Chelsea Wives. Anna-Lou Weatherley

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      ‘I need you to rub some oil into my back. My husband’s taking a nap, you see, and I don’t want to burn.’

      He hesitated.

      ‘Is there a problem?’ she asked, peering at him from over the top of her shades, enjoying his sense of unease.

      He swallowed dryly. There was nothing he would like more than to get his hands all over her naked flesh; after all she was a total fox and clearly gagging for it. But what about the husband? He could come lumbering up the stairs at any minute and catch them. It would almost certainly cost him his job, a job he enjoyed almost as much as he needed. He sensed, however, that the ‘Lady’ stretched out in front of him was not about to take no for an answer.

      ‘No problem, Lady Belmont,’ he said, thinking how they were all the same, these gold-diggers who married rich men. In time, they all grew bored of spending their husband’s money and instead searched for their thrills elsewhere.

      She looked up at him, her glossy lips glimmering and he imagined them around his cock.

      ‘Forget it,’ she said dismissively, her tone suddenly switching from flirtatious to cold in an instant. ‘That’s all, thank you.’ He hesitated for a moment, confused by her sudden turnaround. Cock-teasing bitch, he thought as he walked away, his hard-on rapidly diminishing. If he ever did get the chance to fuck her he’d make sure the pleasure would be all his.

      Yasmin took another generous sip of champagne and exhaled. She stared out towards the cobalt blue Aegean Sea stretched out in front of her, mesmerised by the sunlight dancing on the ocean’s surface.

      It seemed incredible to think that less than eighteen months ago Yasmin Belmont-Jones had been plain old Stacey Jones, a nobody struggling to pay the rent on her poky one bedroom flat in Croydon, South London. What’s more, when she thought about it, getting there had been far easier than she could ever have imagined.

      Though Yasmin’s rise from rags to riches appeared meteoric on the surface, every detail had to be meticulously researched to ensure success. Such patience and dedication had ultimately paid off though because so far, Stacey Jones had fooled everyone.

      A small, slow smile crept across her lips as she sucked deeply on her thin Vogue cigarette. A waiter appeared.

      ‘Lunch will be served shortly, Lady Belmont,’ he said. ‘Lord Belmont has requested that you join him on the lower deck in half an hour.’

      Yasmin smiled, acknowledging his message without making eye contact.

      She knew what the crew were thinking the moment she had set a French pedicured foot on board The Magus; there could only be one reason why a young, attractive woman like her could possibly be with a man like Belmont. It suited Yasmin for them to think she was little more than a gold-digging opportunist. That she could handle.

      Yasmin padded barefoot across the polished deck to the edge of the boat and looked out onto the crystal blue water. The sea was as still as a pond and its tranquillity instilled a momentary calmness within her. But it was short-lived and soon replaced by a more familiar feeling of self-doubt. Since the wedding, the press had begun to show an inordinate amount of interest in her personal life. They wouldn’t have to dig too deep to uncover her true provenance.

      ‘Give me strength, Chloe,’ she said in soft prayer. ‘I’m doing this for you. Stay with me … stay with me.’

      ‘Ah, there you are, my darling.’ Lord Belmont lumbered up the last few steps to the top deck, panting and wheezing like an old boiler on its last knockings.

      Yasmin spun round, startled, her thoughts interrupted.

      ‘Darling,’ she said. ‘I thought you were sleeping.’

      ‘Mmm,’ he nuzzled his face into the back of her neck. ‘I managed an hour or so. But then I missed you.’ He pressed his bulk against her, willing her to feel his semi-erection. He had woken with the most impressive hard-on he’d had in years and was desperate to make good use of it.

      Jeremy let his plump fingers wander up towards his wife’s new breasts. She did not resist. From experience, she knew it was best to let him get on with it. Besides, it would all be over in a matter of minutes.

      He untied the sides of her Missoni bikini and let them slip to the floor, wasting no time as he thrust himself into her, his hands gripping and squeezing at her breasts. Yasmin continued to stare out onto the horizon. Her face expressionless, her mind detached from her body as he pumped away at her from behind.

      ‘Yes, that’s it,’ he wheezed into Yasmin’s ear, panting heavily. ‘That’s what you want, isn’t it, you little minx. Let daddy show you …’ His voice began to crack, signalling that he was on the edge of orgasm. Jesus, it could’ve only been 60 seconds or so, a record even for him.

      Yasmin knew what to do to finish the job.

      ‘Ah yes, yes, oooh, daddy, yes … show me, daddy, show me what a filthy little bitch I am …’ She smiled wryly, her eyes glazed and focused on the horizon as he groaned and coughed into climax.

      ‘Jesus!’ Yasmin screamed, suddenly pulling away from her husband. She ran to the edge of the boat, still naked save for a pair of ridiculously high Louboutin sandals.

      ‘What is it, darling?’ Belmont said, concerned, his pathetic erection withering to nothing almost instantly.

      ‘I saw flashes,’ Yasmin said, pointing towards the rocks. ‘Camera flashes over there.’

      ‘Jesus bloody Christ,’ Belmont said, alarmed. ‘The press, they must have followed us here.’

      ‘Oh Jeremy.’ Yasmin bit her lip, her voice thick with panic. ‘What if they’ve seen us?’

      ‘Put some clothes on,’ Belmont barked. ‘I’m going to get the binoculars and a bloody great shotgun!’ As he disappeared below deck, Yasmin reached for her phone inside her Gucci raffia beach tote.

      ‘Did you get them?’ she hissed.

      ‘Yes. I got them,’ the gruff voice replied. ‘And might I say you are one fit looking lady.’

      ‘Save it,’ Yasmin remarked. ‘Now stay where you are. He’s gone to get a gun. But don’t worry,’ she smiled cruelly, ‘I won’t let him kill you. Just do and say what we agreed and you’ll get your reward, OK?’

      ‘Whatever you say, my lady,’ the man said sarcastically.

      Yasmin smiled triumphantly to herself as she threw her phone back into her bag. She did so love it when a plan came together.

      CHAPTER 5

      Imogen swung the steering wheel of her Bentley Continental CTG sharply to the right, the tyres making a satisfactory sound as they met with gravel, and pulled into the underground garage of her impressive 7-bedroom house on Chelsea Square. Switching the engine off, she took out the folded A4 piece of fax paper from her Fendi tote and read it over again.

      ‘L’ORELIE PHOTOSHOOT – LA CALL SHEET’

      Her eyes scanned the photographer’s СКАЧАТЬ