Carrot and Coriander Read online

  There was whimpering, faint but distinct, coming from under the duvet. He could at least see now, so he went over and crouched next to the bed. The bulge showed no inclination to come out and face the day, so he reached out to tentatively pat what he thought might be her arm. The bulge responded with more whimpers.

  “Rachel? It’s Callum. What’s wrong?”

  A pause, then something muffled and incomprehensible, not quite words, but not exactly whimpers either. Then silence.

  “Rachel? What did you say? What’s the matter? Shall I call an ambulance?”

  “Migraine. Close the bloody curtains!” This time he got it, and his overwhelming relief as he hurried to do as she’d asked surprised him. He’d been genuinely worried, scared for her. But a migraine would pass. Eventually. He went back to the bed, this time sat on it, beside the bulge that was Rachel.

  “Do you need anything? Water? Paracetamol? A saw to remove your head?” He’d suffered from migraines himself as a child. He’d grown out of it but remembered how it felt. Vividly.

  “No. Thanks. I need to…get up. Jacob’ll be hungry…”

  “He is. I’ll fix it. He wet his pants too.”

  This last news was met by more groans as the bulge tried to straighten and sit up. Callum’s hand on her back, front, wherever, stopped that little enterprise. And he was totally amazed to hear himself saying his next words, “You stay there. I’ll sort it. Have a day off. Stay in bed, in the dark. I’ll look after Jacob.”

  He started by taking the little lad’s wet pants off and dumping them in the bath, then good sense dictated that he encourage his tiny charge to empty his bladder again, this time in the toilet, before he sponged him down and put some dry clothes on him. He considered a bath, but in the end decided that seemed excessive. Ten minutes later Jacob was settled at the kitchen table with a bowl of chocolate crispy pops crackling in front of him. Callum helped himself to coffee.

  “Do you go to nursery?” He realized, hopefully, that he might be able to drop the toddler off somewhere for the day, if he could work out where.

  The little boy just shrugged and carried on spooning cereal into his mouth. More or less. There was rather a lot scattered around him. Callum reached over, took hold of the spoon around the tiny hand, and guided it more slowly toward the little mouth.

  “There, like that.”

  Jacob smiled happily while he continued to scatter his breakfast across the kitchen. Callum knew when he was beaten, and looked around for a brush.

  He thought about going back upstairs and asking Rachel about the nursery, but decided not to.

  Let her sleep, I’ll manage. Somehow.

  He quickly abandoned any thoughts of rockery construction—far too dangerous with a curious three-year-old under his feet. Instead, he rummaged around until he found Rachel’s car keys and piled the little boy into his seat in the back of the Fiesta. He drove him to Roundhay Park in north Leeds, where they spent the next six hours rolling around on the grass and eating ice lollies. They fed the ducks which Callum reflected was considerably less messy than feeding small boys. They even looked at the butterflies and reptiles in the Tropical World corner before Callum strapped a tired and sticky little boy back into the car and headed for home.

  Jacob was happy, Callum was sort of okay, and Rachel had a day in bed.

  It was late afternoon when Callum let the pair of them back into Rachel’s house, using a key he’d found on the kitchen worktop. His old instincts were coming in handy, though he’d never developed much of a fondness for housebreaking. Too personal.

  There was still no sign of her, so the pair of them went upstairs to check matters out. Knocking on her bedroom door this time, Callum waited until he heard her feeble “Come in” before opening the door. Jacob bounded past him, leaping onto the bed with all the newly discovered fearlessness of a child who knows his mummy is there and not acting so funny anymore. Callum smiled and followed him in. The curtain had been opened a little—she must have done that so she was obviously able to tolerate the light a bit more now, and she was sitting up in bed. She kissed Jacob, hugging him to her as she looked up at Callum, who remained motionless by the door.

  The blood drained straight from his head to his cock. She was bloody gorgeous. Sort of pale, vulnerable, fragile, maybe a little nervous at finding him in her bedroom. But hell, so…so fuckable in her vest top, the stringy strap dropping off one shoulder, her hair loose and mussed, her eyes wide. She looked scared yet grateful at the same time, a heady combination—perfect ingredients in a submissive.

  All the latent Dom instincts that he’d managed to successfully bank around her—more or less—surged to the fore now. She was still not well, certainly too delicate just at the moment for what he was starting to have in mind for her. But soon. Very soon. He would have her.

  Instead, for now, “You look better. Do you need anything? Food? A drink?” A good spanking followed by a long, hard fuck?

  “Thanks. A cup of tea would be lovely. And maybe some toast…?”

  He nodded curtly then left her to hugs and kisses with her little boy.

  * * * *

  Rachel tottered downstairs at around nine that evening to find Callum stretched out on her sofa watching classic comedy on satellite television. Jacob was draped across his chest, fast asleep. The toddler was bathed and clean and wearing his finest Superman pajamas.

  “Hey, welcome back. I hung around until you surfaced, but if you want me to disappear I’ll go.” Callum’s tone was deceptively light as he greeted her. He made to get up, clutching Jacob to stop him rolling onto the floor.

  Rachel raised a hand to stay him, and he settled back onto the settee, waited for her to stake out the territory. He was sure she would.

  “No, please. You’ve been so kind already. Really. I don’t know how I’d have managed if you hadn’t been here…”

  “You would have. Somehow. But me and little Jakey had fun.” Again, the light tone. This next move had to come from her.

  He saw her start at the nickname, but she didn’t comment. Instead, “Honestly, you’ve been brilliant. And if you need to be off, I’m okay to take over now. But if you want to stay, well, that’s fine too…”

  Yes! He leveled a long look at her and was gratified to see the flush start at her neck and work its way upwards. He didn’t need asking twice, and went for the jugular. “Are you inviting me to sleep with you, Rachel?”

  Her gaze snapped to his. “No! No, of course not, I just…”

  “Good. Because I don’t sleep with my customers.” He interrupted her stammering flow, managing to get to his feet while still juggling the sleeping toddler in his arms. “I could be persuaded to fuck one of them though.”

  His final words had been whispered, for her ears only, but he still smiled inwardly at the look of outrage on her stunning features as he made to pass her in the doorway. “Now, where should I put this little chap?”

  * * * *

  Half an hour later Jacob was safely tucked up in his bed, and Callum was back down stairs in the kitchen, sipping a cup of hot tea. He regarded Rachel silently. She was disconcerted, he could see that. Confused perhaps. More than a little aroused by his casual remark but stubbornly determined not to mention it first. He let that game go on for another twenty minutes or so before going in for the kill. He had no serious intention of laying a hand on her this evening, she was obviously not up to it, but by tomorrow…

  Best to lay the groundwork now.

  “So, Rachel, where were we? Ah, yes, you mentioned that you’d like me to fuck you…” His tone was deliberately, deceptively conversational.

  “I did not!” His tactics had the desired effect. All outraged virtue, Rachel glared at him furiously.

  Callum shrugged, settled his cup back on the low table in front of him before leaning back to catch her stormy green gaze. He watched her for a few moments, loving the way her breathing had become rapid, her delightful chest heaving. He fully intended to tell her exact
ly how this was going to be, but needed to reel her in a little more.

  “Oh, I thought you did. So, do you not want me to fuck you then?”

  “What? No, of course not. I mean, I haven’t… Christ I never even thought about it.”

  “Liar.” Gone was the soft, conversational tone. Now every syllable was wrapped in steel wire as he cut decisively through her flustered denials. “You’ve been thinking of nothing else for days. All the time you’ve been watching me from your window, shoveling dirt around, building you a rockery that you don’t bloody want.”

  “What are you talking about? I haven’t been…”

  “Rachel, stop that. We deal in truth now. No evading, no hedging. For what it’s worth, I want to fuck you. I go hard every time I look at you. But I think you already knew that, didn’t you?”

  She was speechless, staring at him. But the denials had stopped. Then, “I don’t do that.”

  “What don’t you do, Rachel?”

  “Sex. I don’t do sex.”

  “Of course you do. The living proof’s upstairs asleep.”

  “Once. Once in twenty odd years. And then it was down to too much sangria on holiday in Benidorm. That hardly counts as unbridled lust.”

  “And is that what you want? Unbridled lust? Should I nip down to the off license, see if they have any sangria?”

  “No, obviously not!”

  “No what? No to the unbridled lust, or no to the sangria.”

  “Neither. Both. God, what are you talking about?”

  Rachel raked her fingers through her still tangled hair, her look of confused misery almost enough to derail him. Almost, but not quite.

  “I’m talking about wanting to fuck you, your unbridled lust—or was that lack of it? And whether or not we need sangria to oil the wheels. Personally though I don’t find the booze helps all that much.”

  “I am not about to get drunk and sleep with you.” Some semblance of sanity returning, Rachel faced him squarely, her arms folded defiantly across her chest.

  Callum noted she seemed calmer, so he opted to turn up the dial a bit.

  “No. I get that. But I wonder if I might be able to persuade you to lie across that nice kitchen table of yours, drop those rather fetching pajama pants, and let me spank your delightful bottom. How does that idea grab you, Miss Saunders?”

  Her face was a mask of incredulity. Her mouth worked, reminding him momentarily of a demented goldfish. Whatever she had been expecting, it definitely wasn’t been that. But still, she hadn’t slapped his face, grabbed for her phone to dial nine-nine-nine, or ordered him out of her house. These were all good signs. He waited, sipped his tea patiently, while she clearly battled with herself over how to respond. And eventually, his patience was rewarded.

  “Why? Why on earth would you want to do that? No one’s ever spanked me. I’d never even spank Jacob, let alone…” Her voice trailed away.

  He smiled to himself. He had her. He knew he had her now.

  “Of course not. Jakey’s a baby. It’d be just plain mean to spank him. But you, now you’re a grown up, and that’s very different. Just imagine how it would feel. A sharp slap, crisp and sweet, maybe on the back of your legs, right at the top on that gorgeous curve under your bottom. Then I’d rub it better. You’d be wet, and I’d rub that better too. Or rub it worse. Then I’d spank you again, perhaps slightly higher, on your bum. You’d squeal, and your gorgeous bottom would clench as you waited for me to rub it better again. Your skin would be pink, my hand marks all over you. And if I told you to, you’d open your legs to let me see—and feel—how wet you were. I think you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Rachel? All of it.” He stopped, having watched her face carefully as her expression had gone from outrage to bewilderment, to dazed expectancy. And he knew just the right moment to lean in, his lips close to her ear, and whisper the question again, “You’d like me to do all of that to you, wouldn’t you, Rachel?”

  Rachel’s eyes fluttered closed, her breathing was shallow, catching in her throat. And she nodded. Callum kissed her cheek, soft, easy, undemanding, before leaning away again. His fingertips under her chin, he tipped her face up, forcing her to meet his steady gaze.

  “Not now, not tonight. You’ve had a bad day, you’re tired, still weak, and Jacob’s asleep upstairs. Tomorrow though, when he’s at nursery, and it’s just the two of us. Yes?”

  Rachel’s whispered “yes” was so quiet he saw it on her lips rather than heard it. But a promise was a promise, and he was satisfied.

  “I’ll get off now. But I’ll see you in the morning. Get a good night’s sleep.” He stood, headed for the back door, before turning suddenly and coming back to her. He leaned down, kissed her on the mouth. “Tomorrow,” he whispered. And he was gone.

  Chapter Four

  The short ping told her she had a text. She turned the bedside lamp back on, reached across for her phone.

  Do u have any sex toys?

  What? Shit, how to answer. Should she even answer? She put the phone back down, on the carpet beside the bed. Lay back, thinking. It pinged again.

  Rachel?

  This time, she hit ‘reply’.

  Yes

  Thought so. What do u have, Rachel?

  Five minutes ticked by as she considered what to reveal, how much deeper to dig herself in. She could still back out. Couldn’t she? Suddenly, deciding what to do, she hit ‘reply’ again.

  Dildo. Vibrating sort. And some egg things. Also vibrating.

  Lovely. Keep them handy. Tomorrow then. Sleep well

  And at last, she did.

  * * * *

  Callum was awake and away early the next morning but not because he wanted to turn up at Rachel’s before his usual time—he had no intention of doing that. Preferably, he wanted to give her plenty of opportunity to get Jacob to wherever, and herself sorted before he arrived. No, his head start on the day was because he had a twenty mile detour to weave into his schedule. He needed to visit his mum. And the rest of her brood—William, his sort-of-step-father, his little sisters and his little brother.

  He pulled up outside their two up two down in Huddersfield just as William was leaving for work. The two men passed on the path. They nodded politely at each other, then Callum watched at William dragged his bike from the shed. His mother’s new husband carefully replaced the padlock on the wooden door, and Callum couldn’t help wondering if that sidelong glance in his direction was one of suspicion, or a warning, a non-verbal ‘keep out, you thieving toe-rag’.

  Possibly. Definitely. And in all honesty, he couldn’t blame him. Will was an upstanding pillar of the community, a family man down to his toe nails. Callum actually liked him, respected him even, but he knew the feeling wasn’t mutual. Will thought Callum was trouble, full stop. For his part, Callum was just incredibly grateful to Will for falling in love with his mum and for taking on her family too. Well, the younger ones. Their family worked, it worked well, as long as Callum didn’t get too close. Will tolerated his ex-jailbird of a step-son, in small doses, for his wife’s sake, and for Callum that was enough. He plastered his friendliest smile across his face as Will mounted up and perched his cycling helmet on the top of his head.

  His step-father turned to him, his expression one of pained resignation. “Your mum’s inside. Getting the rest up. Don’t ask her for money.” He set off cycling down the road, heading for the sink secondary school half a mile away where he did his level best to teach maths to a largely uninterested bunch of teenagers.

  Yes, Will is a decent bloke. Solid. Sorted.

  But he was wrong about the money. Callum hadn’t asked his mother for cash for years. It was usually the other way round, or had been before Will had stepped in and decency had prevailed. It had not always been like this, stable and happy, his family safe and secure. Callum adored them all so he would never rock that particular boat.

  Callum had been seven years old when Jasmine, his first sister was born, and immediately he’d been drawn into the c
hildcare. He had to be—Molly had been badly hit by post-natal depression and had needed all the help she’d been able to get. At that time they had still been living with his grandparents, so life had been relatively stable even though Molly had spent most of her time crying or staring into space. The rest of them had just gotten on with things around her and waited for her to snap out of it.

  Eventually she had, and by then Callum had become a dab hand with a feeding bottle and a nappy, skills he’d honed further when his little brother, James, had arrived eight years later. By then his grandmother was dead—had succumbed to the cancer she’d battled for three years, and his granddad had been the one who stared into space. And again, the rest of them had shuffled around, assimilated the newcomer, and helped each other out. Because families do that.

  Callum had started to come to the attention of the local constabulary back then more than Molly would have liked, and she’d pleaded with him to find a proper job and some decent friends. And because he loved her, he promised he would, and that things would be fine. But with the casual arrogance of testosterone fueled youth he’d believed he was invincible. And far too clever to get caught. Needless to say, he had been wrong on both counts.

  His first criminal conviction was for TWOC’ing—Taking Without Owner’s Consent—and earned him fifty hours community service. He’d considered it a hazard of his trade, and had turned up dutifully every Saturday for seven weeks to pick up litter and clean graffiti off the walls of the community center—not that it looked any better as a result of his efforts. And he’d continued to help himself to other people’s cars.

  His next brush with the law had earned him a five hundred pound fine and a hundred hours of litter picking. Callum had been less sanguine about that—five hundred quid was a lot of money—but he paid his dues then went back to the stolen motor trade determined to be more careful.

  He’d managed to stay just a couple of steps ahead of the law and had avoided further unpleasant confrontation for two years, and during that time he’d done well. Prospered, you might even say. He’d built up a fair trade in stolen motors, it had been lucrative, and not too taxing. He had still lived with his mum at the time and had been the main earner in the family—even Molly had maintained a worried silence about where her housekeeping money had come from. With two young children, her choices had been limited.