Read Online The Lying Game by Tess Stimson - Free Book Online Page A

stood and picked her up, carrying her to the thick plaited rug in front of her study fireplace. Shedding the last of his clothes, he covered her naked body
with his own, his erection digging into her belly.
    She squirmed away from him. ‘I can’t, Oliver. Not until we talk.’
    He pulled her back towards him. ‘We are talking,’ he breathed. ‘This is how we talk.’
    She was so wet for him, so warm and welcoming. He slithered back between her thighs, his mouth once more on her clitoris, his arms reaching upwards so that he could thumb her nipples again,
knowing what she needed, what she wanted. Her response was instant. He tasted her arousal, felt her bucking beneath him. It was true, what he’d said: this was how they talked. It always had
been.
    He had no idea how many lovers she’d had before they met, and he’d never asked. His own experience was modest by most standards, he knew; his tally had stood at just four when he met
Harriet, even though he’d been twenty-seven years old. The elder of two boys, brought up by loving parents in comfortable middle-class affluence, he’d never felt it necessary to prove
himself by his conquests. Women weren’t trophies to him. None of the four women who’d preceded Harriet had been serious contenders for the post of Mrs Lockwood, but he’d treated
each relationship with respect; it said much for his charm and good nature that even after gently easing himself out of the various romances – for he had been the instigator in all four
break-ups – he’d still remained on good terms with them all.
    But the instant Harriet had walked into his office, all nervous energy and huge grey eyes and fierce determination, he’d known that here, finally, was a woman with whom he could spend the
rest of his life.
    He’d also realized very quickly that it was going to be hard to breach the defensive walls she’d erected around herself; very hard indeed.
    Their first date had proved him right. She’d thrown up more barricades than the Kremlin during the Cold War. Outwardly confident and – after a few drinks – more than a little
sexually aggressive, she’d kept her feelings walled off, unreachable. He’d known that if he was to win her, he was going to have to box very clever indeed. Which was why, even though he
had a hard-on the size of Nelson’s Column, he’d turned down her invitation back to her flat at the end of that first night.
    And again the second.
    And the third.
    It had taken all his resolve and self-control (and he practically had blisters on his right hand); but when on their fourth date she’d rather plaintively asked him ‘Don’t you
want
to go to bed with me?’, he’d known his strategy was working.
    And when they did finally sleep together, more than two months after they’d met, she’d given herself to him body
and
soul. The sex had been extraordinary, beyond anything
either of them had ever experienced. It was as if each knew what the other wanted before they themselves knew. He’d asked her to marry him the next morning, but really it had almost seemed
redundant. How could you find the person who completed you so utterly and
not
marry them?
    Even now, after sixteen years and four children, the bedroom was where they restored themselves to each other. It was how they communicated, made up, healed and soothed one another. The one
place where they could never lie.
    He pushed himself up on his forearms now and looked at his wife, more beautiful to him than she had ever been. His erection probed firmly between her thighs, slick with her arousal. He’d
never known a woman to ejaculate when she came before, but Harriet did, and it drove him crazy with lust. He coated himself in her juices, sliding his cock either side of her clitoris, describing
lazy figures-of-eight, holding back from entering her as long as he was able.
    Finally he could stand it no more and thrust his length inside her. But for once, her legs didn’t open in warm