When I entered the woodshed, Mr Lawrence was preparing cuttings, trimming them with a knife with a worn shiny blade. He glanced up, nodded as he relit his roll-up, then continued whistling.

In the air was the tang of cut grass, wood polish and the moth ball smell of old Jake, the Labrador, sitting immobile like a black statue beside the bench. Tools with wooden handles hung from brackets with a sense of calm and order, and ranged along the shelves were jam jars full of nails and screws. Through the small windows the light moved in dusty sheets and I had a feeling I was in one of those old French films Daddy would often be watching late at night when I woke from a bad dream and couldn’t get back to sleep again.

My underarms were damp and perspiration rolled like glass beads over my skin. I watched absorbed as Mr Lawrence positioned the cuttings in the tray, his movements slow and steady as if he was enjoying the job and was in no hurry to get it done. He made a hole in the black earth with his thumb, selected another stem, and pressed the soil back in place. He had wide, strong fingers that fondled the fragile shoots with the same delicacy you need to sew on a button or write someone’s name on a birthday cake.

He took another puff on his cigarette then left it balanced on the side of a silver tin. There was a spray gun on the bench and when all the cuttings were standing in neat lines he misted the tray with several short, sharp tugs on the trigger. I had moved closer than I meant to and the spray was cool on my hot cheeks.

For as long as I could remember, Mr Lawrence had avoided looking in my direction but now his dark eyes made me flush as they met mine. There was a faint smile on his lips as he moistened my face, my neck, and he kept on jerking the trigger on the spray gun, soaking the top of my flimsy dress. My breasts had begun to tingle and my nipples like the green shoots in the seed tray seemed to burst into life and were trying to burst through the fabric.

Mr Lawrence moved round the bench. He aimed a long jet of water down my spine before returning the container to the work top. He ran one hand slowly over the bumps of my back and cupped my bottom. With the fingers of his other hand, he rubbed the tips of my nipples in a circular motion that made the breath catch in my throat and warm dribbles began to run down my legs. The earth on his fingers stained the dress in two perfect circles around my breasts. He moved his fingers over my swollen lips and one by one I took them into my mouth.

I had forgotten to put on any knickers and his other hand was stroking the tense bare flesh of my bottom. His fingers slipped into the sticky pool between my legs and I often wonder what may have happened next, the next in this case being the door bursting open and Mother standing there with the light behind her like the monster that woke me from my dreams.

‘Bella. Bella. You. You…’

She crossed the shed in one long stride and hit Mr Lawrence across the face with such a hard slap it left four white stripes on his cheek.

‘You animal. You oaf. Get out this minute.’

Jake must have wondered what all the fuss was about and stood there with his pink tongue lolling from his mouth. Mr Lawrence stroked the dog’s head. He stared boldly back at Mother and the look they exchanged I would think about later that day.

Excerpt from THE SECRET LIFE OF GIRLS

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The post Waking Bella appeared first on Erotic romance writer Chloe Thurlow.