He pokes his head out of the open door to what’s presumably his ensuite bathroom, toothbrush in his mouth. Grins and holds up a finger before disappearing back inside. He’s still in his shorts and t-shirt. That’s a relief. I’m definitely hooked. Definitely. But it’s one thing to have an evening of passion that’s more spontaneous and uninhibited than I’ve ever had before, and it’s another to show up to this guy’s booty call, stone-cold sober and in the relentless, dazzling daylight of a Cote d’Azur morning.
I passed out last night and then woke at five, and I’ve been awake ever since, my gut churning with an emotionally exhausting mix of guilt, self-judgement, smugness, desire, excitement and bewilderment. After a decade of being firmly camped out on the moral high ground, I put myselfon an equal footing with Jackson last night before I could sayI’m coming.
Waking up to this knowledge was the most bizarre feeling. It’s exactly like that gut-churning anxiety and excitement I used to get at uni, or in my early days at ITV, when I’d snogged someone the previous night and then had no idea how to react, or behave, or think. The difference is, last night I got naked with a man who was not my husband! And my kids were upstairs in bed! And we were outside—anyone could have come down to the pool and found us starkers!
My mind has been pumping out exclamation marks ever since. When I came down to breakfast (again, with mychildren!), the turmoil in my stomach got worse, especially as soon as I saw him grinning at me, and I ran for the hills. And when he came into the butler’s pantry, I didn’t know whether to be more scared that he’d give me the cold shoulder or make good on his promise and pull down my swimming costume there and then.
But of course, he behaved like the perfect gentleman (apart from the boob graze). He held me, and reassured me, and made me feel desirable without going full-on predator. And he looked gorgeous. And smelt amazing. And my stomach’s been flip-flopping in areallygood way since then. Right through breakfast, trying to avoid his unhelpfully suggestive grins as I swatted away his bare foot under the table. Every time I snuck a peek at him, it was as if I got to see him in a new light, now that the veil had been lifted.
I took in the curve of his jaw and knew how it felt to run my mouth along his stubble. He licked some jam off his lips (he was really going for it with that jam) and I was jealous of his tongue. Ridiculous! He rested his elbows on the table as Angus regaled them with some anecdote (who knows what about; I wasn’t listening) and I knew exactly how the jut of that bicep and the hairy tautness of thatforearm would feel under my fingers when I got him to myself.
He’s done in the bathroom. He hangs from the doorframe for a moment, back-lit against the sunlight, and his t-shirt rides up. That flat stomach. That happy trail I kissed my way down last night before surprising both of us by letting him have his full release in my mouth. Admittedly, a small part of my motivation was not wanting to get my new Missoni dress ruined. I didn’t want Di having any awkward conversations with our dry cleaner.
But I enjoyed the whole thing more than I expected. Far more. Ilovedbeing in the moment with him, showing him that I was far less uptight than he would probably have guessed. Loved the exhilarating sense of power that came with being the instrument of his desire. Loved the slick hardness of him in my mouth, the look of disbelief and adoration on his face when I glanced up and nodded at him, signalling that I wasn’t going to pull away. Loved the fervour with which those fingers twisted in my hair. I loved the whole fucking thing.
So when he walks towards me, his hands up in front of him as if he’s approaching some unstable gun-wielder, it makes me smile. But his answering smile is as lazy and inviting as ever.
‘Is it creepy that I made you come up here? We can go for a walk, if you like. I just wanted to get you to myself. We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to.’
‘It’s pretty creepy. Lucky you’re very hot.’
I slide a hand around the back of his neck and lean in. The smile lines bracketing his mouth are the sexiest thing ever. I press my lips to one corner of his mouth, then slide them over his lips and find his tongue with mine. He’s minty and perfect, and our kiss is slow but heated. This must be what happiness is: standing in a sun-filled room in the South of France, your body pressed against that of a man whosehands are doing laps of your bare back, punctuated with squeezes at each end to the nape of your neck and the curve of your arse. His mouth and tongue showing you you’re tantalising and delicious and addictive. Just in case his steady hardening against the front of your shorts isn’t a clear enough sign.
He pulls away enough to pull off his t-shirt, and my insides do a little dance. Are all women hard-wired to find the sight of a man pulling off a t-shirt panty-meltingly perfect? It must be relentless subliminal brainwashing from formative years filled with Levi’s ads and Athena posters and Baywatch on a Saturday evening. Put a puppy or a baby in his arms right now and I wouldn’t know my own name. My lips part of their own accord.
‘Wow.’ He laughs. ‘Hungry eyes.’
‘Famished.’ My hands slide down the glorious curves of his shoulders. Biceps. Forearms. Yup. Exactly how I knew they’d feel at breakfast.
He leans his forehead to mine before taking my shoulders and turning me gently away from him. Brushes my ponytail aside and kisses my neck. Slides his hands around my waist, to the flies of my cutoffs.
‘May I?’
‘Yes.’ My throat is tightening by the second. The anticipation has kicked in again.
My eyelids drift shut as he fumbles with the button and zip, before his fingertips push the shorts down and brush down my thighs. Back up my thighs, to the sides of my high-legged swimming costume.
‘Jesus.’ It sounds more like a whispered prayer than blasphemy as he lowers his mouth to my shoulder and his hands coast over my waist and hips. My heart-rate is ratcheting up. His featherlight strokes are working my nervous system into anticipatory bliss.
I turn, slowly. Take his rapt face in my hands and kiss him. Slowly. Deeply.
‘Last night was ridiculous but… I’m enjoying every second of this,’ he tells me. ‘You, in the light of day—you’re even more beautiful like this.’
His hands go to the straps of my swimming costume, his eyes searching my face for permission. He peels the straps off my shoulders, down my arms, the costume sitting at my waist. His face is a picture. He stares at my breasts and runs a hand over his face. The level of awe reflected on his beautiful features tightens my chest. And my nipples.
I help him out, pushing my swimming costume the rest of the way down and stepping out of it. His gaze drops to my landing strip—which is impeccable, if I do say so myself—and he lets out a shuddery groan.
‘Oh, God. Oh, God.’
Then he’s fumbling blindly with the drawstring on his swim shorts, tugging them down and doing an unintentionally comedic dance to get them off from around his ankles. I giggle.
‘Sorry.’ He laughingly kicks them away and puts his arms around me. ‘Not my smoothest moment. You have me acting like a spotty fucking adolescent who’s never seen a naked woman before.’
‘You feel like a fully grown man to me.’ I press myself against him and cup his arse for good measure. It’s slightly, softly hairy and utterly glorious. I didn’t get a good handful of it last night.
And then we’re on the bed, and my legs are around him, and the sensation of his skin and hair and muscle against mine is sublime. He disentangles my limbs from his and crouches above me on all fours. Admiring. Absorbing. His hair brushing my face as he leans in to kiss me. His hand sweeping over my breasts, across my stomach.
He groans. ‘Jesus Christ. Where do I start?’
