Wildwood Read Online Free Page A

should anyone have been out checking on the stock. My tits were there for the entire world to see. When Simon rose with a lump of compacted snow in either hand I’d squealed, for fear of the cold and for shame, but there’d been nothing I could do to stop him rubbing each pinky-brown nipple with ice until I was gasping.
    ‘Someone might see!’ I’d moaned, rocking my head back against the trunk, my tits jiggling helplessly. The snow was melting from the heat of my flesh and the ice-water ran down my breasts and ribs.
    ‘Good,’ he’d said brutally. ‘I’d like that. You’re beautiful.’ And so saying he’d wiped his last melting clots of snow down my skin and opened the front of my jeans, kneeling to drag them down over my bum cheeks, knickers and all in one swoop. Then he’d thrust his face into my bush and begun to eat me out in great hot licks. ‘Nothing cold down here!’ was his one comment.
    Standing in that hotel corridor I remembered the sharp bite of the winter on my breasts and the icy slipperiness of the sycamore bark on my buttocks as Simon’s face ground into my crotch, the chill on my naked thighs contrasting with the boiling of my sex, the gusts of his warm breath through my pubes, the way the juices running down the inside of my legs felt hot enough to scald me.
    It’s got smooth, algae-covered bark, has young sycamore. It’s a bugger to climb and leaves you covered in a green stain when you’ve done it. I’d learnt that for the first time that day with Simon, when I went home with a green arse. It was the first thing I learnt about trees.
    The experience also left me with a permanent kink for sex in the open air.
    I was so hypnotised by memory and by the whisper of his fingers over my breast that I wasn’t thinking what I was doing, there in the hotel. Until the moment he pressed up against me.
    ‘God, you’ve got lovely little tits,’ he breathed.
    I could feel his erection through his trousers, butting me. With a sharp intake of breath I thrust his hand off. ‘Stop it, Simon!’
    ‘I heard you split up with wossisname, that surfer bloke.’
    ‘So?’
    ‘So come on, Av,’ he said, grabbing my arse.
    I gave him a shove and he sat back hard on the corridor table, skewing the little tablecloth and sending the vase of dried flowers rocking. ‘I always knew you’d turn into a dyke,’ he growled.
    ‘Oh grow up!’ I snapped and flounced off into the ladies’. By the time I came out with Miranda and we headed back to the wedding marquee there was no sign of him.
    Chester’s friends, mostly City types, had long since faded from the scene by the time I headed across the hotel lawn towards Reception and my single room. Only the old country crowd were still resisting every polite attempt by the hotel staff to make them vacate the marquee and let them clean up or, if they’d drifted outside in the warm evening, were now talking and laughing under the stars. There was a group of them hanging out around the fountain. This sat in the centre of the lawn and it wasn’t playing, but it was big enough to be a natural focal point and as I strolled past I could see that several people were sitting on the rim of the lower basin, paddling their feet in the water. Light was provided by submerged lamps and by the moon. From the crowd someone hailed me by name. I turned and saw that it was Simon, dishevelled and clinging to a bottle of champagne.
    ‘What now?’ I asked with a sigh.
    ‘Av! You’re a climber, right?’
    I tilted my head, waiting.
    ‘Reckon you could climb that then?’ He gestured at the fountain, and I followed the line of his arm. It was a monstrous construction, built when the Waters Hotel was a private residence and its owners had serious pretensions to grandeur. The round basin was occupied by an enormous bronze triton, reclining in a bronze shell. He held aloft another scallop shell that formed a second basin, and tipped a conch to his lips as if blowing a signal blast.