wrists. He mounts me as I am, bound and presented. I feel the warm hardness press against my sex and I scream into the bedclothes as he buries himself inside. I clench my inner muscles around him as he begins to thrust, filling me and withdrawing, fucking and teasing.

  The weight of him feels wonderful against my back, and especially against my sore bottom. He intensifies the stinging pain of the spanking with each powerful thrust and I cry out with complete abandon. His hands reach around and underneath me to cup my breasts, and the added stimulation increases my arousal a thousandfold. I can feel mys
elf racing towards a powerful climax. He seems to sense my nearness and increases his pace, fucking me harder and faster, pounding me.

  When the pleasure peaks, I howl wordlessly, surrendering to the racking waves that batter me, the spasms that consume me. The French call it ‘the little death’ and it’s no wonder. I feel like I’m dying and being reborn. His cock pulses into me, hot and wet, and I contract myself around him to prolong the moment for both of us. Afterwards I am barely aware of being untied and released. All I know is I don’t want him to go.

  He is playing with the hairbrush, slapping it teasingly against his palm, smiling at me.

  I lie splayed and spent on the bed, naked and sweaty, my bottom burning underneath me. Blissed out. All I want is to stay here with him, to be fucked and punished, punished and fucked. I’ve completely forgotten the whole reason I’m here.

  Finally Christopher speaks, the triumph evident in his voice. ‘I suppose this means you’ll lose your bet.’

  It takes a moment for the words to penetrate. Then it all comes clear. I bury my face in my hands, blushing as I realise how expertly I’ve been distracted, how masterfully I’ve been played. I never imagined losing could be so much fun.

  ‘Peter hired you,’ I moan, ashamed and impressed in equal measure. ‘And you’re the forfeit.’

  Christopher peels my hands away. He nods his head slowly, smiling like the wicked charmer he is. ‘Although I’d like to think I’m also the prize,’ he says. He strokes my face, draws his fingers down to my breasts, teases the nipples into stiffness.

  ‘Is your name even Blackwood?’ I ask, trying and failing to resist responding to his seductive touch.

  He lowers his mouth to mine and kisses me deeply. My sex pulses hungrily in response and I can feel his cock hardening against my thigh.

  When he pulls away he peers into my eyes. ‘You’re the writer,’ he says. ‘You tell me.’

  Winning a Yes

  Kathleen Tudor

  Sage hummed along with the radio as she drove out of town. She’d never taken this route before, but she felt like she knew every turn and curve in the road. She’d studied the directions enough times, eagerly awaiting the day that her name would move to the top of the adoption list. When a new litter would be born. When she’d get the call.