Page 18 of Eager Housewife

“We don’t have to go anywhere special.” She says that as thoughsheisn’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.