Free Fire Hawk by Geoffrey Archer Page B

this? What extraordinary game of self-delusion was she involved in?
    â€˜Whatever you say,’ he mouthed.
    She bent down to the floor and picked up the hand-towel she’d used to dry the splashes he’d made after his wash. Then she slipped it under his head and tied it behind his neck.
    â€˜Now, turn over,’ she whispered.
    As he rolled onto his back, he reached out for her shoulders but felt his hands pinned down onto the bed.
    â€˜Please,’ she breathed. ‘There’s a massage underway here. I have to do your pectorals.’
    Giving in reluctantly, he felt a trickle of oil on his sternum, then her hands spreading the liquid over his chest, avoiding with delicate care the blisters from the cigarette burns. Her fingers brushed against his nipples and circled them.
    Deciding the time had come for him to take control, he reached a hand up to the back of her neck, forked his fingers through her hair and pulled her mouth down to his. As his tongue sought out hers, she breathed in sharply and squirmed against him. After a while she pulled back. He felt for her breasts, locating the bud-hard nipples, then raised his head and took one in his mouth. It had the sweet taste of the oil she’d used on his body.
    â€˜Oh shit,’ she gasped, clasping his head to her. ‘Oh
God
how I’ve missed you!’
    Then she broke away again. He heard her get off the bed and remove her pants. He had an urge to rip off the blindfold and let his eyes gorge themselves on this body that he knew so well and loved so much. But he sensed that to do so would wreck their deal. He raised his hips and pushed off his own shorts. Feeling her weight back on the bed, he held his breath, anticipating her mouth on his erection. Instead he felt a trickle of oil.
    â€˜Jesus . . .’ he croaked.
    She spread the unction down his shaft.
    â€˜Now,’ he insisted. ‘For Christ’s sake . . .’
    As she straddled his legs, he reached between her thighs, exploring her own warm, wet readiness with his fingers, he pulled her towards him. She guided him in and, as he penetrated her body, she let out an anguished cry. She rocked her pelvis, slowly at first, then with an increasing vigour, emitting little mews of pleasure as she did so. Finally with a moan of ecstasy she gasped his name as he unburdened himself deep inside her. She shuddered with her own climax, then fell forward on his chest.
    He held onto her with his fingers through her hair in that deliciously peaceful way she’d always loved. For a few seconds she lay very still as their pulses subsided. He felt her lips move against his shoulder and knew she was smiling. Then, stiffening as if hearing a noise, she lifted herself off him and stood up.
    â€˜Remember, still no peeking,’ she told him.
    He heard her pull tissues from a box on the child’s dressing table to dry herself, then realised she was hurriedly putting clothes on over by the window. Enough of this bloody nonsense, he decided. He lifted the towel from his eyes. She had her pants on already and was pulling up her skirt, standing side on to him.
    Then he saw.
    Her stomach was indeed fuller than it used to be. So, he suspected, were her breasts. And this wasn’t the sort of weight gain that came from dinners out with husbands.
    She caught him looking and guiltily zipped up her skirt. Then she turned away from him, reaching behind her back to hook up her bra.
    â€˜How many weeks?’ he asked, shocked.
    â€˜Don’t know what you’re talking about.’
    For a moment or two she made as if she hadn’t heard him properly. Then he saw her straighten up as if deciding she would after all have to face the confrontation she’d gone to such lengths to avoid. Her face was flushed when she turned, but her grey eyes were pewter-hard.
    â€˜Twelve,’ she told him defiantly. She held his look. She knew what he was calculating. ‘No,’ she told him simply.