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She loved driving.
Fast driving was like great sex. It was freedom, a complete surrender to the moment. Behind the wheel, she forgot the disappointments, forgot the broken dreams, her sham of a marriage. She forgot all the downward slopes her life had taken. There was only the road, the rush, and the sexy throb of the engine purring through her. It was her escape.
There was no warning for the turning, just a sudden gaping maw in the surrounding woodland as the tarmac branched off. Used to the turn, Elizabeth dropped a gear and dragged the wheel around, adding just a dab of brake as the TT swung gracefully round the hairpin, then corrected for the straight and sped on. It was a reckless manoeuvre, stupid even in the rain along such a treacherous blind turn, but the momentary, stomach flipping rush made the risks seem rather insignificant.
Of course, she never had much to worry about in her Audi. The TT responded to her every command like the fine German engineered automobile it was.
Which was good, because off of the A-39, the way became a snaking lane of old tarmac and blind turns behind any number of which could await the hulk of an oncoming tractor or bus.
She floored it, and the Audi turned from a purring kitten to a raging tiger. It roared and kept roaring until she pulled into the familiar L-shaped driveway of Forbidden Fruit Cottage.
Despite its name, Forbidden Fruit Cottage was, in fact, a bungalow. A stately bungalow, though, with numerous extensions and surrounded by three acres of private land. It also happened to be the only property within two miles.
Heedless of the rain, Elizabeth got out of the sports car and sauntered up to the front door. Overhead, the sky was dark and subdued; the sun blotted out by the canopy of thick grey clouds. The rain, that had been a mere trickle when she set off, fell in a continuous sheet that drenched her from head to toe in the few strides to the front step.
All too aware of the icy rivulets running down the back of her neck, she raised a hand to knock, only for the door of heavy English oak, painted a deep blue with a plaque stamped Forbidden Fruit, to suddenly swing inward.
Elizabeth felt her breath catch.
Oh my…
“Well, this is certainly a pleasant surprise. Hello there, Mrs Clarke.” Hugh Becket could barely keep his grin at bay as he opened the door. Damn, she’s still so fucking gorgeous.
“Oh…” Elizabeth had the deer in headlights look as she took him in. “Ugh, hi Hugh, is your mum in?”
“I’m afraid you just missed her. She and the old man have flown south for the winter and left me here to mind the fort.” As he spoke, he eyed her hungrily, giving her a slow once over, then another for good measure. “You look good.”
She always had.
“Thanks… err, you mind letting me in? It’s pissing it down out here. I’m getting soaked.”
Good to know.
“Sure, I’ll get you a towel.” He stepped aside to let her pass, his eyes dropping down to admire her backside as she passed. It took a feat of Herculean endurance for him not to whistle. Drenched as they were, her already skinny jeans moulded to her deliciously curved backside like a second skin. And that spaghetti top didn’t exactly leave much to the imagination, either.
Suddenly very aware of the erection straining against the front of his own jeans, he pulled the door shut and wheeled around to the airing cupboard. There, he busied himself with rummaging through the ample assortment of towels on the shelves, careful to take just long enough for the very prominent bulge to diminish, for the most part, anyway. However, the task was made all the more difficult by the fact he could practically feel her eyes now travelling over him.
It was only when he was certain she would grow suspicious by his prolonged search that he reluctantly turned back and handed her a fluffy pink towel. At the time, though, her eyes were already a little further south, and they seemed to grow two sizes too big when they fixed on his groin. Which, in turn, responded to the attention.
Oh… shit.
“Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?” Hugh quickly asked, careful to keep his voice level even as she openly ogled him for a moment before dragging her eyes away.
“Err, tea, please. I could murder a brew.” With that, she snatched the towel and fled into the living room.
Oh God, was that monster his cock or did he just stick a bloody cucumber down his trousers?
Furiously scrubbing her hair with the towel, Elizabeth felt her cheeks burning at the memory of the appendage straining against Hugh’s trousers.
Oh fuck, he’s huge… Did I do that to him?
The thought came out of nowhere and sent a pulse of heat straight down to her clit. Shocked, she immediately tried to brush it aside, but then couldn’t help remembering the way he’d been watching her, the hot predatory gleam in his eyes as he’d looked her over.
She knew that look. It was a hot look, dark and hungry and very, very dangerous in the eyes of a young stud.
She’d seen it a lot when she was younger. On Saturday nights out when she went out to hit the town with her girlfriends. The clubs and bars would be thronged with packs of men who’d watched them with that same look. Like packs of wild dogs, eyeing up a fresh juicy bit of meat. Some of Patrick’s mates had given her that same look over the years too, when they’d had a few too many and were likely to get handsy…
But to see Hugh giving her that same look. No, it couldn’t be.
