It is the end of another successful year for the Recreative Theatre Company and the cast have arranged to meet at Amatore’s Restaurant for their end-of-season dinner.
As the evening progresses, each guest recalls a past sexual liaison. In these recollections we are transported to a variety of locations; the rolling countryside of Brittany to the brown cafés of Amsterdam, from the grandeur of Venice to the slums of Marseilles.
The stories describe various situations: Prudence relates her encounters on a train journey and Colin makes a surprising discovery when he settles down to watch his favourite film. Some characters are driven by self-interest: the sociopath Nicole with her reckless behaviour towards her trusting nephew, and Colette who takes advantage of her unsuspecting tenant.
A common theme unfolds: the hidden truths behind the motives for seduction. As the evening comes to a close, old alliances are re-kindled, new attachments are formed, while others are broken. Frustrations rise to the surface as truths are revealed. For some the evening is a great success, for others a disaster.
Targeted Audience: adult readers of general fiction
Living in picturesque Southern Brittany, James Sillwood divides his time between writing and music. As an accomplished pianist he plays regularly at a restaurant in Carnac and at various venues with a Latin jazz quartet. It is here, in France, that Amatore’s Restaurant has recently been completed. This book, along with two other novels currently in progress, have been long term projects; the first ideas for the plot and characters taking shape well over ten years ago.
Read a FREE chapter of Amatore’s Restaurant each week from James Sillwood website.
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
As a musician I have worked with theatre groups in the past. This book book is based on some of the narratives related to me by members of the cast.
Read more, including a sample from the book
Sample from Book:
The Garden Centre: (extract from Chapter 10 of Amatore’s Restaurant)
It was the Wednesday before that meeting Lucy had come to her decision; dammed if Rose and her pompous husband were going to continue to benefit from her influence on the board. While she had always known her neighbour was one to meddle in everyone’s affairs – and was well aware she could be tactless in voicing her opinions – up until the previous evening Lucy had managed to stay clear of Rose’s personal attacks. But it wasn’t until the following morning, as she set off for home after dropping the children off at school, she started to think about what her neighbour had said. By the time she reached the turning for Bicester she was fuming. That interfering bitch had absolutely no right! Just because she imagined herself to be a magnet to every man that passed her way, didn’t give her the right to pass judgement about my affair with Rupert. And to call me needy – well, that’s just going too far!
The Langley roundabout was clear and when she reached Highworth junction Lucy shot off down a country lane. The next bend came at her in a rush. She gripped the wheel as the BMW rode the bank – it was an anxious fifteen seconds before she was able get the car back on course.
Bloody hell! Better pull over somewhere and calm down. Lucy took it steady for the next two miles and when she reached the sign for Ferngreen Nurseries, turned into the customers’ car park, switched off the engine and took a deep breath. Why be so affected by a stupid remark? Why give Rose so much attention? It wasn’t as if she was a close friend. While I may not have seen Rupert for the past few weeks, I’m quite happy with the way things are at the moment – well, up to a point – and if I choose not to get involved with anyone else, then that’s my business. Come to think of it, I haven’t noticed Rose’s husband paying her much attention recently. Maybe it’s she who’s the frustrated one.
Lucy tried to put the episode out of her mind. She looked around at the other vehicles nearby and took a second look at the white van parked across from her. She was sure she’d seen a truck with the same logo turn into her neighbour’s drive a few times in the past couple of months. This must be the place where Rose gets her garden plants. More than once she’d recommended one of the gardeners here; how she would leap at the chance to employ him full-time if only her husband would go along with it. Lucy thought of the empty space in her own garden where the old silver birch had been dug up – how envious Rose would be if she saw it replaced with something exotic. She smiled to herself, stepped out of the car and marched over to the nursery entrance. This could be a way to get her own back.
It was a clear morning and the air had a bite to it – September was probably too late in the season for most plants, but there may be something. She looked around the ornamental tree section. Bewildered by the endless varieties on offer, she was about to give up on the idea when she first saw him; standing between two rows of conifers was a man with golden hair tied in a ponytail, a man who could only be described as an Adonis.
Lucy side-stepped and took cover behind an alpine spruce. She watched him through the branches of the dense foliage. He was about six feet tall, somewhere between twenty-five and thirty years old. With feet placed apart, he was stacking terracotta planters onto a trolley. Using his whole body, he lifted the containers with such grace and ease that each planter seemed to float through the air until it landed square onto the pallet. It was like watching a ballet. The scent of spruce filled her lungs as Lucy gazed at this creation of beauty, a warmth imbued her groin and she had to grip a branch to steady herself.
The man straightened and looked across in her direction – he must have heard her.
She was caught in a panic. There was no way out. She detached herself from the spruce.
“Could you help me, please?” she said, attempting to wipe the resin from her fingers. “I have an empty space in my garden and I’m looking for someone – for something to fill it.”
Too late, the word was out before she could think. She hoped he hadn’t read too much into it. But there again, as soon as she looked into his eyes, she really didn’t care if he had.
“Of course, Madam. You are looking for the bags of compost?” He brushed a strand or two of hair from his perfectly sculptured face.
What is that accent? German? Dutch maybe. Lucy pulled herself together. “Oh, no. I’m looking for a small tree that will give a bit of shade in a sunny area of my garden.” Those eyes; limpid blue, the colour of azure.
The man glanced up at the cold grey sky. He shrugged. “Please, I will show you.”
He led the way down a path where he pointed out various trees which could be planted at this time of year. Mesmerised by the resonance of his words, hypnotised by the shape of his bottom encased in light denim, Lucy followed a couple of paces behind. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
He turned and gave her an amused look. “Excuse me. I am from Sweden. I think my English is not so good. My question is how much size do you want?”
She dropped her gaze to the front of his jeans. Her mind was reeling. God! Who cares, does it really matter? She had to pinch herself to get back on track. “Oh, I don’t think it needs to be more than ten feet high.”
He thought for a moment then took her down a narrow path bordered by rows of shrubs until they came to a halt before a small tree.
“This one is Amelanchier Canadensis,” he said, caressing the stem between thumb and fingers. “It has beautiful red leaves at the finish of the season.”
Lucy looked up at his wide sensuous mouth; imagined a flickering tongue emerging like a –
“It is small now, but, he will be up to two metres when he has grown.”
Again, her eyes dropped to the crotch of his jeans. If this carries on I’m going to make a fool of myself. She looked up. “Yes, that’s fine. I’ll have this one.”
“You will need to make a big hole for this.” He seemed concerned at her rushed decision. “You would like to see some more before you make your mind?”
For a moment, he caught her with his piercing eyes.
She looked away and tried to focus on the plant. “No, I like this one. This one is fine. Can you deliver it?”
“Of course we can, madam. You can arrange this with reception when you –”
“No –” She almost shouted the word. “I mean, you have been very helpful to me and I was wondering,” she hesitated, her heart thumping. “I was wondering if you could show me where to plant it.” (Bloody hell! What am I saying – have I gone out of my mind?) “Of course, I’ll pay you extra,” she added.
The man considered her for a moment. “I am only work here in the mornings,” he said.
“Oh, good. This afternoon will be fine. Say, one thirty?” Lucy didn’t wait for his answer. “Here’s my phone number.” She took out her card, Lucy Sutton – Director Retrospective Theatre Company, and wrote her address on the back.
His face broke into a broad grin as he studied the card. He held out his hand. “I will be there at one-thirty Mrs Sutton.”
He kept a gentle grasp of her fingers as she gave directions. God – if this man doesn’t let go soon I’m sure my body will start to shake. At last, he released her and she started to walk away. A few paces on, she turned around. “By the way. What’s your name?”
“Jöran. Jöran Engstrom.”
“Jöran Engstrom,” she repeated. “Half-past one then?”
“Yes, I will see you then.”
She ambled towards the reception, telling herself not to look back until she turned the corner. When she did, he was still standing where she’d left him, studying the card she’d given him. He took out his mobile, tapped in a number and brought the phone to his ear.
When she reached the car park, Lucy let out a deep breath.
The weather had cleared and it was already warm by the time she reached home. There was a letter waiting for her; from her agent. She stood in the hall and tore it open – Great news! Her series, Windows after Hopper, has been accepted for the Spring Exhibition at the Walter Sickert Gallery in Hampstead and could she contact him as soon as possible to discuss media coverage. Lucy went straight to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine. At last, all her work over the past year has paid off – this will be her biggest break since winning the Tristan Humbert Prize three years ago. This has to be her lucky day.
She looked at the time: 12.35. God, that lovely man will be here in an hour! She picked up her glass and checked every room in the house, then she poured herself another. Thank God it was Wednesday and Janice had been around to clean up the previous afternoon. Upstairs, she took a bath and went to extraordinary lengths to ensure not a single hair remained attached to her legs. In her bedroom she pulled open the wardrobe doors, took down the little black dress and threw it on the bed. Moving to her bedside table, she rummaged through the top drawer and groaned at the crumpled heap of cotton briefs and sports bras. She emptied the contents onto the bed alongside her dress, stood back and glared at the pile – all clean and fresh but nothing likely to induce the passions. Then, as if a genie had leaped from her wine glass, she remembered the set she’d bought for that date last New Year – one of many Rupert had to cancel.
She pulled open the bottom drawer. The packet was still there, buried beneath her woollen jumpers, unopened and bearing the label Allure of Paris. She tore it open and, within the space of a minute, was standing before her cheval mirror dressed in an enticing silk bra and matching panties. She closed her eyes and imagined him there – Him? Christ! What did he say his name was? Oh yes Jöran. That’s it, Jöran, laying on the bed; piercing blue eyes gleaming, strong hands reaching out to her, pulling her down – she glanced at the clock on her bedside table – Ten past one! She grabbed the dress and hitched it over her head and shoulders. After a quick look in the mirror she pulled it off and threw it to the floor along with her stockings. “Shit, shit, shit!”
Two minutes later she bounded down the stairs dressed in a straight grey woollen skirt and cream shirt and shoved her bare feet into a pair of flat leather shoes.
Another glass of wine and a quick inspection of the dining room. An empty coffee cup had been left at the edge of the carefully polished dining table. She picked it up, rushed over to the dresser and opened the bottom door. The contents spilled out across the floor: a paperback book, two broken pencils, all the Sunday supplements for the last three months, a yellow cushion (part of a pair used to decorate the sofa she had replaced last year) and a tennis ball which had now rolled under the table – everything spewed out and scattered.
When, at last, all was back in place Lucy wedged the empty cup between the pages of the supplements and eased the door closed. She waited, expecting it to spring open, but it held. She stood back and surveyed the room.
After a little consideration she moved the vase of fresh cut flowers from the dining table to the mantle shelf above the fireplace, centred it between the jade statuettes of Vishnu and Brahma, only to return it back to its original place at the table.
She raced into the kitchen and glanced up at the clock: 1.27. Her heart was pounding like a bass drum. What’s wrong with me for Christ’s sake! The man’s only coming to deliver a tree for the garden, and anyway he’s probably forgotten all about it now.
At that moment wheels crunched through the gravel of her drive. Lucy stepped back from the window and watched a rusty old pick-up truck pull up outside. The bell gave a second ring. Lucy waited in the hall and willed herself to get to twenty before answering. Six, seven, eight, she pulled the door open at nine.
“Oh, goodness!” Lucy raised her eyebrows. “Is it that time already?”
“Hello. I should take these off?”
Lucy, head spinning, gazed at the figure on her doorstep and wished she hadn’t been so liberal with the wine.
The man pointed to his feet.
Her eyes travelled down the length of his body and rested on his mud-clodded boots.
“Oh, no. That’s all right. Come through, Johan.”
“Yes, well. We’ll go to the garden first.”
He followed her down the hall, across the lounge, through the conservatory and out to the back garden, leaving a trail of mud footprints across the polished floors and deep-pile carpet.
While he measured the space for her new tree, Lucy went to perch on the garden table. After a couple of failed attempts, she managed to position herself at the edge of the bench and watched the man at work. Each time he had his back turned, she hitched her skirt a little higher.
“What did you do in Sweden?” she said, trying to get his attention.
He glanced up. “My work?”
For a brief moment, she was sure his eyes took in her exposed thigh.
“Yes, your work?”
He told her that he was an actor for the Personlig Teater in Stockholm.
Lucy considered this. So that would explain why he had taken an interest in my business card. However, she didn’t comment and Jöran went on to say that, when there was no work in the theatre, he was employed as a masseur and personal trainer in a fitness centre in Malmö.
God! thought Lucy, this is too good to be true. She asked if he enjoyed the work.
“For the theatre?”
“No, the fitness centre.”
He said it was okay but he would prefer to work for himself as a gardener but found it difficult to get established.
“Maybe you should offer a discount for recommendations. I’m sure you could find plenty of clients that way.”
“But I think it is not so easy. First I must find somewhere to keep my equipment and then it will be the rent to pay.” He shrugged. “I think this will take much time and money. I finish my employment at the garden centre this month and, if I cannot find somewhere for my work, then I will have to return to my country.”
While she watched him at work, Lucy thought of his dilemma. She considered her summerhouse; heated, double glazed, about ten by twelve feet of floorspace.
“How much room do you need?” she asked.
Jöran stepped back and checked the depth of the hole. “Oh, I think that will be size enough.”
With his feet braced apart and knees slightly bent, he lowered the sapling gently into the hole. Lucy imagined herself suspended with his hands at her waist and her legs wrapped around his middle.
“No, I meant for your garden work,” she said. “For your storage?”
He trod the soft dark earth firmly around the base of the tree. “Ah, it would be the same as a small office.”
Lucy slipped off the bench and they both stood back to admire the tree set in its new location.
“Lovely. Wait here. I’ll just be a moment.” Lucy went back to the house and returned with a chequebook in her hand. “Now, how much do I owe you?”
“Oh, I think twenty-five pounds is good for me. It is too much, do you think?” He looked to her for confirmation.
There was a movement from the curtain at her neighbour’s window.
“No, I think that’s very reasonable.” Her pen was poised over the cheque. “How much do you charge for a massage?”
“It may be a little different here, but at the centre in Sweden they charge three hundred kronor for forty minutes, which is about thirty pounds.”
“Well, yes that’s fine. So, I make that fifty-five pounds altogether. Is that okay?” Lucy started to fill out the cheque.
“You pay for a massage, now?”
“Well, not if you don’t want to,” she added.
“Of course, yes, this is not a problem. I was a little unexpecting, that is all.” His voice trailed off. “You want me now? Here in your home?” he asked.
She gave a quick glance to her neighbour’s bedroom window. “Well, I was thinking out here in the garden would be fine.”
Jöran paused. “But I have not my roller and balls.”
Lucy’s eyes dropped to his crotch.
“And have not my oils,” he added.
“Oils? Oh yes, that’s all right. Wait a moment.” Lucy headed back to the house. After a few paces she let out the breath she had been holding in for the last twenty-five seconds.
Less than a minute later she was back in the garden armed with a bath towel and the bottle of massage oil which had remained unopened in the medicine cabinet for over nine months. “Is this okay?” she asked.
He took the bottle and read the label.
Lucy spread the towel over the garden table.
“Yes, this is okay,” he said.
Lucy turned to face him. “Shall I get undressed now?”
“Yes, I think this will be necessary,” he smiled.
She attempted to undo her shirt but the buttons kept slipping through her fingers. She looked up. “Can you help me with this, please?”
The curtain gave another twitch at Rose’s bedroom window.
Jöran slowly unbuttoned the front of Lucy’s shirt. He was standing so close she could feel the warmth of his body. His eyes were fixed on the final button which stubbornly refused to pass through the hole. Hers dropped to his slim waist beneath his t-shirt. She became conscious of her breathing, hard, through parted lips. She held her breath.
The final button gave way and he looked up. Their eyes met. Lucy had to fight the impulse to fling her arms around his neck and kiss him.
“How long are you staying here?” Her words came out as a whisper. She cleared her throat. “I mean, in England?”
He repeated that his contract with the garden centre would be finishing next month and, if he couldn’t find any work here, he would have to return to Sweden.
“Oh, yes. You told me.” Lucy pulled her shirt off her shoulders, convincing herself that this was no different than a routine examination at her doctor’s surgery. She let her skirt drop to the grass and climbed onto the table.
“Do you want to lay me on my back or my tummy?” The innuendos, although unintended, flowed so naturally Lucy didn’t bother to correct them any more. Besides, the man didn’t seem to notice.
“I begin with your back first,” he said.
Lucy stretched full length on the table with her head turned to face the garden wall. At the sound of squelching oil warming his palms, Lucy had to remind herself to stay detached. She unclipped the back of her bra.
His first touch was electrifying. As soon as his fingers pressed between her shoulder blades Lucy knew that she would have a struggle to keep control. Her eyes fixed on the flowerbed. She had just started to count the second row of gladioli when there was a sound of metal scraping against brickwork from the other side of the wall. Moments later, a head of auburn hair appeared through the fronds of ivy draped over the top of the wall.
Lucy closed her eyes. She turned her head away and smiled; her plan was working, better than she expected. The sun was warm on her back as her masseur’s fingertips glided along the centre of her spine. She opened her eyes a little, just enough to take in the front of his jeans pressing against the bench inches from her face, the edge of his bleached t-shirt working it’s way above the waistband. Her eyes followed a trickle of sweat as it ran down the tight skin of his stomach.
“You can take your shirt off if you like?” Lucy bit into her lip. “I mean, it’s quite hot out here.”
Jöran removed his hands from her back.
God! She hadn’t meant to say it aloud. And now he’s taken offence; he’s packing up and leaving. And all witnessed by Rose too – she’ll never hear the end of it.
The edge of his t-shirt moved up to his chest and over his shoulders to uncover a smooth tanned waist. Never had Lucy seen a man in such good physical shape – at least, not in real life. The tight rippling pectoral muscles she thought only existed in the pictures of male models in magazines. She let out a sigh as his fingers resumed their sensual movements. Then a thought flashed through her mind: What if he’s gay!
“Do you have a girlfriend?” she asked.
“Yes, she is living in Norsborg.”
Well, that solves that one. “How often do you see her?”
“I stayed at her home for two weeks in July of this summer.”
At least two months ago. What does he do between visits? He must be frustrated. Mind you, I can’t talk. It’s been over a year since me and Stephen split up, and whatever we had together could hardly be described as sex. And Rupert, well he’s been so taken up with this production I only get to see him at board meetings these days.
“I expect you miss her.”
He didn’t answer, just moved his hands to the top of her spine. “And you,” he said. “You are married?”
“Oh no, he left a long time ago. You are the first man I have allowed to touch me in over…” Christ! What am I saying? He’s a masseur not a bloody gigolo.
Jöran moved his hands away. “It is warm here” he said. “You will mind if I work in smalls?”
Jesus! You’ve blown it now Lucy. Why do you always have to push it too far? He’s going to pack up and say he’ll finish off another time. You’ll never see this guy again.
She tried to hide her disappointment and started to climb down from the bench.
“Oh no, Mrs Sutton.” He touched her shoulder. “Please stay how you are. I have not finished your back.”
Confused, Lucy rested her elbows on the bench and watched the man untie his boots and remove them along with his socks. To her amazement he flipped open the front of his jeans and pulled them down to expose his muscular thighs. She gave a quick glance towards the garden wall just in time to see Rose’s head bob down.
Jöran, dressed in a pair of grey body-hugging cotton boxer shorts, returned to his position alongside the bench. “I will continue now, yes?”
Work in smalls? Of course, he meant his shorts. Was this her lucky day or what!
She sank back to the wooden slats and rested her head in the crook of her arm as his fingers resumed their sensuous movements along her back and the sides of her rib-cage. Through half-closed eyes she followed the contours of the shape confined inside the pouch at the front of his pants – was her mind playing tricks? It must be the wine. Could that really be a penis? Now what? Was she expected to make the next move? Did he remove his trousers to encourage her to take the next step? Big it may have been, but it was clear the man wasn’t aroused. What if he took offence? Lucy had to fight the compulsion to reach out and touch him. In desperation, she willed it to come alive. She searched for a stirring, a sign, but it was no use, Jöran remained cool and unmoved.
The heat between her legs was unbearable, she pushed her hips into the hard surface of the table. Why did he not feel the same? She felt a surge of pleasure as his fingers pressed into the small of her back.
“Do you ever get turned on by your clients when you do this work?” God! Think before you speak, Lucy.
“Sometimes. Yes, this can happen.” He ran his thumbs along her spine. “When it is with an attractive woman.”
What’s the man implying? That I’m not? All the evidence seems to point to it.
“But then,” he continued. “Most of the time, I will think only of the work I am to do. It is not good to confuse the two. Sometimes it can be… a misunderstanding. Yes. It can be a misunderstanding.”
Lucy was determined to pursue this. “Okay, but surely you get some women who want something more?” Well done, Lucy – very subtle. At least you didn’t say ‘gagging for it’.
“It would depend on many things,” he continued. “If she was attractive. If she was a generous person, someone who I could be with more. Then, yes, it is possible.”
He moved his hands around her waist and pressed his fingers into the dip of her pelvis. The sensation sent a spasm through her body.
“Ooh, that’s nice,” she whispered. She had the urge to throw her legs apart.
“Do you mind if I take my pants off?” Steady girl. We don’t want any misunderstandings here, do we? “Just so you don’t get them covered in oil.” she added.
“Of course. You can cover with the towel, if you want.”
No sign of emotion in his voice. Doesn’t he want to see me naked?
Lucy spread the towel over her bottom. She pulled her briefs down to her knees and kicked them off; the waistband catching the edge of the bench where they hung like a limp flag for the remainder of the afternoon.
“Do you think I’m attractive?” Lucy pursued – Oh, yes. Very subtle!
“Yes, you are a very attractive woman.”
Lucy let her legs fall apart and raised her bottom slightly. No sooner had she done this, Jöran started to hammer along the backs of her legs with the hard edge of his hands.
“What the hell are you doing!” She tried to leap down from the table but couldn’t move. She was paralysed. Any attempt at escape was restrained by the relentless pounding on the back of her thighs.
“You must stay still,” he demanded. “You are very tense. This is to relax you. Now please, lay back down and make loose your muscles.”
She gave in; allowed him to continue until the treatment was complete.
“You can turn over now,” he said. “I will do your front.”
Lucy held the towel at her waist, turned around and sat up. In doing so, her bra strap slipped from her shoulder and her breasts, (her best asset according to Rupert), fell free. As her careful choice of underwear seemed to have no affect, she threw the bra aside. Dejected, she lay with her back to the boards and stared up into the sky. She tried to imagine what it would take to get Jöran turned on. What was it he said? That his client would need to be attractive – but hadn’t he just admitted she was a very attractive woman? Yes, but only because she pushed him – the guy probably didn’t want to hurt her feelings.
His fingertips started to work their way along her lower leg from her ankle to her knee.
What else? Oh yes. That was it – she had to be generous. Was he short of money? Maybe he was hoping for a tip but was too proud to ask.
“You are very good at this. I really think you should charge a higher fee,” she suggested.
“No, this is fine for me. I have no need of more.”
So, that’s not it. Lucy tried to think. She looked over to the cabin at the bottom of the garden. She’d moved her paints easels and canvases from there last month and turned the spare bedroom into her studio for the winter.
“Do you think my summerhouse would make a good office for your work?”
Without answering, Jöran looked across to the end of the garden. He then slid his hands along the back of her thighs as far as her bottom.
“Oh, my God!” she gasped.
“Yes, of course. I think it would be very good.” He said, beginning to massage the soft flesh only inches from her vagina.
She parted her knees and raised her bottom from the table, unaware that the towel had slipped to the bench. She was breathing hard. “Would you… like to work in there?”
Jöran took the bottle and shook some oil onto her tummy. “Well, yes,” he said. “Providing there is space for my equipment.” He started to rub the oil into her breasts.
“God, that’s nice,” she gasped.
He stopped. “You are saying that I could work here?”
Lucy pushed herself against his motionless hand. “Yes,” she panted. “In the summerhouse.”
“And you don’t mind me to use as an office?” His hands remained still.
“Yes, yes. Of course I don’t. Now, please don’t stop what you were doing.”
Jöran began to enter her with his fingers. First one, then two.
Lucy arched her back to meet them.
At last, all his fingers were in her vagina. His thumb teased the little protrusion buried under the mound of neatly trimmed hair.
Lucy’s hands were at her breasts, she began to gyrate her hips against the mounting pressure of his hands.
The sound of a ladder crashed through ivy and climbers.
Jöran gave a concerned glance towards the wall.
A moment of silence was followed by a stream of obscenities from the neighbours garden.
He looked back at Lucy who turned to meet his steely blue eyes.
“Make me come,” she gasped, her voice was barely a whisper. “Make me come… please.”
With a steady rhythm Jöran moved his hand to answer the insistent throb from the wall of warm flesh enclosed around his fingers.
A deep guttural sound came from Lucy’s throat as she arched her body from the table.
Half an hour later all was at peace in Lucy’s garden. Rose waited by the rusted gate at the bottom of her own property until her neighbour had driven off to collect her children from school. Once she was sure Lucy had gone, she scrambled through the overgrown path and, in less than thirty seconds was standing inside her neighbour’s summerhouse with her back against the closed door.
“So, did she go for it then?” she said.
Jöran, dressed in his grey cotton shorts and working boots, was measuring the distance from one wall to the other. With arms outstretched and the pose of a tightrope walker, he paced the bare floorboards heel to toe.
“Yes,” he said, without looking up. “Not only to work as her gardener. She said I can use this for my office.”
Rose pushed herself away from the door and took two steps toward him. “How clever of you, darling.” She moved her mouth up to his and cupped her hand inside the expanding pouch of his pants. “Now I can see you whenever I like.”
She pulled him over to the window.
Jöran gave a cursory glance towards the house.
“Don’t worry, she won’t be back for at least half an hour.” Rose placed her outstretched hand on the dusty window ledge and looked over her shoulder. “I was watching over the wall, you know.”
“Yes I did hear you. I think that you fell. I hope you did not hurt.”
With one elbow supported on the windowsill and both feet spaced apart, Rose slid her hand down her dress and stroked the back of her leg. With her eyes fixed on his face, she pulled the hem of her dress up exposing her body as far as her shoulder. “Look what happened to me.”
Jöran’s eyes were on her naked back. Rose braced herself as he pressed against her bottom, winced as he ran the tip of his index finger along the fresh graze down the side of her ribs. She dropped her hands to the floor, pushed the back of her head through the cobwebs until it rested against the wall. From here she could see every detail; from the moment he entered her until the last drop of his cum trickled down the inside of her thighs.
Copyright © James Sillwood 2014