Page 13 of Eager Housewife

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 touchingme.

“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 amIdoing?! 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.