3. Blythe
“I’m yours.” The admission sends a shiver through me, as though it’s a magical vow sworn in blood rather than an impulsive truth spoken in a stationary vehicle.
I’m his. I have been since we first met.
Mr Blackstone’s throat bobs as he swallows, and I wonder if he’s as affected by this conversation as I am. We’ve stopped, but he’s gripping the steering wheel and looking ahead as though we’re speeding down a road, out of control.
“Two days off a week,” he rumbles.
“What?”
“You have to?—”
“That wasn’t in the advert,” I cut in. I don’t need holidays as though this is a nine-to-five in a grey office.
I want surprise gleeful loving hot sexy times, at any hour of any day. No, I haven’t got specific ideas about what that really entails, but that’s beside the point.
“I hadn’t finished writing the specification before you…” He pauses and I cringe, biting my tongue to prevent myself from saying that I didn’t mean to snoop. “Saw it.”
“Right.” I’m not disappointed. I’m not. It makes perfect sense.
Although, of course I’m a bit hurt he doesn’t want me to be his wife all the time. His free use wife.
“You can do whatever you want at the weekend. Except see anyone in a…”
“I won’t,” I say quickly. Anything he’s about to specify, I don’t want. I only desire Mr Blackstone. “And I don’t need days?—”
“You’ll have time off, because I will expect a lot from you during the week,” he growls, jaw set as he unpeels his hands from the steering wheel and shoves the car door open.
My heart bounces. I wonder exactly what he’ll expect. I hope I can satisfy him. Can we still spend time together during my weekends off? I don’t dare ask. But I hope so. I really, really hope so.
He strides around the vehicle, yanks open my door, and regards me darkly.
“Okay.” My throat is so tight I’m only capable of that squeak, but it’s enough.
He nods tersely, offers his hand, and when I take it pulls me from my seat. He doesn’t let go as we enter the house, his big hand enveloping mine.
And that’s it, I guess. We’re betrothed.
I’m engaged to my crush. The father of my best friend. The man who stole my heart over the course of our first evening together, and who heats me all over every time he looks at me.
This is insane.
Mr Blackstone pulls me through to the kitchen, and I obediently scramble onto the stool at the kitchen island he leaves me next to as he sets about making coffee. His phone buzzes in his pocket almost non-stop with notifications and calls. He doesn’t even glance at it.
“You can answer your phone, it alright,” I say after a couple of minutes.
I don’t know what to do with myself.
I basically proposed marriage to my best friend’s dad, and now… There’s no rule book for this.
“No.” He shakes his head abruptly. “That’s just Blackstone work. Nothing to be concerned with compared to…”
He pulls the phone from his pocket, silences it, and tosses it onto the marble countertop where it lies motionless. A dead little brick.
“But before we go any further, we should clarify what we both expect from this marriage.”
Suddenly, I’m pinned. I daren’t breathe for the risk I might shatter my chance with Mr Blackstone. Does he need me to do some clever thing? Maybe be really sexy?
I don’t know how to do that. I can barely flirt or get myself off with my fingers. I certainly can’t be a seductress.
“I don’t want you to be under illusions, Blythe.” He sets a cappuccino before me and an espresso in front of himself.
He remembers what my favourite coffee is.
“About free use, you mean?” I ask, voice wobbling.
He knocks back the espresso in one gulp and I watch entranced at the bob of his dark stubbled neck. I want to kiss that roughness.
“I’d take exactly what I wanted,” he says harshly, slamming the cup down and pinning me with his gaze. “Whenever I wanted it. You’d just have to be available.”
The mere idea makes me weak with need.
Yes. Take me. I’ll be yours anytime you like.
“I wake up horny in the middle of the night? You’ll wake with my cock in your pussy,” he continues. “You’re doing the laundry and looking hot? I’ll bend you over the washing machine. You don’t say no. You don’t complain. I don’t ask. I just take.”
He says these scorching words matter of factly, and without emotion, despite how filthy they are. Almost like a challenge. He’s waiting for me to rebel at what he’s saying. He’s the hottest imaginable headteacher, laying down the rules, and asking me if I’m going to be a good girl, or be expelled. His eyes bore into me, the blue dark as ink.
“I think…” My throat is dry, and I have to break off to clear it with a cough and then swallow. “I can do that.”
I congratulate myself that I didn’t throw myself on the floor at his feet, begging, with my legs open.
“Can you?” he asks softly, remaining motionless.
“Yes.” But my voice betrays me, shaking and higher than usual.
I’m a virgin, after all. There’s no way on earth I’m telling Mr Blackstone that, because I’m pretty sure he’d freak out and call this whole idea off. But if he leads? If he’s in charge, and takes what he wants from me, I will be so happy to please him. I will be his pliable doll.
I crave being his favourite, cherished, treasured toy.
“Why don’t we try a test of whether you can be obedient enough?” he suggests with dangerous softness.
I nod. I will pass with top marks. I’ll do anything to satisfy him.
Mr Blackstone beckons me with two fingers slowly curled and I make my way around the kitchen island. I think I expect him to—okay, I don’t know what to expect. I am Bambi in this situation. Newborn, shy, gawky, spindly legs, fur. Not that last one.
He pushes off from the marble, making a gap between his body and the countertop. I take the hint, and slip into the space before he closes it with slow deliberateness, hands on either side of me, bracketing me in.
There’s no hesitation as he leans in to kiss me, because he doesn’t know it’s my first kiss. He thinks I’ve been partying at university like a normal girl. How could he know how shy I am with everyone who isn’t Ainsley or him? So when I tilt up my chin it’s a firm, sexy kiss that deepens immediately, his lips opening mine and muffling my gasp of surprise as his tongue sweeps into my mouth. It’s carnal and possessive, and he’s not even touching me but my nipples tingle with need.
“Blythe,” he groans, and before I know what’s happening he’s wrapped his arms around me. I have maybe two seconds to feel his body pressed to me—the firm muscles of his chest and abdomen, his thighs, those flexing muscles beneath his pristine white shirt, and the shockingly hot and hard length of his erection—before he’s lifted me and sat me onto the edge of the smooth, cool marble.
“Lie down.”
Gingerly, I ease myself back, glancing over behind me for anything in the way, but of course Mr Blackstone has already thought of that and moved the coffee cups. My elbows, then my shoulder blades touch the stone, and with my legs draped over the counter, and Mr Blackstone standing over me, I’m bared.
His gaze bores into me as I look up at him, my mouth open. I’m his meal and he’s a hungry hunter, about to cut me into slivers of his choosing and devour me bit by bit. I quake.
I want him.
My best friend’s dad is going to take my virginity on a kitchen countertop. I cannot wait.
But instead of releasing his erection then pushing the solid length into me, he leans over me, bringing his head down to press a kiss first to my knee, then a bit higher. He repeats the action, each open-mouthed kiss zinging into me.
“Oh fuck, this skirt…” He drags the soft fabric up my thighs to reveal my underwear and my cheeks heat as I remember what it is.
Not because it’s sexy-embarrassing. Nope. It’s plain white cotton with a little pink bow. I bought it in a practical pack of three. Could I be any more boring?
Mr Blackstone is a sophisticated older man, and I am a girl in plain panties.
“I’m sorry about…” I can’t finish that sentence when he straightens and frowns at me.
There’s a beat of silence while he waits, unblinking.
“Sorry about what, Blythe?” he asks eventually.
“My knickers.”
“That’s okay. You didn’t know about my rule when you dressed this morning.” He snags the waistband and I’m so nonplussed all I do is lift my hips to enable him to slide my knickers down my thighs and over my calves in a whisper of soft fabric, then off altogether. He stashes them into his pocket without lifting his gaze from the flesh he’s revealed.
I’m naked to the waist.
“I meant that they’re so?—”
“Shh.” Taking both my knees in his hands, he slowly but uncompromisingly pushes my thighs open, revealing my pussy.
Ohhh… His rule about not wearing knickers as his wife. My brain catches up and my cheeks heat. No knickers.
“You’re soaked,” he says with evident satisfaction. Then he leans over me again and breathes in a greedy lungful of air, closing his eyes and savouring it as though I’m a sample at an expensive perfume counter. The space between us hums with energy.
I’m hot and achy under his gaze. And confused. I imagined free use would be all, wham, bam, in and out? Not Mr Blackstone gently prising me open and making me tingle all over without taking anything for himself. Not him completely misunderstanding my point about my knickers and removing them as though they were a cute hindrance rather than a girlish misstep.
“I thought?—”
“You don’t get a say in this,” he interrupts me, not even looking up from where he’s staring at my pussy. “Are you trying to show me you’d be a good little free use housewife, or not?”
I shut up.
After a second, his breath ghosts my inner thigh, and he murmurs, “Good girl,” before licking right over my clit.
I buck and squeal with shock.
“Uh-uh.” His fingers tighten on my thighs.
He licks me again in a long stroke that’s so slow it’s like it’s for him savouring me rather than my pleasure. It’s almost too much, making me jerk and mewl.
“I’m going to make you come with my mouth, and you will take it,” he orders huskily.
Oh my god. Is that what’s happening here?
“I—”
“You can,” he insists. “Don’t fight it.”
So I don’t.
I bite my lip to prevent myself from blurting out anything. The sensation of his hot wet tongue on my pussy is as erotic and extraordinary and unexpected as this whole day has been since I first saw his computer screen.
The contrast of the cold stone and Mr Blackstone between my legs drives me wild. I wanted to pretend I’m cool, this is no big deal to me. But I’m writhing and moaning. It’s insane. I’m a normal, everyday girl, not someone who is placed onto a high surface and devoured carnally.
Because that’s what Mr Blackstone is doing, dedicatedly.
He eats me out as though he’s starving, with grunts of enjoyment like I’m the best thing he’s ever tasted. His hands on my thighs to keep me still as the sensations are too much for me and I writhe. Those purring sounds he makes go right into my bones. Everything tells me—apart from his lack of actual words—that he’s delighted by licking me.
I’m gasping, fisting my hands and scraping my fingers on the shiny marble. I scrabble for purchase with my feet and Mr Blackstone becomes all the stricter, holding me down and doing something magic with his tongue. My back bows as the pleasure ramps up.
Then he lets one of my thighs go, and I barely have time to realise what he’s going to do before he shoves a finger into my passage and I’m coming. It’s like my body was waiting to have a part of him to grip onto, and that triggers me off, spinning me into ecstasy. I pulse and vibrate and although before I’ve used my fingers to make myself come, this is an entirely different level.
My sight is blurred, though I don’t close my eyes as the pleasure buzzes through me. This orgasm is whole body shudders.
Mr Blackstone made me come with his tongue and only one solitary finger.
I manage to focus, and find my husband-to-be with his hands on either side of my hips and his stormy blue gaze on my face. His cheeks are wet, and he’s smiling with an expression that’s unrepentantly smug.
He just made me come.
This is free use?
“I don’t understand.” My eyeline falls to where he’s packing a very large truncheon. It’s so big, surely it’s painful? Doesn’t he need relief? “Aren’t we going to have sex?”
He adjusts his crotch, and my breath is stolen by how much I want him.
“Not until we’re married.”