raised an eyebrow. ‘What does the old bugger think they’re lacking?’
‘Cinnamon.’
Bill considered this. ‘Maybe.’ In his thick Yorkshire accent the word came out as meb-bee. ‘You should try that, but I still think it’s an issue with the coffee. You should be trying beans with a more exciting flavour than the Coffea Canephora.’
She dropped the spices on the kitchen counter, kissed him lightly on the cheek and said, ‘I need to get a shower. I’m all sweaty from this morning’s run and I’m sure you don’t want me when I’m all sweaty.’
He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close to him. Because he was sitting and she was standing his face was close to her breasts.
‘I like you sweaty,’ he confided.
Her heartbeat quickened. Her need for him blossomed with fast, fluid urgency. He had a hand on the small of her back and was pulling her closer. She always found there was something electric in the familiarity of his touch. He knew how to balance his natural authority with her body’s desire for sensitivity.
This morning was no exception.
The suggestion of impending intimacy flavoured the air like the smell of spices had flavoured each breath in Finlay West’s spice shop. Her need for him throbbed with a dull and steady pulse that was undeniable. It grew more insistent with each passing second.
With an exertion of willpower she didn’t know she possessed, Trudy shook her head. She resisted the desires he inspired and fixed him with a firm expression. ‘I don’t have time to play those sorts of games this morning, Mr Hart,’ she told him. ‘I’ve got to get showered and do a quick experiment with this new pumpkin-pie-spice blend before I get down to HQ.’
He let his hand fall away from her as he checked his watch.
‘What if I say you’re allowed ten minutes in the bathroom? What if I say, after those ten minutes, I want you in this kitchen, Ms McLaughlin?’
She shivered and considered her reply carefully before responding.
‘If you said those things,’ she said, swallowing, ‘I suppose I’d have to obey your commands, Mr Hart.’
He lightly landed his hand against her rear.
‘I did say those things,’ he agreed. He glanced again at his watch and said, ‘You’ve got nine minutes and fifty seconds remaining, Ms McLaughlin. I think you’d better get moving.’
She could tell from his tone that he wasn’t joking.
She slipped from his embrace and hurried up the stairs. The lycra running wear felt as though it had been glued to her body with a sticky blend of warmth and perspiration. She pulled the clothing away with clumsy snatches. After dropping the garments into the laundry basket she hurriedly stepped into the shower.
The stream of misty-hot water dissolved the sheen of sweat on her shoulders and back. She smoothed soap over her skin and tried not to think of how much Bill would be pleasuring her when she was clean and had returned to the kitchen. The knowledge that they were about to share intimate time together sent a tremor of smouldering need through the muscles of her sex. Her nipples stiffened and she felt momentarily dizzy beneath the spray from the showerhead.
It crossed her mind that she should mention the messages she had received from Donny. Her former friend was clearly trying to make some point that would likely be unpleasant and inconvenient. She supposed it would also be prudent to mention the invitation from Harvey. Under the policy of honesty and openness to which they’d both agreed with the new arrangement, Trudy thought frank discussion would be the cornerstone of what they did together. But she knew that talking about Donny or Harvey could kill whatever passion she hoped to share with Bill. And, remembering that she had put her own arousal on hold while she went for her run this morning, Trudy didn’t want to do or say anything that was likely to spoil the satisfaction of their shared passion.
Promising herself that she would mention both subjects when she was working alongside him at Boui-Boui in the evening, Trudy finished her shower and dressed quickly. She found matching pants and bra in her drawers in their bedroom. She also found a modest charcoal skirt and a pair of black heels and completed the outfit with a silver-grey blouse. It was more stylish than what she usually wore – she preferred function to fashion – but she thought the results were pleasing. Aware that she had probably gone beyond the ten minutes Bill had allowed, Trudy hurried down the stairs calling an apology ahead of her.
Bill glanced at his wristwatch.
‘You’re six minutes late,’ he muttered.
Six minutes? She was surprised it hadn’t been longer.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Hart.’
‘Pass me the wooden spoon.’
The pulse between her legs beat more swiftly. She snatched the wooden spoon from its hook by the sink and handed it to him. She noticed that her fingertips were trembling. Some days the arousal he inspired was so strong that it was impossible to contain her reactions. Seeing her hands shake with anticipation was now such a regular occurrence it was almost commonplace. But, even though it happened so frequently, it felt far from commonplace.
‘Bend over, Ms McLaughlin.’
She assumed the same position that she always adopted for punishment in the cottage’s kitchen. She stood before the kitchen sink and stared out through the window. Glancing down at her feet, and the grey slate tiles on the floor, she placed the toes of her shoes at the corners of a pair of floor-tiles two rows back from the kitchen sink. The tiles were separated by two tiles. The distance was uncomfortable and, for Trudy, it felt as though she was stretching to put her feet exactly where they were needed. The muscles at the tops of her thighs felt strained but she figured she was sufficiently limber from her daily exercise regime that she could take pleasure from the discomfort of a little overstretching.
Not that it was just the discomfort of an uncomfortable posture that weighed on her thoughts. The position also made Trudy stand with her legs far enough apart to make her feel exposed.
Bill knelt down and stroked the back of her calf.
His fingers were warm. The palms were callused and rough against her smooth bare skin. As he stroked upwards, his caress smoothing the back of her knee and beneath the hem of her modest charcoal skirt, Trudy could feel her excitement growing. She was desperate to feel his touch go higher and she wanted to sob out a desperate command that he should hurry up and satisfy her.
Knowing that such a demand would either be ignored or earn a punishment, Trudy refrained from crying out. She tightened her grip on the edge of the sink.
Slowly, as though he knew of her impatience and was making her wait, Bill’s fingers inched higher. He stroked her thigh with a languid, lingering hand that was deliberate and unhurried. He chuckled softly to himself and she understood he was drawing as much pleasure from the intimacy as she was enduring.
‘You’re wearing white cotton panties?’ he mused. ‘How innocent.’
She stumbled for a response. Was she supposed to thank him? Apologise? Or simply squirm from the satisfaction of knowing that he was now studying her panties and probably preparing to remove them?
‘Yes,
