My Fake Wedding(88)

Well, I certainly don’t have a problem with that. In fact, if I’m brutally honest, it only adds to the thrill. I’m about to have sex in a strange girl’s bed. Hope she doesn’t mind me rumpling her sheets, I think, giggling as Nick undoes the zip on my jeans, pulls off my vest in one swift movement and pushes me down on the bed, covering me with kisses and running his hands under my buttocks. His movements are urgent, almost like those of a teenager having sex for the first time. Which makes me laugh. I wonder if he’s like this with his girlfriend, the rich cow.

Still, the fact that he has a girlfriend already certainly makes life a lot easier for me. It reduces any chances of him wanting a repeat performance to virtually zero. So the chances of him phone-stalking me like that bloody drip Max are also pretty much nil.

I’ve only gone and done it.

I’ve achieved the perfect String-Free Shag. I’ll be able to creep off before he wakes up and he won’t even care. He’ll probably be pleased, because it’ll give him time to wash, dry and replace the sheets in time to avoid suspicion.

In the event, we don’t actually go to sleep because Nick (well, it’s a lot sexier than ‘Dudley’ isn’t it?) seems to be able to go like a train all night. We do it five times, to be exact. And, at seven o’clock, as he treats me to a third helping of Croissants for Breakfast, I decide it might be harder than I thought to sneak out because he’s still up for more and I don’t actually think I’m going to be able to walk, when a car pulls up outside and Nick jumps as though he’s been shot in the gonads.

‘Shhhhh.’

Bugger. Not his girlfriend already? And just when I was about to have the kind of orgasm that makes your ears ring too. How selfish can you get? Resignedly—even though I’m shitting myself at the thought of a showdown— I take out both earrings. There’s nothing less attractive than an earlobe torn in two and I’d better prepare for the worst.

Seconds later, the inevitable key rattles in the door and Nick is racing round the room like a headless chicken, still with an erection you could hang a coat on, but picking up my knickers, jeans and vest and chucking them all at me.

‘Quick,’ he yelps, wincing in agony as he catches the end of his willy on the open wardrobe door. I silently convulse with laughter. His girlfriend might have put the kibosh on my chances of one last orgasm but she can damn well forget any thoughts she might have had on the subject of Hide the Sausage for a while yet. Nick’s dick will be more like a black pudding by teatime.

‘Quick,’ he hisses again. ‘Go and hide in my bedroom.’

Pardon me?

‘Your bedroom?’ I gulp. ‘But isn’t this…?’

Without explanation, he opens the bedroom door, shoves me—still completely starkers, mind—across the landing and into a single bedroom, plastered with Baywatch, Jordan and Man. United posters. Slamming the door behind us, he breathes a sigh of relief as, dazed, confused, and ever so slightly pee’d off, I sink onto a Star Trek Next Generation duvet and await further instructions, torn between feeling annoyed and wishing he’d damn well stick his head between my legs and stay there until I’m done.

‘In the wardrobe,’ he hisses quickly as we hear the pad of footsteps on the stairs and a woman’s voice calls his name.

I crunch up like a dead spider, cursing him as a baseball glove digs into my bare bum. I’m busting for a wee and I have no idea how long I’m expected to stay here. After what seems like half an hour, I dare to emerge. The room is empty so, with the idea of having a quick widdle before looking for my clothes and making a dash for it, I tiptoe across to the door and open it.

The coast is clear. I can go for a wazz in complete safety. But hang on a mo. This is an old house. The floorboards are pretty creaky up here. One false step and I’m a prime candidate for a bitch slap across the chops and no mistake. And I’m not much of a fighter. In fact, when it comes to violence, I’m a bit of a weed. I make a split second evaluation of the situation. And, in a flash of pure genius, I know exactly what to do.

I roll.

Yep, you got it. I lie down on the floor and I roll like a suet pudding towards the bathroom. And I’m almost there when my right boob hits something.

A polished court shoe.

And in the court shoe is a foot.

Shit.

Ever so slowly, I roll onto my back, open my eyes and look, cold with dread, into the twinkling eyes of a middle-aged woman, who has just been rummaging in the airing cupboard.

‘Hello, duck.’ She smiles, apparently unfazed by the fact that I’m completely starkers. ‘You must be a bit chilly.’