Читать книгу Turning Up the Heat - Ashley Lister - Страница 11

She returned to Bill’s cottage, still trying to decide how to deal with Donny’s latest message. With the prospect of a beautiful day blossoming from the pastel-blue sky, she didn’t like the idea of dwelling on his juvenile threats. But she knew, if she didn’t do something, the situation was likely to get out of hand.

‘Bastard, bastard, bastard,’ she grumbled. She repeated the words as she ran, using their rise and fall to help balance her pace. ‘Bastard, bastard, bastard.’ It didn’t help to maintain a great rhythm but she felt a growing sense of satisfaction from condemning Donny as she ran.

The last leg of her run took her past Aliceon’s cottage on the outskirts of Bill’s estate. It was a pretty building, steeped in the rustic charm of a thatched roof and surrounded by a dry stone wall. There were lemon trees on either side of the cottage’s bright-green doorway and wild roses, yellow and peach, climbing ivy-like up the walls.

Trudy wasn’t sure she was comfortable with the woman living so close. She told herself that was more because Aliceon was cold and unapproachable than because her previous relationship with Bill might affect Trudy’s developing attachment to him. But she wasn’t entirely sure she was telling herself the truth.

Admittedly, living so close to the restaurant meant Aliceon was always available to work at Boui-Boui whenever she was needed. But the fact that she had a key to Bill’s cottage, and no qualms about bursting in when she felt the situation merited such an unwanted intrusion, meant that Trudy lived with the constant worry of her making an unexpected appearance.

The racing-green convertible outside Aliceon’s cottage was blocked in by a large dark sedan. There was a man at Aliceon’s door. Dressed in a dark suit he looked as formal and foreboding as the menacing vehicle he had been driving. He carried an impressive looking briefcase and wore an austere frown.

Trudy thought of stopping to ask if Aliceon needed help. She knew it would be a neighbourly and considerate action. It was the sort of thoughtfulness she herself would have appreciated. But she had yet to see a situation where the maître d’ needed assistance from anyone. Aliceon could handle complaints, drunks, threats and the media with ease, confidence and self-assurance. Trudy thought it unlikely that the woman would be shaken by one surly-looking man on her doorstep.

Nevertheless, as she jogged past, Trudy tried to catch Aliceon’s eye, just in case she did need assistance. She could see Aliceon lurking within the shadows of her doorway. Her frame was slender when she was wearing her suit in Boui-Boui, but it looked spindly here wrapped tight in a towelling bathrobe. She was shaking her head in small terse gestures. Her lips were pursed into a solemn sneer of disdain.

When she did make eye contact, and Trudy found her gaze being met by Aliceon’s defiant glare, Aliceon simply ushered her guest into the cottage and slammed the door.

The rudeness didn’t trouble Trudy. Making a note to mention the anomaly to Bill, she jogged unhurriedly past and headed back to the cottage.

She slowed her pace further as she passed the chicken runs where the restaurant’s resident Black Rock chickens clucked and pecked. They were substantial creatures, beautiful with their scarlet combs, golden capes and silky black bodies. But, like all chickens, they were easily unsettled and Trudy didn’t want to cause them any distress.

Slowing her pace only served to remind her that she had done too much this morning. Weary from the effort, and close to staggering, she stumbled into the kitchen.

The room was noisy with the sound of the hissing espresso machine. Bill had been listening to a radio programme but he turned the volume down when she entered the room.

‘You took your sweet time this morning, didn’t you?’ He was glancing at his wristwatch. ‘How many miles are you running nowadays?’

‘I went to the market to see Finlay,’ she explained. She held up the bag that contained her cinnamon and the other ingredients and said, ‘I might have resolved the problem with the muffins.’

Bill raised an eyebrow. ‘What does the old bugger think they’re lacking?’

‘Cinnamon.’

Bill considered this. ‘Maybe.’ In his thick Yorkshire accent the word came out as meb-bee. ‘You should try that, but I still think it’s an issue with the coffee. You should be trying beans with a more exciting flavour than the Coffea Canephora.’

She dropped the spices on the kitchen counter, kissed him lightly on the cheek and said, ‘I need to get a shower. I’m all sweaty from this morning’s run and I’m sure you don’t want me when I’m all sweaty.’

He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close to him. Because he was sitting and she was standing his face was close to her breasts.

‘I like you sweaty,’ he confided.

Her heartbeat quickened. Her need for him blossomed with fast, fluid urgency. He had a hand on the small of her back and was pulling her closer. She always found there was something electric in the familiarity of his touch. He knew how to balance his natural authority with her body’s desire for sensitivity.

This morning was no exception.

The suggestion of impending intimacy flavoured the air like the smell of spices had flavoured each breath in Finlay West’s spice shop. Her need for him throbbed with a dull and steady pulse that was undeniable. It grew more insistent with each passing second.

With an exertion of willpower she didn’t know she possessed, Trudy shook her head. She resisted the desires he inspired and fixed him with a firm expression. ‘I don’t have time to play those sorts of games this morning, Mr Hart,’ she told him. ‘I’ve got to get showered and do a quick experiment with this new pumpkin-pie-spice blend before I get down to HQ.’

He let his hand fall away from her as he checked his watch.

‘What if I say you’re allowed ten minutes in the bathroom? What if I say, after those ten minutes, I want you in this kitchen, Ms McLaughlin?’

She shivered and considered her reply carefully before responding.

‘If you said those things,’ she said, swallowing, ‘I suppose I’d have to obey your commands, Mr Hart.’

He lightly landed his hand against her rear.

‘I did say those things,’ he agreed. He glanced again at his watch and said, ‘You’ve got nine minutes and fifty seconds remaining, Ms McLaughlin. I think you’d better get moving.’

She could tell from his tone that he wasn’t joking.

She slipped from his embrace and hurried up the stairs. The lycra running wear felt as though it had been glued to her body with a sticky blend of warmth and perspiration. She pulled the clothing away with clumsy snatches. After dropping the garments into the laundry basket she hurriedly stepped into the shower.

The stream of misty-hot water dissolved the sheen of sweat on her shoulders and back. She smoothed soap over her skin and tried not to think of how much Bill would be pleasuring her when she was clean and had returned to the kitchen. The knowledge that they were about to share intimate time together sent a tremor of smouldering need through the muscles of her sex. Her nipples stiffened and she felt momentarily dizzy beneath the spray from the showerhead.

It crossed her mind that she should mention the messages she had received from Donny. Her former friend was clearly trying to make some point that would likely be unpleasant and inconvenient. She supposed it would also be prudent to mention the invitation from Harvey. Under the policy of honesty and openness to which they’d both agreed with the new arrangement, Trudy thought frank discussion would be the cornerstone of what they did together. But she knew that talking about Donny or Harvey could kill whatever passion she hoped to share with Bill. And, remembering that she had put her own arousal on hold while she went for her run this morning, Trudy didn’t want to do or say anything that was likely to spoil the satisfaction of their shared passion.

Promising herself that she would mention both subjects when she was working alongside him at Boui-Boui in the evening, Trudy finished her shower and dressed quickly. She found matching pants and bra in her drawers in their bedroom. She also found a modest charcoal skirt and a pair of black heels and completed the outfit with a silver-grey blouse. It was more stylish than what she usually wore – she preferred function to fashion – but she thought the results were pleasing. Aware that she had probably gone beyond the ten minutes Bill had allowed, Trudy hurried down the stairs calling an apology ahead of her.

Bill glanced at his wristwatch.

‘You’re six minutes late,’ he muttered.

Six minutes? She was surprised it hadn’t been longer.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Hart.’

‘Pass me the wooden spoon.’

The pulse between her legs beat more swiftly. She snatched the wooden spoon from its hook by the sink and handed it to him. She noticed that her fingertips were trembling. Some days the arousal he inspired was so strong that it was impossible to contain her reactions. Seeing her hands shake with anticipation was now such a regular occurrence it was almost commonplace. But, even though it happened so frequently, it felt far from commonplace.

‘Bend over, Ms McLaughlin.’

She assumed the same position that she always adopted for punishment in the cottage’s kitchen. She stood before the kitchen sink and stared out through the window. Glancing down at her feet, and the grey slate tiles on the floor, she placed the toes of her shoes at the corners of a pair of floor-tiles two rows back from the kitchen sink. The tiles were separated by two tiles. The distance was uncomfortable and, for Trudy, it felt as though she was stretching to put her feet exactly where they were needed. The muscles at the tops of her thighs felt strained but she figured she was sufficiently limber from her daily exercise regime that she could take pleasure from the discomfort of a little overstretching.

Not that it was just the discomfort of an uncomfortable posture that weighed on her thoughts. The position also made Trudy stand with her legs far enough apart to make her feel exposed.

Bill knelt down and stroked the back of her calf.

His fingers were warm. The palms were callused and rough against her smooth bare skin. As he stroked upwards, his caress smoothing the back of her knee and beneath the hem of her modest charcoal skirt, Trudy could feel her excitement growing. She was desperate to feel his touch go higher and she wanted to sob out a desperate command that he should hurry up and satisfy her.

Knowing that such a demand would either be ignored or earn a punishment, Trudy refrained from crying out. She tightened her grip on the edge of the sink.

Slowly, as though he knew of her impatience and was making her wait, Bill’s fingers inched higher. He stroked her thigh with a languid, lingering hand that was deliberate and unhurried. He chuckled softly to himself and she understood he was drawing as much pleasure from the intimacy as she was enduring.

‘You’re wearing white cotton panties?’ he mused. ‘How innocent.’

She stumbled for a response. Was she supposed to thank him? Apologise? Or simply squirm from the satisfaction of knowing that he was now studying her panties and probably preparing to remove them?

‘Yes, Mr Hart,’ she mumbled.

He stroked the crotch of her panties, his fingernail scratching against the weft of the cotton fabric. The sensation was subtle enough to be described as featherlight, but it was also powerful enough to have her quivering.

The single caress was almost enough to ignite a climax.

It took an enormous effort to stand still without trembling.

His finger chased lazily back and forth against the crotch. She could feel herself growing wetter and more desperate for him. She swallowed repeatedly, choking down words that would encourage, coax and beg him to do more.

‘I need to remove these,’ he decided. ‘They’re getting in my way.’

She nodded and tried to speak. Her throat was too dry to do anything more than croak. ‘Yes, Mr Hart.’

He tugged gently at the cotton.

She was so acutely sensitive to what he was doing that every movement felt like the sort of caress that would make her body explode with an orgasmic release. Even though he was doing little more than removing her panties, slowly sliding his fingers beneath the fabric and then slipping the underwear down her legs, she could feel her responses growing more profound.

She was reminded of the previous evening in Boui-Boui’s kitchens where he had left her half-naked, exposed and vulnerable. She wondered if that was his intention this morning. The idea of revisiting that thrill made her throb with longing for him. Admittedly, it was something of a frustrating tease. But, if she was going to be teased and frustrated by any man, she was happy for her torment to be at the hands of her Mr Hart.

She stepped awkwardly out of the panties.

He peeled her skirt upwards to expose her cheeks. His roughened palms stroked the peach-like flesh of her buttocks. She wondered if he was chasing the shape of the red lines that remained from when he had spanked her the previous evening.

The idea made her tremble.

She had checked her reflection before climbing in the shower and knew the shadow of the marks remained. Did he get the same excitement from seeing those handprints that she had enjoyed? Trudy wanted to ask the question but she knew that speaking would break the spell of the moment.

Bill absently slid a finger against her wetness.

Her lips felt oily with the greedy need he inspired.

Then he was stepping away from her and demonstrating the domination that she always adored. He slapped a steadying hand against her backside, his right palm landing smartly on her bare right cheek. The blow stung briefly but she knew that was not proper punishment.

‘Six minutes,’ he reminded her.

She moaned softly. She had a good idea of what would be coming next.

At the back of her mind she knew she should be pressing on to see if Finlay’s pumpkin-pie spice addressed the shortfall in the flavour of the muffins. She should be telling him about Harvey’s offer, Donny’s threats and the anomaly of seeing a strange man outside Aliceon’s cottage that morning. But the importance of those considerations was pushed to the back of her mind and drowned out by the more urgent needs of her libido.

‘Six minutes,’ she repeated.

She tightened the muscles in her buttocks, trying to make herself ready for the blows. He stroked the bowl of the wooden spoon against her rear. She could feel him drawing slow S shapes with tails that crept close to the crease of her sex.

He didn’t stop drawing the shapes until she’d shivered with need.

Then, without any warning, he shocked her with six smart slaps from the spoon. There were three for each cheek. They were harsh, sharp and exactly what she wanted. They left her panting, excited and breathlessly expecting more.

Bill tossed the wooden spoon into the sink.

‘You were going to work on your muffins, weren’t you, Ms McLaughlin?’

She nodded. She felt momentarily stunned by the size of her unsated craving.

‘Get on with your muffins,’ Bill growled gruffly. ‘We can finish playing once you’re done baking them.’

She nodded obediently, making no attempt to let him know how desperately she wanted him. Pulling herself away from the sink she allowed her skirt to fall back into place. Then she began preparing the muffins as he had instructed.

Before sifting the flour or measuring out the sugars she needed, Trudy pulled an espresso from the machine in the centre of Bill’s kitchen. She set the drink aside to cool while she began work on the pumpkin-pie spice.

Carefully following Finlay’s instructions, grinding two teaspoons of cloves with a pestle and mortar and then adding them to two teaspoons of ground ginger, two teaspoons of ground nutmeg and two teaspoons of allspice, she finished the mixture with three tablespoons of ground cinnamon.

Bill was watching guardedly.

She liked that he didn’t interfere. Occasionally, when they were in Boui-Boui’s kitchens, he offered helpful suggestions or tips based on his years of experience in professional kitchens. But when they were alone together, he seldom did more than watch.

‘I still say that’s a chuff of a lot of cinnamon,’ he mumbled. ‘There’s times when I worry that Finlay might be losing it.’

Trudy shrugged uneasily.

She turned on the oven, adjusted the shelf and dropped a dozen dark-brown muffin cases onto a bun tray.

‘If it was anyone else I’d share your worries,’ she admitted. ‘It seems like an enormous amount of cinnamon. But this is Finlay West’s recipe for pumpkin-pie spice, and I trust his wisdom.’

Bill shrugged. ‘Let’s see how it turns out.’

She placed the mixed spice in an empty jar and labelled it Pumpkin-Pie Spice – Finlay West recipe. She added the date to the label and then put it aside.

Bill lifted the jar and sniffed warily at the contents. He raised an eyebrow and she saw the quirk of his smile on his upper lip. Was that approval? Did he think the mixture was right this time? Or did he still believe that Finlay West had lost it?

Trudy said nothing. She began to work on the remainder of the dry ingredients, sifting flour and baking powder into a bowl. She was about to weigh out the turbinado sugar when Bill stopped her.

‘What are you doing?’

‘What does it look like I’m doing? I’m adding sugar.’

‘That’s turbinado.’

‘I know. That’s the sugar this needs.’

‘Turbinado is too delicate. You’re using coffee and pumpkin-pie spice. This recipe needs a demarara.’

She considered the suggestion. The differences between turbinado and demerara were negligible. Personally she enjoyed the suggestions of honey that were sometimes found in a turbinado, whereas demerara could be rich with the remnants of its syrupy molasses content. But she supposed, balanced against the coffee and the spices she wanted in the muffins, it would be as well to try Bill’s suggestion.

‘Very good, Mr Hart,’ she demurred.

He laughed as she weighed out the demerara sugar.

She added the eggs and double cream, along with a dash of sunflower oil and the cooled espresso. After folding wet and dry ingredients together, combining them rather than mixing them, she scooped spoonfuls of mix into the dozen muffin cases. Briskly, she pushed the tray onto the shelf, set the timer app on her smartphone for fourteen minutes, and then turned to grin at him.

His smile was an eager reflection of her own.

‘We have quarter of an hour,’ she told him.

He kissed her.

It was the contact her body had needed.

His lips were firm and strong and surprisingly commanding. He nibbled gently on her lower lip as his hand went to the back of her neck and held her face still for his kisses. If she hadn’t been wet for him before, Trudy knew she would be melting after he had kissed her.

She could feel herself responding to him. The inner muscles of her sex tingled greedily as though they yearned to have him inside. Every erogenous zone on her body throbbed in anticipation of what she hoped they were about to enjoy.

‘I’ve been waiting for this moment since I woke up,’ he whispered.

She could have said the same thing.

She rubbed her pelvis against him. The bulge of his arousal was a thinly veiled hardness beneath his dressing gown. She moaned quietly, confident that he was about to satisfy all the broiling urges that he’d awoken in her loins.