of her hand. ‘And who might you be?’
‘I might be Simon, Simon Paris. I’m here to see Dan … er … Mr Alexander, about the Renaissance garden he’s planning.’
‘He and Ms Bel just got home a few minutes ago.’ Cook nodded towards the big house rising above the shrubbery and trees. ‘You can walk back with me if you’d like.’
‘If you give me a second, I’ll pot up a couple of basil plants for you to take back with you,’ Francie said, when she’d caught her breath.
‘Oh, lovely, lovely,’ the woman said. ‘I’ll just have a wander around, see what’s ready, and get some ideas for next week’s menus.’ She turned on her heels and disappeared into the veg patch.
Before Francie knew what was happening, Simon found the dibber and the nesting terracotta pots she had planned to use for the basil then brought them to where the rescued plants perched on the table looking no worse for their tumble. ‘You OK?’ He asked, as she busied herself transplanting the seedlings, trying to salvage what little dignity remained to her.
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Fine. Sorry about that. Just not a good day and, well, I’m a bit sensitive about my seedlings.’
‘I can understand that,’ he said, filling the pots with the mix of compost and grit she’d made up for the seedlings earlier. His hands were large and rough and clearly used to hard work. It was only then, only after she’d managed to regain some composure that she had time to properly take in the rest of the package. His faded but clean T-shirt bore the words ‘Renaissance Gardens’ in flowing italic script stretched just tightly enough over one mounded pec to convince Francie that what was underneath would be as much a pleasure to look at as it was to be pressed up against. She glanced up into startling grey eyes which offset a spattering of sun-browned freckles, all balanced by a broad smile that might well have been the warmest thing she’d felt all day. All in all he was a lovely specimen of maleness that, when combined with the adept way he dealt with her seedlings and her physical attack on his person, made her feel a whole lot better.
‘I’m very sensitive about anything I’ve nurtured and tended to,’ he was saying by the time she got her eyes up past the nice chest to the equally nice face. ‘And these are lovely seedlings, sturdy, healthy, not leggy.’
‘Then you’re a gardener,’ she said.
‘I own a landscaping business.’ He nodded to the logo on his shirt. ‘Sadly I don’t have as much time to devote to my little veg plot as I’d like, but I manage a tomato or two and a few runner beans, you know. That sort of thing.’
‘Don’t suppose you’d be hiring, would you?’
He looked up at her. ‘Are you serious? You’d leave this?’ He gestured around him.
She swallowed hard, afraid she would cry again. ‘I have my reasons. I can do more than kitchen gardening. I’ve done a bit of landscaping myself, though I have to say the veggies are my first love.’
‘But you want to leave all this and work somewhere else?’
Just then Cook stepped back in. ‘Tomatoes and coriander look just perfect for a nice dhal, and we’ve not had a good curry in a while. Oh, and the aubergines are lovely. I’ll send you a list.’ She nestled two of the newly transplanted basil plants into the end of the basket and motioned to Simon. ‘I’ll take you up to the house now.’
He turned to Francie, brushed a fingertip over the back of her hand, just out of Cook’s view, and held her in his steamy grey gaze. ‘Lovely to meet you, Francie. I hope we can talk gardening again sometime soon.’ Then he turned and followed Cook out of the greenhouse, leaving Francie to admire the exquisite way his arse filled out the seat of his jeans and contemplate what had just happened.
Chapter Three
There was plenty of wine to wash down what Dan was sure must be far too many vegetables, though he did find the courgettes particularly tasty. Extra wine would help ease him into the night’s entertainment, as Bel had called it. She was already next to him on the sofa in the lounge, leaning over his lap stroking his cock through his trousers. It was responding nicely, with the help of a few thoughts of Francie’s lovely round bottom.
‘You like that, don’t you?’ Bel whispered against his ear, her voice gone all throaty and porn-starry. ‘You like it when I play with your cock, don’t you, darling?’
He wondered if she expected the porn-star response: ‘Fuck yeah, baby, play with my cock!’ Instead he just moaned something like ‘mmmmrrrhp’ as she undid his trousers and extricated his penis with scary long nails that always made him a bit nervous. Then she went to work on him with her mouth.
Even in his surly mood, there was no denying Bel was good with her mouth. It wasn’t long before she had him rocking and grinding against the sofa, his fingers curled in her honey-brown hair. Wasn’t it platinum blonde just last week? Who could remember from one day to the next?
She had just pulled back to lift her top over her head, when he stopped her. ‘Not here, Bel. The servants might see.’
‘Who cares?’ she said.
But as she made a second effort, he grabbed her wrist and stood, pulling her to her feet. ‘I care. Come on. Up to the bedroom with you.’ She cursed under her breath as he herded her towards the stairs, struggling to stash his erection.
Upstairs in the bedroom, he tried to pull her to him, but she shrugged him off. ‘I have to go change.’ As she trotted off to the bathroom, even he had to admit she was lovely when she was pouting. While she rattled about at her ablutions, he stripped off his clothes. He started to get into his pajamas, thought better of it, and crawled into bed in only his boxers. He stroked his cock absently as he listened to water running, and wondered why Bel could never be spontaneous like Francie was. Thinking about her, skirt up, legs open, cunt swollen and exposed, made his balls feel full and heavy, even though he’d only been with her and had a good emptying just a few hours ago. But oh God, even the thought of her with that big-arsed courgette up her hole made him hot.
Bel interrupted his thoughts as she came out of the bathroom in a very tiny, very sheer lace bra with matching stockings and suspenders. And a fucking towel! Which she spread on her side of the bed. ‘Sally just changed the sheets,’ she said. ‘We don’t want to get them messy, do we?’
‘Of course not. We wouldn’t want that, would we?’ He forced a smile and patted the bed, on top of the spread towel.
She lay back next to him, careful to smooth her hair across the pillow. Then she gave him a heavy-lidded look and began stroking a nipple to a stiff peak beneath the thin lace.
He thought of Francie’s lovely breasts, and his mouth watered. He pushed aside the strap of her bra, lifted a tit free and began to suck and tongue the nipple and areola.
‘Mmmm,’ she moaned. ‘You like my tits?’
She knew he did. When they were first married it was all about her tits, her luscious, heavy, large-nippled tits. Back then, he couldn’t keep his hands off them. He still couldn’t, he supposed, at least not when she presented them to him so brazenly. He shoved the bra down until he could cup both her breasts, then he buried his face between them. He could suffocate in their deep soft cleavage, and in the past he had done his best to do
