Minding Amy

Reaching out, she latched her fingers over the far side of the table.

"You got me in a bad way," he said in a low, husky voice as he worked into her ever faster. "You looked so sexy while you were eating. All I could think about was pulling up your dress and having you over this table."

Resting her cheek on the table, she welcomed the physical jolt of her body against the wooden surface. It was rough sex, harsh, and it was good.

His hands kneaded her buttocks. "You have the most gorgeous arse."

Her feet lifted from the floor.

He slapped her right buttock.

"Oh!" The sting rang through her, taking her on a roller coaster ride of sensations. Dizzy with pleasure, her skin stinging and her entire nether region aflame, she gasped for breath. Her core clamped hard on his cock, her center beginning to spasm.

"Christ, Amy!" He molded her buttocks in his hands, his thumbs holding her folds open so he could press closer still.

That made her crazy. With her swollen, sensitive folds splayed and exposed for contact, she bucked and writhed on the table. It was as if a stack of hot rocks was breaking free at her core. Release was imminent. She worked her hips back, willing it to come, swallowing his length over and over.

Finally, it broke. Her orgasm washed through her, hot and heavy and blissfully fulfilling. And when it triggered Sebastian's climax and he pumped into her, his cock throbbing wildly, her state of bliss only grew.

Chapter Seven

The following morning Amy sat at the antique writer's desk in the sitting room at Hammer House and scrolled up and down the text on her laptop. She'd put it in under the title "Arundel," and, even if she said it herself, she'd captured something of the local people she'd met. There was the friendly librarian, who had appreciated the chance to relate the story of Hammer House and its beginnings. Then there were the various antique dealers of the town who told the story as if it was their shop in which the witches' portrait had been discovered, starting the modern myth. It was quite the valued tourist magnet. She'd even met the elderly lady who had actually traded the painting. In a dusty bric-a-brac shop she'd welcomed Amy in and pointed out her best current pieces, in a way that spoke of pride rather than salesmanship, while a loyal Irish wolfhound loped behind her, looking on as if he were watching over his mistress.

What she had written was a portrait of a town and how it fared when a TV crew descended. She sighed. It had little to do with Quentin Edwards and his disappearance. She sat back in the chair, contemplating the dilemma. Her absolute deadline to make the next week's edition was on Thursday, at ten. Fiona had made that quite clear.

"We don't make any exceptions with journalists on try out, none," she had said, when Amy had informed her of her plans for the feature before she left HQ on Friday afternoon. Her tone had indicated that Fiona did not relish working with the boss's daughter. So much for professionalism. However, Fiona had agreed to the two-part feature which gave Amy the scope to get to grips with the story, not just report hearsay, but to link up with all the potential sources from police to work colleagues, and keep her ear to the ground regarding Quentin's discovery or re-emergence.

She looked at her copy again, dubiously. She reminded herself there was time yet, and picked up her mobile phone. She'd been trying to get in touch with Jake, her contact at the TV studios, without success. When she heard the call transfer to voicemail, yet again, she decided to leave a message.

"Jake, this is Amy Norton from The City News. I'll be heading back to London this morning and wondered if we could meet up on Monday. I'll keep trying to reach you but if you get this message, let me know if you are willing to have another chat and what would be the most suitable time and place for you."

It was about all she could do, for now. She switched off her phone and decided not to tell Sebastian about it. He'd been disapproving of her source. It made her wonder what would happen once they were back in London. She was in the difficult position of wanting to spend more time with him, but also wanting to prove she didn't need a minder and could handle this situation without one.

She was dissatisfied with her progress, but hopefully she would pick up the trail back in London. Sebastian was right, she thought, disgruntled. Whilst she could write a great article about their missing celebrity, she'd turned up nothing truly relevant to his disappearance. She was beginning to wonder if she was even cut out for this line of work. It was different to what she was used to doing. Why did she even want to change, anyway? She wasn't exactly dissatisfied with her life. She just wanted to add a bit of adventure to it.

She heard Sebastian's voice humming along to rock music from the radio, as if he was coming down the corridor from the kitchen. He sure had turned out to be an adventure and a half. She squeezed her eyes shut and imagined herself being captured in his arms and kissed long and deep. Heat was pooling between her thighs, the alert pulse point there beating out a wild rhythm.

She saved her document and turned to the door as he sauntered in, two coffee mugs held easily in one hand. He'd showered and dressed and was wearing a charcoal shirt with jeans. Freshly shaved, with damp hair, and one hundred percent gorgeous. He oozed masculine strength. Amy was convinced it was so potent you could probably bottle it and sell it.

"Hi, how's it going?" she asked as he closed on her. "Are we ready to leave?"

"Yup." He set the mugs down on the desk. "Bags are in the car."

She caught a breath of his scent, fresh soap underlying his chosen after-shave combined with pure, delicious essence of Sebastian. "I've typed in my notes. I'm ready for the drive back."

She closed the laptop and packed it away.

He watched her. "I have to ask, what's making you smile so contentedly?"

"Oh, I was thinking what an utter treat this was, having you along with me." They'd been flirting all morning. It felt good.

"Pleased to be of service. Do what you will with me."

Amy felt her breath catch in her throat. Was that a suggestion? Back in London they'd also be back on regular working hours, with no reason to stay together at night. Yet the prospect of more of what they'd had ran liquid heat through her body.

He reached over and took her hand, squeezing it reassuringly. "I'm sorry about the things I said yesterday. I didn't mean to sound like I was criticizing."

He was putting out the olive branch. Did he want to make this last a little longer too? She felt as if they were on a precipice. "No, I know you meant well, and you made some good points. This is new to me and I need to open up more avenues. I'm used to sourcing information from people who are already enjoying positive limelight, which—in general—means information is readily available and people are willing to give more."