Eager Housewife: a smutty free-use romance (Filthy Scottish Kingpins Book 2)

8. Duncan

It’s torturing myself, but when we walk into the house after midnight, I ask, “Did you choose a bedroom for yourself?”

She starts and I stuff my hands in my pockets to prevent myself from reaching for her as she licks her lips.

“I didn’t. I can?—”

“It’s up to—” We both speak at the same time. It’s awkward. There have been multiple adjustments this week. The change from holding back to allowing myself to have her. The sneaking around and evading Ainsley’s questions. And now, this new challenge. We’d just become familiar with each other sexually, and for two days that’s off-limits.

“I thought you’d prefer…” I don’t finish that sentence. Even in my head, it makes me a bawbag. Do I really think she’s desperate to be away from me? She chose this. I gave her options, and she said yes to being the free use wife of her best friend’s father.

It’s too good to be true, though, and I can’t help but suspect she’ll change her mind. Especially if Ainsley finds out. When.

“I haven’t made a bed, and it’s late. Would you mind if I…”

“Stayed in our bed?” The relief is a tangible object. It’s a life-ring in the stormy sea of my love. “Of course. It’s your room too.”

“It won’t be a problem…?” she checks.

Yes. I shake my head. Yes, it will be an issue not reaching for Blythe as I have all week. But it would be far worse if she wasn’t with me at all.

“Nae bother,” I reassure her, and she smiles.

“I’m glad. I’ve never slept in the same bed with someone before you. I like it. It’s warm?—”

“You want me for my body heat,” I say wryly.

“Yep. You want me for sex, so fair’s fair.”

I laugh, but it’s hollow. If only she knew. I’m not brave enough to tell her I want so much more than sex from her. A marriage of convenience is what she signed up for, and I’ll deliver. It’s not as though there’s any lack of my wanting her. I don’t look as she gets undressed. I cannae give myself that level of temptation.

“You alright, lass?” I ask as I switch off the light once she’s safely under the covers.

“Yeah.”

In the darkness, we lie together not touching. Where I would normally pull her in to hold her next to me and rest her head on my pectoral, close enough to kiss her hair and breathe in the bergamot scent, instead I leave her in peace.

I don’t fall asleep. Partly because my cock is at half-mast, and I’m willing it down as I listen to Blythe shifting on the mattress.

“Alright?” I enquire again.

“Good, yeah, good.” She turns over. Then there are the soft sounds of her lips moving and little inhalations as she almost speaks.

“What is it, wee lassie?”

“Would…” She trails off.

This is ridiculous. Will either of us ever finish a sentence ever again? We’re like dunderheid teenagers. She at least has an excuse, only being two years more than that age. I’m forty. I’ve been the kingpin of Blackstone for a decade, and I’ve fallen for this girl like rock tossed into a loch.

“Go on.”

“Would you be able to spend tomorrow with me?” she says in a rush, as though she’d been holding it in. “I know you don’t normally have weekends off from work, but I don’t have many friends in London, or full stop to be honest, and I?—”

“Yes. Of course.” I turn towards her, propping my head up on my hand to look down at her. The curtains are closed, and I can only see the outline of my wife. “Yes.” She needs company, I’m there. “What do you want to do?”

“I don’t mind.”

Sweet lass. “Stop me when I get to something you like. Shopping on Oxford Street?”

“You’ve already bought me more than enough clothes!”

Aye, but spoiling her is such a pleasure.

“Sightseeing in London? Trip to the beach at Brighton? Fly to Paris?”

“We don’t have to go anywhere special.” She says that as though she isn’t important, and I bite my tongue.

Nothing special, huh?

“How about we visit the house in Scotland?”

“Oh!”

Warmth seeps out from my heart. Yes. I found the right thing. “Dinnae Ainsley tell you about the castle?”

“Castle? No. She mentioned Lochside.”

Things have been so busy, we haven’t been up to Scotland since Ainsley and Blythe have been friends. “We’ll go tomorrow, if you’d like.”

“I would,” she whispers.

A few presses on my phone, and I arrange the helicopter to take us to Lochside and for the house to be readied for its new mistress. My wife.

“Done.” I click my phone off and lie back down.

“Thank you.” Blythe’s hand reaches out under the covers and finds my bicep.

“You’re welcome.”

“Do you mind…?” She wriggles nearer, and I adjust my arm until she’s snuggled into me.

Just for warmth, I suppose, as she said.

But I’ll take it. And while I thought I wouldn’t be able to sleep, I slide into a deep dreamless slumber with my wee free use wifey at my side.

* * *

It’s an idyllic two days at Lochside, and I don’t care that I can’t touch Blythe, because we’re too busy having fun. She’s delighted with the castle, and marvels over the circular turret rooms with heavy red velvet curtains and the views of the loch through little rhombus glass sections. She makes me show her every room, but there’s no question about where she sleeps on Saturday night. It’s in my bed, in the warmth of my embrace, her hair tickling my chin.

I thought it would be impossible to control myself now I’ve had her, and the desire is there, a bulge in my trousers or thankfully hidden by my kilt. But I manage because being with Blythe is everything I need.

We walk next to the loch and up over the moor, flopping down into the springy bed of purple heather and watching clouds. We bathe in the underground hot pool and swim—her more briefly than me—in the cold loch. We drink local peaty whisky after a hearty dinner, and it’s so easy.

Admittedly, not ideal when Blythe is texting Ainsley, who is curious about why she’s in Scotland for the weekend.

Thankfully, Ainsley doesn’t ask where I am when she calls, assuming I’m working as usual. But I’m not. I’m finding out about my wife. Asking her serious questions, and silly ones. Telling her she’s off her heid when she confesses she once stayed up until six in the morning reading a book about dragons.

On Sunday night, back at the Blackstone house in London, we’re still talking, lying in bed when Blythe’s phone pings with a message and she checks it.

“Just Ainsley saying goodnight.” She discards her phone and snuggles closer. “It’s almost one. It’s Monday.”

My heart stops. She’s my free use wife again. “Do you need to sleep?”

“Mmhum,” she agrees, but her little wiggle is pure sensuous mischief.

I bring my hand to her hip. Cotton pyjamas, not skin. I push the fabric aside. My cock rises as I touch her naked curves, desperate after two days of not having her whenever I want.

“Mine,” I whisper. “Mine.”

That’s as much as I can claim.

She must never know that I broke my own rule before I’d ever written the advert.

I can’t let her suspect that I love her.

I’ve no idea if I’m relieved or happy or disappointed as I slide my hand further into her pyjama bottoms and push them down her thighs. Because although Blythe straddles me eagerly when I press my hand on her arse to show where she should go, and it feels so good to have her wet heat settling on the tip of my cock, it’s not half as intimate as lying in the heather yesterday, not touching.