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

      ‘Fifty-four stitches,’ Thea told him, ‘from a weedy little terrier. The bizarre thing is, at the time, I was far more distressed that the dog was destroyed.’

      Thea Luckmore had never before jumped into bed on a first date, let alone slept with a relative stranger. Moreover, she had hitherto guarded her scars as fiercely as her perceived chastity. Yet here she was, naked and post-coitally languid above the covers on Saul Mundy’s bed, feeling more than fine while he traced the snaking line of scar that scored her waist and the top of her right thigh. He found the site and sight of her injury disturbing but intriguing. The scar was like a single line of pale pink silk braid laid in a particular route. It was obvious where the dog’s jaws had clamped, where the teeth had punctured her, where her flesh had been ripped away and the flap carefully sewn back down. It was almost a cartoon scar, so perfect was the impression of the bite.

      ‘I was twelve years old,’ Thea continued, ‘and it was Alice’s dog. Tiddler. I’ve been petrified of terriers ever since.’

      Saul rolled over and dipped his face down to her stomach. ‘I’m not surprised,’ he murmured, dipping his nose into her navel.

      ‘I’m not too bad with Rottweilers, oddly enough,’ Thea added while Saul let his lips touch her lightly, so gently that when she closed her eyes she couldn’t tell if he was kissing scar or skin. ‘Big dogs tend to lollop, little terriers just go berserk.’

      ‘Your scar suits you,’ he said. ‘It tells a story – vulnerability behind the feistiness. If that doesn’t sound too corny.’

      ‘Corny?’ Thea smiled. ‘Anyone would think you were trying to get into my knickers. Again.’

      ‘Horny,’ Saul confessed, ‘again. And anyway, where are your knickers?’ he asked, glancing up at her from stroking her bush before returning his gaze and snuffling his nose down.

      ‘I think you flung them off somewhere in your living room,’ Thea giggled, but Saul was now too preoccupied to reply. He needed his tongue and his lips to explore Thea’s sex. And Thea was now rendered speechless by the pleasure of it all. Their easy chatter gave way to gasps and moans and the seductive sound of her own wetness against Saul’s mouth. She ran her fingers through Saul’s hair, bending her knees up, shifting her hips and tilting her pelvis, rocking and undulating herself against his face. Instinctively, he let her dictate the pace and he didn’t change what he was doing. His lips brushed her, his nose nudged her, his tongue flicked over and inside her. She looked down at him and he looked up at her briefly before closing his eyes to focus better. From previous experience, Thea had presumed cunnilingus merely to be a man’s way to expedite lubrication and permit swifter entry. But Saul seemed to be enjoying himself very much if his appreciative hums were anything to go by. Thea eased his head away from her crotch to kiss and suck his face. They rolled and romped over his bed, his straining cock pressing hopefully, pressingly, against her. She pushed him onto his back, slithered on top of him, her sex just tantalizingly beyond the reach of his penis, her nipples a few inches away from his desperate mouth. She licked her own lips, then darted her tongue along his.

      ‘For Christ’s sake, fuck me,’ Saul whispered.

      ‘Condom,’ Thea whispered, hoping he had another.

      It occurred to both of them that it wasn’t even yet evening. It was Sunday teatime. How decadent. It meant they could do this all night. Quietly, it occurred to both Saul and Thea that, actually, they could indeed do this as long as they liked. They had no commitments, after all. Not that evening. Nor the next. Not to anyone – nor had either for some time. It was all above board, with no complications. Out of the blue, from a chance daft meeting on Primrose Hill, the saga of a lent leather jacket, the fiasco with a lent harmless terrier, Saul Mundy and Thea Luckmore found each other.

Mr and Mrs Sinclair

      ‘Bye-bye, Mr Sinclair,’ said Alice over a cup of strong coffee, struggling to counteract the light-headed nausea that a night of jet-lagged semi-sleep had caused, ‘hurry home to me, won’t you?’

      ‘Of course, darling,’ said Mark, kissing the top of her head, grabbing a slice of toast, his jacket and his briefcase. ‘I’m horrendously late, I really must go.’

      ‘Don’t!’ Alice implored plaintively. ‘Please bunk off! Go on, I dare you. Phone in sick or something. Please stay. I don’t want you to go. You could work from home! I’ve had you all to myself for a fortnight – I don’t want to be alone.’

      Mark smiled at his wife, gazing at him all wide-eyed and winsome despite the bags around her eyes and her hair all mussed up. ‘Why don’t you go in yourself?’ he asked.

      ‘Because I don’t have to!’ Alice remonstrated. ‘I’m not due in until tomorrow. Anyway, John Lewis are coming with all our wedding-list goodies.’

      ‘Give Thea a call,’ Mark suggested.

      ‘Already have – it’s her day off but she doesn’t seem to be at home,’ Alice said with contrived petulance.

      ‘Why not go and register with some estate agents?’ Mark kissed the top of her head again. ‘I must go.’

      ‘Will you phone me?’ Alice pleaded. ‘Don’t you miss me already?’

      ‘Alice,’ said Mark, happily exasperated, ‘have a shower, get dressed, go to Sainsbury’s, track down Thea, sign your flat up for sale with Benham and Reeves and put our wish-list out to all agents covering NW3 and N6. Three bedrooms, garden, no galley kitchens or PVC windows.’ He blew her a kiss and left. He floated down the escalator at Belsize Park and grinned intermittently while the Northern Line took him and a packed carriage of scowling commuters to Moorgate. How nice to have a wife, a beautiful wife, who clung to his shirt-tails begging him to play hooky from work to stay with her. Alice Heggarty had married him, was sending him to work with a kiss and would be waiting for him to come home later – could life be much sweeter? Mark arrived at the office, answered his PA’s misty-eyed questions about his wedding and honeymoon, checked his diary, noted there were 288 emails in his in-box, rescheduled the lunch that was booked, set up two meetings for before lunch and three for the afternoon and called his team to the boardroom for an update. His PA made a note to buy him sandwiches because she knew he’d be too busy to remember to eat otherwise.

      Alice did as she was told. She had a shower, dressed, went to the supermarket and phoned estate agents. She also continued to call Thea but her mobile phone was off and there was still no answer at her home. It had been warm and welcoming to return to a sweetly scented apartment, fresh linen and neat piles of post, a fridge stocked with necessities, and Alice now longed to see Thea, to thank her at the very least. She was also tiring of her own company. Alice had never been a disciple of the cult of Me-Time though the magazines she published frequently extolled it as a necessary indulgence. Alice functioned best in company, an audience even. Peace, quiet and solitude were overrated, in Alice’s book. If one had time on one’s hands, why not spend it wisely in company – the return was far greater than silent navel-gazing home alone. If Thea still wasn’t in, maybe she would go into work for the afternoon. She dialled Thea’s mobile again.

      ‘Hullo?’

      ‘Thea! Where the fuck have you been – I’ve been trying you for ages! I’m back!’

      ‘Alice! Alice! Oh my God, how are you? How’s Mark? I’ve missed you! Did you get upgraded again?’

      ‘First Class – but I’m still jet lagged which I think is outrageous. Wait till you see my tan. Amazing place – you must go. God, I have so much to tell you – shall I come over right now?’

      ‘Um.’

      ‘Thea?’