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  RANDOM ACTS OF LUST

  Primula Bond

  Published by Accent Press Ltd – 2010

  ISBN 9781907726439

  Copyright © Primula Bond 2010

  The right of Primula Bond to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Xcite Books, Suite 11769, 2nd Floor, 145-157 St John Street, London EC1V 4PY

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  "Xcite has delighted its readers with a wealth of superb titles and first class storytelling. Their titles have far outstripped the others for both quality of the product and sensual erotic content."

  Shadows

  THE PHONE RANG AND I dropped the casserole.

  All over the floor. All over John’s cracked terracotta. Brown cubes of lamb, button mushrooms, half-baked dumplings, green spits of coriander, twigs of rosemary, diced orange carrots, the rest of the Rioja. The bouquet garni made it as far as my new boots, spattering mottled gobs over the dagger-sharp toes.

  ‘That was Suki. They’re on their way. About twenty minutes now.’ John came into the kitchen and tried twice to shove the phone back into its stained plastic wall mount.

  ‘It doesn’t go there. That’s the hall phone.’ The oven door gaped beside me, belching out heat. Inside, drenched in olive oil, my root vegetables were crisping black. I leaned against the huge old fridge and frowned at the way he was fumbling. ‘Not nervous, are you?’

  The door hummed against my spine. I wished I could just stay there all day, stuck like a novelty magnet. I stared at the star-shaped splatter all over the floor. All over the cracked terracotta. The heavy central mess. Stripes of sauce elongating like limbs making a bid for freedom. How stupid was that, trying to cook boeuf bourguignon for an awarding-winning chef?

  The dish itself was intact apart from a heart shaped crack in its side. The lid was in smithereens.

  ‘What do you mean?’ He looked vaguely round at me. ‘About this visit?’

  ‘About seeing him. It’s been six years –’

  ‘Darling, he’s been busy on the other side of the world, that’s all. We’re not estranged. Not any more. He’s got used to the idea of my marrying again. So it’s time he met you. Time he met my bride.’ John rubbed the palms of his hands together and swivelled the top half of his body in a stiff, military movement. ‘So what happened here?’

  I held the oven gloves out, still linking my wrists like handcuffs. ‘There’s a hole in these. I was checking the casserole and the phone rang and the fingers burnt right through.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Should have got new stuff sorted out. We never used to bother. This was only ever meant to be our holiday home.’ John took a couple of j-cloths off the sink and flapped them at me. ‘Don’t worry. It wasn’t our best china. And don’t be pissed off just because of a flawed oven glove?’

  The cloths dangled uselessly between us. His dead wife’s j-cloths. I crossed my arms. My breasts enveloped them, warm and heavy. My pale green sweater felt tight. It was probably way too tight for this grand introduction, but sod that. I liked the way my breasts jutted out in that Hollywood starlet way, expensively upholstered and impossible to ignore. They might be lifted by satin-covered whalebone and kissed by cashmere, but my breasts were still my best friends. They’d earned me a fortune over the years, even when my face didn’t fit. And I was only a handful of years older than my scary stepchildren, for God’s sake. Why should I shroud myself in some shapeless blouse and mash myself into another woman’s peeling wallpaper?

  ‘I’ll have to go to the village and get something else to eat. They must do some sort of ready meal. Takeaway. Anything.’

  ‘I doubt there’s anywhere open on a Sunday in these ’ere parts.’ John’s mouth twitched at his evil attempt at a Devon accent. ‘Bread and cheese will do. Soup. I don’t know why you went to so much trouble in the first place, Flo. They’re not royalty. And Suki knows you hate cooking.’

  ‘I can’t have your son coming all the way from Sydney for a lump of Stilton. What would Gordon Ramsay’s mini-me make of that?’

  ‘They’re not coming for the food, for God’s sake.’

  John wrapped his arm round me. It’s why I married him, despite all the clicking tongues. Because when he wasn’t covered in paint and dust he wore mossy tweed jackets like a proper gentleman and the moment those arms were round me I calmed down. On our wedding day three months before I shook like a leaf. He wrapped his arm round me on the steps of the registry office while the smattering of guests took pictures. Relax, darling. They’re not the paparazzi, he whispered, more’s the pity. He made me laugh. So I never told him why I was shaking.

  ‘Those are cool boots,’ he said now, and we both bent to look. ‘Not what I’d call suitable for trudging along a rough old beach, but cool nevertheless.’ Normally it would have been exactly the right thing to say. He knelt down with the j-cloth and wiped the droplets off the ox-blood red leather. Then he kissed my foot. ‘A sex kitten like you needs a good seeing to, preferably twice a day, so what’s the matter with me?’ He ran his hand up my leg, tweaked the top of my stockings. ‘Christ! Getting a hard-on these days is like getting blood out of a stone!’

  My chest tightened. My new husband’s fine head of hair was thinning on top.

  ‘Get up, Johnny, please.’ I tugged at his shoulders. ‘I hate you grovelling about on the floor. It doesn’t suit you. And nor does the stud talk.’

  He was unable to hide the wince as his knees straightened. The hand holding the dirty cloth smoothed feebly at his hair as if he knew what I’d been thinking. But how could he know that the sight of him looking suddenly old was making me panic?

  ‘Just making you even more gorgeous for our guests.’ He tipped my chin up. ‘My beautiful wife. You’re like a pure-bred Arab mare, you know that? Always jittery.’

  I let him admire me for a moment longer. His long fingers traced the faint scarred hollow of my cheekbone, pressed my lips into a sexy pout. Some red lipstick smeared onto his fingers. A year ago he traced my cheekbones for the first time, when my agent commissioned him to sculpt a bust of me. That’s how we met. John carved me out of stone, like Pygmalion.

  And though he was only supposed to be sculpting my head and shoulders that day he went on moulding the rest of my body and I couldn’t stop him. I was cold all over, we both were. It was mid winter, like now, and he was a widower. I was the scarred survivor of a stupid accident, and when he touched me I started shivering. His fingers were so warm, and strong. He was used to wrestling shapes out of blocks of wood or stone and he was just as rough with me. And it was exactly what I wanted. He pummelled my arms and legs and neck and spine, twisted me about, his hair white and wild, so different from any other lover, like a sexy muscular wizard.

  And after he had recreated my head and shoulders, my bust, and stuck it on a plinth ready for casting and paced round it a few times, he came back to me and ran his hands all over me, feeling me, cupped my breasts, then my buttocks, slid his fingers into the warm crack there, trailing them through the dark cleft splitting under me and up to where it opened up, pink like blossom. My knees shook as he stood behind me, measuring every secret inch. Gradually my thighs opened wider for
those rough, roaming fingers until he reached my pussy and peeled me open like a fruit.

  Then he calmly took the robe loosely covering me and ripped it right away, leaving me naked, white and trembling, freezing on that pedestal thing, my skin pricking up in tight goose bumps. My breasts, usually photographed tickled by exotic lingerie, juddered with each heartbeat and rose upwards as if fighting the cold air. My nipples stood stiff and red like sore berries in the harsh winter light flooding his glass studio.

  That day, barely a year ago, he was still strong enough to lift me and throw me down on some lumpy old sacking in the corner where he reared over me, pinching my nipples until they burned with the desire rocketing through me. He opened my arms and legs like a sacrifice, then pulled his cock out of a gap in his overalls. I bit my lip, squealing with shock and tasting blood, as he knelt on my legs and held my arms above my head to keep me still. All the time his blue eyes were on me. His big fingers closed round his cock and he pummelled himself rapidly, just there above my splayed, bare pussy, and I squirmed with frustration, trying to lift my pussy, thinking he was going to come all over me, but then I could see his cock was huge and hard and ready and he let go of it, let it spring free from his fist but it was so hard it barely moved. He took his weight on his hands and with one fierce jab of his hips he stuck it into me, pushed it right up and in, and fucked me because our lives depended on it.

  His eyes fluttered closed now for a kiss. A shadow of that first, fast, furious fucking. This was what made me shake on our wedding day. I was afraid that soon it would all be shadows.

  I darted forwards to peck him first, on the mouth. It felt hard, and bristly. Odd. Normally he was scrupulous about shaving. I reached round him for the car keys. His shoulder felt bony as I brushed against it. ‘Nevertheless, this won’t do. I’m going out to find something proper to eat.’

  ‘You’re the one who’s nervous. You’ve already met Suki, so that’s ticked off.’ John dabbed the end of my nose with the cloth. ‘And Stuart will love you, because I do.’

  I opened the back door and the world rushed in. It was like switching on a soundtrack. Sea gulls, the slow drag of pebbles followed by the muffled crash of waves. You had to scramble down a little path to get to the beach. But you could still hear it.

  ‘I wish we could just have Christmas here on our own. Me and you.’

  A breeze batted past my ears, flipping the pages of my recipe book. I tied a scarf round my head like a fishwife.

  ‘Don’t rush off, Flo. You’re acting like a teenager, not a siren of the glossies –’

  ‘Ex siren of the glossies –’ I fingered my scar.

  ‘My siren.’ He held up his hand. Yes, it was still shaking, but now he looked like a stern headmaster, just the way I liked it. ‘I want you here with me, Mrs Floyd, gliding about with champagne.’

  Dead grass scraped against the half-open gate behind me. I backed out of the kitchen door, sensing freedom and wondering why I wanted, so badly, to escape.

  ‘Well, don’t be long, will you?’ John was bending down again, laboriously mopping at the congealing lunch. He looked up. There was a very slight film across one of those cobalt blue eyes. ‘I need you.’

  The village store was open, and stocked with tons of food. Into the boot went wine, more milk and cheese, cream, chocolate, the last remaining organic chicken. Surely even I could manage that? Smear it with lemon juice and thyme like they do on the TV, use the roasting time to sink the last of the Dom Perignon John had saved from his farewell exhibition?

  The French patisserie next door was open, too. It was so warm in there. I couldn’t decide, just stood and breathed the aroma of fresh bread, buttery croissants, custard doughnuts, apple pies, bulging, shiny pasties.

  ‘Made your choice?’

  ‘I’d like to stay in here all day.’ I smiled at the bun-faced lady behind the counter. ‘Bit of a gathering back at home.’

  ‘John OK? He’s not been down here, since – for years,’ she said as she took my money. Or rather, John’s money. She tapped the side of her head. ‘And I heard he’d gone downhill?’

  I let the coins rest on the palm of my hand, quelling the anger. ‘I’m the new Mrs Floyd, actually. And he’s fine. Stopped working, because of the arthritis, but he’s fine.’

  ‘Well, he must be fighting fit, a glamorous young wife like you to keep happy. I’m afraid we’re closing now, dear. Nearly Christmas. All got homes to go to.’

  The bags of unnecessary food rattled and bumped about in the boot where John’s easels and chisels and drums of plaster used to go. I drove as slowly as I could out of the car park. I couldn’t put it off for ever. They’d be there any minute now. My new stepson, the conquering hero, crowding into that cluttered kitchen. His small, restless sister scrutinising her mother’s empty cupboards, shrouded as always in expensive black. I’d never seen Suki wear anything colourful or clinging, had no idea if she possessed womanly breasts or the narrow hips of a boy. She would turn about slowly, silently arch her thick eyebrows.

  Get a grip. I was the mistress of the house. Yeah. Mistress was the word. My shag-me boots and the short, flirty skirt made me feel like some tart their old dad had picked up in a bar.

  A broad shaft of sunshine suddenly swept a path of gold across the grey beach. I jumped out of the car to follow it, all the way to the silvery water’s edge, running awkwardly in my high heels over the uneven sand. Not suitable for trudging along a rough old beach.

  ‘Lick my boots!’ I yelled at the waves. ‘I dare you!’

  My voice was catching in the wind. All I could see then was my husband, crouched at my feet on the kitchen floor, amongst the stew I’d just trashed, trying to clean my boots. I tried to see the sexy side of it, but my stomach clenched with nausea. My champion. Everyone said he’d rescued me, breathed life back into me, immortalised me too. And he had. But while my youth was set in stone for the moment, he was withering before my eyes.

  The water was reaching to grab at me again, straining but not quite reaching me. Every so often a wave rolled over, offered me a reluctant flash of sky blue.

  Up on the cliff John must be been puffing life into the logs, because smoke was threading out of the chimney.

  I could smell the wine and the log fire and a dazzling, nostril-pricking cologne as soon as I stepped in from the cold. I entered through the back door, bustling with provisions, the lady bountiful, but no one saw me.

  ‘Not stone. She was like alabaster. Her skin glows, you know.’

  ‘Like a weeping angel?’

  ‘Och, no, Stuart.’ Since when had John acquired a Scottish accent? My Flo’s no angel!’

  They had their backs to me, but that was OK. It meant I could hover in front of the hall mirror, tug my hair across my uneven cheek, smooth on a little more lipstick.

  They were arranged in front of the bay window. There was John on the right, Suki on the left, in something black, kneeling on the wide sill. A stranger in the middle. It was like the captain’s window, curved round the bow of the ship to survey the ocean.

  ‘And that’s just the way I like her.’ John’s chuckle was deep in his chest. But as he lifted his glass I noticed him press the flat of his other hand against the panelled wall.

  ‘I’m sure you do, Dad. Because in fairy stories,’ the third person, speaking in John’s deep voice, half turned so that the harsh light etched out his profile, a long sharp nose, the full curve of a lower lip, ‘the wicked stepmother is always the sexiest.’

  His eyes caught mine on the word ‘sexiest’ and pinned me back. I’d taken a step towards my husband but the man in the middle stopped me. He caught me hovering on the edge of the room like a moth and pinned me right there so I couldn’t move. Shadows flitted between the two men, the younger face stitched briefly onto my husband’s to show me how he used to look.

  No sick thumping of the heart now. It stopped beating completely.

  I could even hear the waves on the beach below. My senses were pricked
up like antennae. I could hear John swallowing, the creak of the windowsill as Suki stood up. The hiccup of the fridge in the kitchen. All I could see in the flickering fire light was the stranger’s cobalt blue eyes and the way his hands fell down to his sides as if he’d been shot.

  ‘Here she is. The hunter and gatherer returns.’ John cleared his throat. ‘Darling. Come and have a drink.’

  ‘Hello, Flo. Meet my brother Stuart.’

  I nodded in Suki’s direction, but I still couldn’t drag my eyes away. The air around him and me crystallised, locking us inside.

  ‘Florence. How do you do?’

  When I didn’t move he walked over the old carpet and took my hand. I started to jerk it up and down like a robot, tilting my scarred cheek automatically away.

  ‘Stuart. You’re here at last.’

  My voice rushed in my ears like the last thing you hear before you faint. He was lifting my hand towards his mouth. He had dark curly hair and was unshaven like a rock star and like all rock stars he seemed terribly young. So young. His curved lips parted slightly and I wanted him to lick my fingers. I wanted to stuff my fingers between his teeth so that he had to eat them.

  But he kissed the back of my hand. His lips were warm and damp and, Christ, was that the tip of his tongue brushing across the skin? My pussy twitched, sucking the flimsy silk of my knickers up between my lips and releasing the sharp scent of my own arousal. He closed his eyes briefly, his nose still pressed against my knuckles, and that’s when I knew it for sure. The stark difference between despair and desire.

  ‘You old charmer! Where did you learn to do that?’

  Suki pushed him jokily aside. Her arm hooked round my neck. I gave a silly, fluttering laugh and scrunched my shoulders like a child aping pleasure. Suki’s jaw bumped against my ear, moving my hair.

  ‘You must be starving, driving all that way?’

  I was talking to Stuart but Suki dragged him away to the old sofa and sat against him, her hand on his thigh. I rested my elbow on the mantelpiece, acutely aware of the way my breasts seemed to swell up and out with the movement. My back was to the mirror, the heat of the flames licking my legs, pricking my nipples into life, sending sweat trickling down my spine. And then at last I looked at John.