He swore again, then, “Christ, yes. You’d have a queue as far as Skipton.”
“Excellent. Maybe I should sell them ice cream as well.”
His next expletive was muffled behind his forearm as he laid it across his face, and Imogen took that as her cue to pick up where she’d left off.
* * * *
One hour, one blow job, one slow, comfortable screw and two showers later, Zack and Imogen shared croissants and her Sunday paper across the kitchen table. Zack grabbed the sports section, Imogen the entertainment magazine and they took it in turns to brew coffee. Neither spoke, just the occasional light smile or squeeze of fingers to cement their easy companionship. And Imogen knew she was going to miss him when he left, in a way she’d never imagined missing anyone since Sean.
The minutes rolled easily by, lengthened into half an hour, then an hour. Imogen was first to speak, “Can I show you something?”
He glanced up. “Only if you promise to let me show you mine…”
“Idiot.”
“That’s no way to talk to your Dom, Miss Jakes. I really should spank you…”
“Later, please. Sir.” She added the final respectful title as an afterthought, but even so it rolled remarkably easily off her tongue, especially given that he had to be twenty years younger than her. Who’d have thought it?
Holding out her hand, she led him upstairs to her bedroom. He made no move to touch her, instead leaned against the door as she knelt in front of her large solid oak wardrobe and tugged open the drawer at the bottom. She beckoned him over, and he crouched beside her, letting out a low whistle at the dizzying array of whips, handcuffs, floggers and canes.
“Your stuff? You should have said. I needn’t have improvised so much.”
“I loved your improvising. And this stuff was Sean’s, really. I never thought of it as mine. Until now perhaps.”
“And now?” He rested his hand lightly on the back of her neck, softly massaging.
She turned her head to drop a kiss on the inside of his wrist. “Now, I’d like to try these again. I remember I always liked these…” She reached in and rummaged around in the bottom of the drawer, before coming up with a small drawstring bag. Zack held out his hand, and Imogen opened the bag before tipping three small items not unlike hair grips into his palm.
Zack studied his new treasures for a few moments, then, “Clit clips. Oh yes, I can see why you’d like these. Very pretty.” He closed his fist around the toys, and with a thumb he gestured towards the bed. “Lose the robe. And open wide.”
Seconds later Imogen was lying on her back across her bed, her knees bent and her legs spread wide. Zack knelt on the floor alongside, smearing baby oil over the small clamps. Satisfied he’d lubed them up, he gently parted Imogen’s labia, coaxing her clit to swell and stiffen before drawing his tongue slowly across the quivering nub.
“That’s you nicely lubed, too. Although perhaps a little more won’t hurt …” He leaned in and lapped the sensitive button again, taking his time, deliberately stopping to flick the end with the tip of his tongue.
Imogen wriggled, lifting her hips.
“That’s good, so good…”
Her throaty murmur disappeared into a long sigh as Zack pressed his tongue between the lips of her pussy, circling the tip inside her now.
“Oh, God…”
Lifting his head and slipping two long fingers deep into her pussy, Zack reached for the clips.
“Any preference which one?”
“No, you choose…aah!” Imogen arched her back sharply as Zack gently squeezed her clit and slid his particular favourite clamp snugly around it, capturing the sensitive tip between the two arms. He leant back, his expression one of admiration.
“Feel okay? Not too tight?”
“It’s—wonderful. Quite, quite wonderful. Could you…?”
“I could indeed.” And his head dipped again as he leaned in to tongue the tip of Imogen’s engorged nub, the sensitive nerve endings now tingling wildly as the blood trapped there heightened all sensation. It was extreme, sensual and superlatively erotic, and Imogen cried out an instant before her climax ripped through her. She simply shattered, her senses scrambling as her body convulsed and shook, and the waves of her ecstasy slid around and through her like a warm caress. Stunned by the sheer physical impact, and by the intensity of emotion overwhelming her, Imogen was unable to prevent the tears streaming down her cheeks. Zack glanced up, saw, and eased her back fully onto the bed before coming to lie alongside her.
“That good, huh?”
Imogen could only nod and turned to cling to him, burying her nose against his chest as she sobbed noisily.
Zack said nothing. He seemed content to lie still and let her emotion spend itself. Only when she quietened and her sobs were reduced to occasional gulps did he unzip his jeans and roll her onto her back again. He reached into his front pocket for the condom before shoving his jeans down and kicking them off. He knelt between Imogen’s legs, splaying them so he could once more admire the pretty little toy still holding her clit proudly aloft. He reached for the oil beside the bed, squirting a generous helping onto his fingers before inserting one, then two into her arse.
“Still good?” He glanced at her under his eyebrows, caught her brief nod before returning his attention to her unresisting arse. It didn’t take long, and moments later she was ready. Imogen lay still, glowing with anticipation as she listened to the now familiar snap of foil and latex. He positioned himself at her entrance, his hands on the backs of her legs pushing slightly to raise her bum up. He thrust hard, burying his cock right to the hilt. Imogen gasped, it was tight and she was fully stretched. Yesterday he took his time. Today he was quick and sure and demanding. He withdrew and plunged back deep, twice, to make sure he had her, then he pushed his knees under her hips and released her legs. Imogen found herself helplessly captured, her thighs spread wide, her clit lifted and displayed, his to play with. And play he did, teasing, stroking, trailing his fingertips across the tip, flicking, strumming, scratching lightly with his thumbnail, pressing hard, rubbing. And she came. Again and again and again, he drew one orgasm after another from her, until her body was limp, spent, utterly exhausted. At last, she could manage no more.
“Red.” The safe word was more a breath than vocal, but he heard and responded. Leaning over her again, his weight on his forearms and legs, he dropped a kiss on her forehead.
“My turn now. All right?”
“Please. Be my guest.”
Zack chuckled silently at the unintended pun, and proceeded to help himself to a sweet, tight fuck.
Chapter Three
A month. Four whole, endless weeks, and still no word. He’d promised to be in touch, at least to let her know how his interview went, maybe even come back if he was in the area again. But so far, nothing.
Imogen thought back to that last morning, that grey, drizzling Monday when she’d set her alarm to be awake by five to make sure she had time to get Zack’s breakfast. They’d had a deal, he’d paid good money for his breakfasts and she intended to offer the best value. He’d pulled her back into bed as she’d tried to leave and told her he preferred cereal as he reached for a condom from the packet he’d dumped on her bedside table. Imogen couldn’t help thinking it was fortunate the landlady at the Fleece in Bainbridge had re-stocked on Saturday, though she was probably wondering who had emptied her vending machine in the Ladies and where all the action had been.
No action here, now, that was for certain. Apart from an elderly couple celebrating their wedding anniversary, she’d had no more guests since Zack. She suspected her more recent visitors would not deplete her stock of remaining condoms though she’d decided to leave them in the bedside drawer in what she now thought of as Zack’s room. Her finances were stretched to breaking. She needed a job. Desperately.
So the one bright spot on her horizon had been the phone call yesterday from the employment agency she’d registered with asking her to attend for an interview later this afternoon in Hawes. It sounded like a decent job, too, interesting even. Personal assistant and admin officer to support the new director of a rural business support network that was just starting up. The agency felt that her admin qualifications were right for this, but her background as a rural business owner herself was the icing on the cake. She’d be front of house, reception duties, answering the phone, greeting visitors, setting up networking events, running the office. At first. They were offering training in leisure and tourism, this could be the start of a new career for her. And it was only thirty hours a week—she’d still have time to run her guest house as well. It sounded ideal, and Imogen was cautiously optimistic although she kept telling herself not to get too excited. She’d yet to land the job, and she’d had no interview practice in God knows how long. But she needed this—she really, really needed this. Her bank balance needed this. And so did her self-esteem.
At five to four she presented herself at the newly opened Rural Business Development Centre in Hawes. A cheerful woman of around fifty with greying wavy hair greeted her and invited her to come straight through. Imogen followed her through the door, and stopped dead.
Zack. Zack was there. Her Zack. Sitting at the interview table, a middle-aged and somewhat weather-beaten man on one side of him, and an empty chair on the other, obviously just vacated by she of the greying wavy hair. The candidate’s chair was positioned opposite Zack, a glass of sparkling water helpfully to hand. Imogen reflected that she was definitely going to need that.
“Imogen, I’m glad you could make it today. It’s lovely to see you again. Let me introduce everyone.” Zack stood, leaned across the table and shook her hand.
Shook
her hand!
Imogen was dumbstruck. What was he doing here, looking as though he owned the place? He was a farmer, for God’s sake…?
Ignoring her obvious confusion, Zack proceeded with his introductions. “You’ve just met Claire. Claire Montgomery works for our accountants and she’s been temporarily seconded to us to head up finance and HR. She’ll be overseeing us today, to ensure the interviews are conducted correctly.”
Ms Grey and Wavy nodded politely and offered her hand. Imogen took it, managed to murmur something about being pleased to meet her.
Zack continued, “And Jack Barraclough is chair of the management board. He runs a farm near Askrigg. You’ll remember I mentioned. He interviewed me when I was up here last month.”
Farmer Jack leaned over and offered his hand. Imogen politely took it, her head whirling.
She vaguely recalled that Zack had told her the interviewer had been taken ill, which was why he found himself stuck in the Dales over the weekend. And that he had to get up and be off early because his interview was scheduled for some ungodly ‘farming’ hour. She’d assumed he was an agricultural worker. Clearly he was not. Somehow the subject had never come up between them.
Well, it wouldn’t would it
? The thought flittered uselessly through her head.
We were too busy with makeshift nipple clamps and finding unhygienic things to do in my dining room.
“And of course, you know me. I’ve been explaining to Jack and Claire how well you looked after me when I was here last month.”
Yeah, I’ll bet…
Imogen couldn’t help thinking he’d probably not shared all the finer details with his colleagues. Christ, she hoped not!
Her head still reeling, uncertain if this was some sort of wind-up, Imogen took her time settling herself in the vacant chair opposite Zack. She straightened her skirt, flicked off an imaginary cat hair—she didn’t even own a cat—and helped herself to a small sip of water. Then she faced Zack, smiled serenely, and agreed how nice it was, how very nice indeed, to see him again.
Zack nodded, and was suddenly all business. “As you’ll realise, I’m the Director of the Network, or will be when I take up the post fully next week. Meanwhile though, I’ll be chairing the interview panel today. We have a number of questions to ask you, if that’s all right?”
“Of course.” Imogen managed another faint smile, trying to at least look the part of the confident assistant and administrator.
“So, Imogen, could you start by telling us something about your own experience of running a business in the Dales? What do you see as the key challenges facing rural entrepreneurs?”
And she was off. Easy as that. The next forty-five minutes flew past as Imogen explained her own difficulties, her thoughts on tackling them, her experiences of networking with other guesthouse owners and developing clusters of complementary businesses to help each other, refer customers, make recommendations, support other local traders. All the things she did naturally as a rural entrepreneur herself. The panel members scribbled their notes, nodded politely, asked additional, probing questions occasionally. And suddenly it was done. They’d finished with her.
“Thank you, Imogen, you’ve been most helpful. It’s been a pleasure to meet you again. We’ll make our decision today and we’ll let all candidates know the outcome by the end of the week.”
Picking up her bag Imogen stood, offered her hand to each of the panel members in turn and made a run for it with as much dignity as her now shattered nerves would allow.
* * * *
The end of the week. It was only Tuesday. She might have days to wait to find out if she’d got the job. Not that she would get it, probably. Not with all those bright young graduates swilling around, waving their degrees and diplomas and whatever else. Imogen pushed her microwaved pizza around on her plate, telling herself she’d done the best she could, and wondering if her finances could stretch to a half bottle of white. Probably best not.
Her good sense wavered a little as she inspected the bottom shelf in her fridge for a nice chilled chardonnay, and she nearly missed the insistent trill of her mobile in her coat pocket out in the hall. She managed to grab it just as the caller rang off. She checked her missed calls log.
Zack!
It had been Zack. She’d missed his call.
Shit. Shit. Shit!