6. Blythe
Mr Blackstone hesitates, narrowing his eyes at my request. I think for a moment he’s going to refuse, but then he undresses with a disconcerting speed. I want to ask him to slow down, to give me more than a quick look at his wide chest, his pectorals covered with dark hair that trails down over sculpted abs to… I gulp as he slides off his kilt.
Gesturing for me to scoot over, he makes a small tidal wave as he gets into the bath, the water spilling over the edges and onto the tiled floor.
I squeak. “Should we?—”
“Ignore it.”
He fits his long legs on either side of my hips and firm hands pull me against him so I’m lying on his chest, the warm water around my legs and over most of my body, and Mr Blackstone’s arms and torso at my back.
I know I requested it, but it’s so extraordinary being like this with him. I need to see more, but all I have now is a view of his legs. And my god, they’re so hairy. They’re big too. He has big feet, and I flush as I remember what big feet indicate, and oh absolutely yes. I’m sore in all the right places from discovering the truth of that.
“Relax,” he rumbles, stroking his rough palms down my upper arms, then brackets one arm over my chest.
As though I was waiting for his direction, I ease back against him further. And as I do, I think he sighs and kisses the top of my head.
I melt.
This is a dream, and I don’t want to wake.
We lie like this for a while before his hands begin to wander. I watch as he explores my body. His big hands—they are covered with scars and have a smattering of silky dark auburn hair too—cup my little breasts. He’s so different from me. Hairy and scarred where I’m smooth, big where I’m small, and muscled where I’m slightly podgy.
The contrasts make watching him touch me, sliding his hand down my belly with casual ownership, and rolling my nipple simultaneously, all the more erotic. He’s an enormous bear of a man, and I’m his doll.
He keeps up caresses that are almost dispassionate because of his silence and that I can only see his arms and legs.
The crude way he took my virginity on the floor, so out of control, was extremely hot. But I think this might be even hotter.
Maybe because of the rising desire curling in my tummy, I don’t notice at first that he’s responding too. And it’s only when he shifts beneath me, and his erection is an iron bar pressing into my spine, that I realise he’s not unaffected. Quite the opposite. He wants me.
My pride swells in equal proportion to his huge cock.
I’m doing this right. For once in my life, I’m being what someone needs. He wanted a free use housewife, and he’s turned on by me. Little me?! I can’t believe it, and yet at the same time I could shout and dance and spam it on social media obnoxiously every two minutes: Mr Blackstone has a hard-on from touching me.
“Blythe,” he murmurs and grinds himself up into my back. “I need you again.”
“Yes—”
A shrill ring stops me mid-word. Mr Blackwood curses and I shriek as he wraps his arms around my waist and lifts me out of the bath as he stands. Water sluices everywhere as he effortlessly steps out and sets me on the floor, holding me while I wobble. The ringing continues, but I hardly hear that as he leans down, and I get an eyeful of his perfect, biteable, muscled posterior.
“Hey, if it isn’t my favourite daughter,” he says, and my heart stops.
“Dad!” Her voice is muffled and tinny.
“How are you doing?” He drops a kiss onto my shoulder, and I dare not breathe. One word and we’d be discovered. It would all be ruined. No honeymoon time, just straight to recriminations and tears.
“How am I doing?! Your email said you met someone, and it’s serious. You have to tell me everything, Dad!”
Mr Blackwood eases back and I turn. Our gazes meet, and this secret flickers between us. Forbidden, illicit. Ours.
We haven’t talked about what we’ll say to Ainsley any further than to agree we’re not telling her while she’s abroad. Until then, I’m going to pretend I’ve miraculously got my own place in London and since Ainsley’s dad is a billionaire, she’ll never know just how improbable that is. And Mr Blackstone said he would let her know he’d met someone.
We’re delaying the inevitable, but in the meantime, it’s a risky, thrilling game that sits as solid, cold guilt in my stomach. Ainsley is so important to me.
Mr Blackwood wraps a towel around his waist. “Well, I think you’ll like her.”
Will she, though?
He pinches my cheek, mouths, “Don’t worry,” and pads out of the bathroom.
Despite the steam, I’m freezing.
I am worried.
I take my time drying off, towelling my hair dry and examining the places on my breasts and thighs that feel different but look identical. Eventually, I have no reason not to creep into the bedroom. Mr Blackstone is slowly pacing up and down by the almost-floor-to-ceiling glass that leads onto the lush garden beyond, the late afternoon shadows spindly on the plants. The window frames the perfect combination of half blue sky and half deep evergreen.
“What’s her name?” Ainsley asks, just audible to me.
“You can call her Mrs. Blackstone.”
“Daaaadd!” she laughs, as though the idea of her father marrying is ridiculous.
But it’s not a joke, is it?
“You’ll meet her when you get home,” Mr Blackstone says. “In a year.”
He hangs up, and look across at me.
A year.
He’s said it aloud now. We both know this will blow up in our faces when Ainsley returns. Understanding passes between us. He’s still damp with bathwater, and glorious. And while that truncheon of an erection softened away while he was talking to Ainsley, as he drags a proprietorial gaze over my body, it thickens before my eyes.
“Are you sore?” he asks bluntly.
“No.” I’m not sure that’s true, but the bath definitely helped. And the adrenaline that’s buzzing along my bloodstream dispels anything that might appear tomorrow.
“Get on the bed,” he says gruffly, yanking off his towel and letting it fall. “All fours.”
My brain doesn’t understand immediately, then his eyebrows pinch together and no, no that’s the last thing I ever want. I scurry to obey, discarding my towel and almost running to climb onto the unfamiliar bed covered with crisp white sheets. I position myself on the edge where I think he’ll want me.
I expect him to be right at my back, but there’s a pause. Seconds tick by, and I can’t even hear his footsteps.
I’m so naked, so exposed as I wait for him. My breasts hang down, heavy and I stare at the dark wooden headboard. I’ve never been like this. I’m seldom bare for long, just while I shower, then it’s on with cotton knickers immediately.
A chill passes over the curve of my butt, and shivers deliciously up my spine. My hair is a curtain either side of my face, and instinctively, I keep my eyes forward.
We have a year.
“Good girl.” His footsteps are slow and deliberate across the room and I bite my lip to keep in a moan. “Don’t move.”
He places his palm on the small of my back, steadying. We’ve only had sex once, and already the anticipation is winding me up to the point I might shake apart from the effort of not pushing into his touch.
The tip of his length notches to me and he pushes achingly slowly into my waiting, soaking pussy. The gradual pinch of pain immediately blooms into fullness. His cock is so big.
We have one year. That’s my last thought before pleasure takes over as he eases back out, then in, deeper, over and over until he pounds mercilessly into me, my tits swinging from the force of his thrusts.
I’m going to be his eager little housewife for 365 days and enjoy every single one until this falls apart.