Freya North 3-Book Collection: Love Rules, Home Truths, Pillow Talk - Freya North

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World. The year before, Ancient Greece. But there is something about this year’s display, the entrancing clash of the primitive and the opulent in sound and vision alike. Just as there is something so compelling about Alice – last year he’d had a couple of clients who’d done all the pursuing. Sex had been easy and both women had automatically tipped him handsomely which alone was an unexpected and rather welcome bonus. Getting paid to come when the women were gagging for it anyway – it was as close to being a porn star as he’d ever get. The year before that, his first over here, he’d bedded that older woman – and had then had those pointless few months supposedly dating Nathalie from the tennis club.

      Paul dresses. He wonders what state of undress he’ll find Alice in. He grins at the thought of her, spread-eagled on a bed, perhaps. He considers how she has everything he rates – looks, intellect, success and spirit. But she’s off back to England tomorrow. Paul is horny as hell, as he has been for the last four days. He puts on new boxer shorts and a fresh T-shirt. Hand relief has provided him temporary respite the last few nights but the sight of Alice each morning has tipped him into a dither of desire all over again. And now he’s been summonsed. The imminence of sex, after a couple of celibate months, is stirring his cock already. He checks his reflection and he’s looking good.

      He knocks and waits for an answer, as if unsure whether anyone is home.

      ‘You’re polite,’ Alice teases, because she was half looking forward to him bursting in and ravishing her without so much as a greeting. She is in a white T-shirt and jeans. Barefoot and braless. Her nipples are precociously erect and her arse is tantalizingly pert. She smells good and looks great. And his cock is hardening by the minute. Yes, they have all afternoon, but what he actually wants is to fuck her right now and empty the throbbing sack-load of expectant sperm amassed since that morning.

      ‘You’re happy to see me,’ Alice remarks, eyeing the bulge in his shorts.

      ‘Nah, it’s a gun in my pocket,’ he quips back.

      ‘Well, take off your holster, cowboy,’ says Alice, ‘and let’s fuck.’

      If Alice was to document it all, she’d reprimand herself for a glut of clichés. But actually how else can she describe being wetter than she’s ever been? That her sex is throbbing for him? That her lips are engorged with the anticipation of being kissed and her heart is racing from the fire of his intense gaze? Similarly, the simple fact is that his straining cock is rock hard, his butt is firm and his abs are rippling. Her breasts are indisputably heaving and her sex is oozing with the honey he can’t lap enough of. They are devouring each other as if their hunger is insatiable.

       God, this is kinky. Mark stays a decorous and hygienic distance from my bum on the occasions he does go down on me. It’s fantastic that my breasts are tits again, to be manhandled greedily. I can’t even recall Mark’s term for my genitalia but Paul has just said ‘Christ, you have a cute cunt.’ I need this – I’ve missed this. How refreshing to be fucked senseless rather than being made love to conscientiously.

      ‘God, you’re a horny bitch,’ Paul pants, tonguing her ear lobe and sucking his way down her neck, up her chin and deep into her mouth.

      ‘You’re a pretty good fuck yourself,’ Alice reciprocates, licking the salty dampness from his torso as she slithers downwards to feast on his cock. His balls are shaven. She is surprised. She likes it. She wants to writhe, she wants to show off and she contorts herself this way and that, taking charge and initiating positions and the pace. Now she wants to be supine and subservient, revelling in this man driven wild with his desire for her. He flips her onto her side and he plunges into her from behind. He hauls her top leg over his waist, her body stretched out to his touch. Craning her neck around, they suck at each other’s mouths while he fondles her tits and slips his fingers between the lips of her sex, finding her clitoris and rubbing gently until she’s on the brink of orgasm.

      ‘Don’t come,’ he commands. He pulls out and his lips are feathering over her nipples infuriatingly lightly. Now he’s not touching her at all – he’s between her legs staring intently at her sex. Alice gives a playful buck of her hips and he takes his face down to her, dabbing his tongue tip gently over the outer lips of her sex. She writhes and spreads her legs, thrusting to glue his mouth to where she wants, but he resists.

      ‘Fuck me, you bastard,’ she hisses.

      Suddenly, he’s sucking her clitoris and plunging a finger deep inside her sex, another up her anus, and the mind-blowing orgasm she’s been craving racks her body. While she continues to shudder with spasms of pleasure, he squats over her and she takes his cock in her mouth before he pulls out and pumps his come all over her stomach. Alice takes her fingers down to the sticky lake of his spunk and massages it over her belly. Then she sucks at each finger while remaining eye locked with him. She feels as though she’s just starred in her own private porn performance. And she’s loved every minute of it. What a great idea this trip was. Look what she has to take home with her!

      It wasn’t possible for Paul to grab any time with Alice the following morning. When she boarded the coach, he could only shake her hand and say ‘Well done.’ Just as he shook everyone’s hand and congratulated them. He waved them off. He couldn’t tell who waved back behind the tinted glass.

      He reckoned he’d go down to the beach for the day, unwind and prepare for the arrival of the next group the following day. The group had presented him with a cool pair of O’Neill shorts – he wanted to try them on. April was warming up by the hour and the delicate fragrance of spring was being usurped daily by the denser scent of summer. Waiting for him at reception was a note from Alice. He took it with him, unopened, to the beach.

       Dear Paul,

       No doubt you’re already poncing around in your snazzy new shorts – for the record, I did not contribute to the whip-round for you. I wouldn’t want you to think that I was paying you for services rendered – I wouldn’t want you to feel like a whore … So, here’s my mobile phone number – be sure to phone if ever you find yourself in London. I’ll be only too pleased to play hooky from work and entertain you in my own inimitable way …

       Alice Heggarty

      The note made him laugh, made him long for Alice. He’d look up ‘inimitable’ later. First, he’d work on his tan and ponder the logistics of a trip to London some time soon.

      Alice could have gone straight into work but she didn’t want to, though they arrived back by lunchtime. She could have spent the afternoon at home, reacclimatizing to her life, but she didn’t want to do that either. She should have gone to Thea to confide and be guided, but she didn’t want to, not yet. What she wanted to do was to be by herself, accountable to no one, for a precious few hours more. She wanted to indulge in memories of the last few days; conjure the look and the taste and the feel of Paul. Transport herself back to Les Baux. Just for a little while longer. Not to daydream. Simply to remember.

      So Alice whiled away her afternoon in an Internet café off Tottenham Court Road. She surfed the sights and facts of the Camargue, of the Pont du Gard, of Arles and Nîmes, of Les Baux and flamingos. She visited the O’Neill website and clicked on the same pair of shorts they’d bought Paul. She found the hotel website and clicked on every picture, analysing the tiny, pixillated figures. It was stupid to check the tariff page she told herself as she did just that. She Googled Paul’s name but found nothing. He really ought to be nothing, she told herself. It wasn’t as if she’d be going back, or would ever see him again. He had to have no role in her memory other than as a one-afternoon stand, a fantastic shag with no strings attached, guilt-free sex, a zipless fuck and best forgotten.

      In his closing debrief, Fritz had told the group to ‘take what we give you and turn it into new tools for your trade’. She’d do that, she would. She could apply it to her life in general. She wouldn’t be deifying Paul. She wouldn’t long for him or allow the tricks of memory and the mundanity of

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