Fiona had no idea what he meant, but she stared down, transfixed by her new appearance. He’d drawn her nipples out so they jutted swollen and rosy with the blood he’d sucked close to the surface. And she could see the marks of his passion on her—the rasp of his freshly-shaven face, the small pink blemishes where his teeth had nipped and worried at her. Her breasts felt huge and hot and super-sensitive. She looked up at him again, astounded and speechless.
“Ah, Blondie,” he breathed as he bent his mouth to hers for one small hard stinging kiss before he tore himself away. “Put your pretty dress on. Come to dinner with me.”
Fiona sat still as stone in the fragrant water and watched him leave. Several minutes crept by before she dared test if her legs were strong enough to support her.
It feels like a date, she thought. And she didn’t want it to feel like that.
But, as she blotted her skin with the huge towel, she could imagine his hands were tenderly caressing her as they had once before.
When she picked up her hair-drier she remembered him in the sunny bedroom as he stood naked, drying her newly washed hair. She’d watched the stretch and flex of his lithe body in the big mirror; enjoyed the play of smooth skin over long muscle; yearned to reach around and enfold that dark rod of flesh in her hand again...to cradle the weight of his heavy balls hanging below.
As she patted on moisturizer she could once again feel his gentle touch on her bruised face; see his brown eyes dancing as he joked about the make-up task she’d given him.
And all the time, Jan had watched, smiling from her wedding photo on the bedroom wall.
Fiona stretched to push away the vivid recollections. She drew a deep breath and turned to blast a stern stare at herself in the mirror of the cottage bedroom.
No Jan—he’s yours.
At least this room lacked a happy wedding photo to taunt her. She shook her head, swamped with guilt for allowing Christian to continue with his bathroom flirtation. She’d encouraged him! Almost passed out from the pleasure of it. How was she ever going to turn back the clock now?
She deliberately chose a pair of unremarkable up-to-the-waist thin white silk panties, knowing they’d leave no tell-tale line through the bias-cut cling of her dress. She was pleased they looked so un-sexy—a further deterrent to undressing for Christian. For she knew without doubt she’d need every tiny wisp of determination to resist him tonight.
She opted for no perfume, only her most neutral lipstick and the lightest of eye make-up.
But she could do nothing about her super-sensitive breasts as she stepped into the sophisticated turquoise dress. She drew it up past her hips, slid her arms under the shoulder straps, positioned the bodice with its cascade of vivid peacock feather embroidery, and pulled the zipper closed. She had no strapless bra with her. The soft glossy fabric clung to her curves, highlighting her engorged nipples—not just with shape but with shine. She folded her arms, willing the heat to soften and disguise them as she heard Christian jogging downstairs, jingling keys, calling “Ready, Blondie?”
She moaned with annoyance at her tell-tale condition, then snatched up her lipstick and a small mirror, flattened a forearm over each breast and walked to her half-open door as though just completing her make-up.
“With you in a minute, Christian. Meet you in the car.”
He lounged against the hand-wrought iron banisters.
“No hurry.” His eyes slid all over her, making her feel even more like a casual girlfriend being collected for an evening out.
Oh why wouldn’t her damned nipples subside? Why was a new and enraging sensitivity spreading deep in her belly?
She turned back into her room to replace the little mirror, and dashed in front of him to the welcome semi-darkness of the summer evening.
She hoped the short car-ride would help, and pulled the seat-belt across her body. It closed with a loud click in the country quietness.
“You’ll hardly need that,” Christian said. “We’re only going a couple of hundred yards, and not on a public road.”
Fiona murmured agreement, but kept her arms clasped warmly around herself.
“This feels all wrong,” she said, made braver by the darkness. “It’s strange me being with you when it should be Jan sitting here.” She glanced over at Christian’s profile. “Sorry,” she added. “But I’m no sort of replacement for her, if that’s what the champagne thing in the bath was about.”
She sensed, rather than saw, his breath draw in...his lips compress...his whole body become tense.
“The champagne thing was because I got carried away,” he said in a flat voice. “You’re not Jan Mark Two—you’re Fiona Mark One. God!” His tone flayed her.