‘I don’t want to crush you,’ I say.
‘You’re not,’ he says, reaching up to touch my hair.
‘I don’t know if this is a good idea …’
‘It’s probably not,’ he says with a laugh.
And then I think,Fuck it. It’s easier to do this than not. I want to, and don’t want to, so equally that I can’t make out the truth of myfeelings any more. I close my eyes and relax my body and decide I’ll deal with everything tomorrow. James kisses the side of my neck and his breath is on my ear, and the pleasure is so great I want to cry out.
He moves his hand up across my tank top until his palm is flat against my nipple, and then he gently kisses my chest, so I can feel the pound of my heart against his lips.
‘You smell so good,’ he says into my skin, as his hands roughly tug on my tank top and he pulls it over my head. I sense the heat rising in my cheeks as I feel his naked chest against me.
It’s almost too much. Like the feeling of desire is swamping me and I cannot catch my breath. I pull back, trying to steady myself, and James waits until I am back with him.
But I let myself go further, and suddenly the pace picks up.
His hands move slowly, but with clear determination. Down my back, gliding across my skin, his mouth exploring my face and neck. We are listening to each other, our breathing guiding us. Wherever I go, he follows.
When I can’t bear to wait any longer, his fingers move inside me, and I like them there. His cock is pressing into my stomach. I can hear him now, on that precipice. Just holding on. Like at any moment I might bite his ear and he would lose control completely. I feel a surge of power in that instant and it drives me crazy.
‘You’re so fucking hot, I feel like I’m in a dream,’ I say.
‘So are you.’
Then we are rolling over and he is on top, pushing into me, and everything falls away.
28.
There are two pressing issues, I think, as I look out of James’s bedroom window at the sky – deep blue, with stretches of red-and-purple clouds as it wakes. One is Tim, my ‘boyfriend’. He thinks he’s coming to Loch Dorn en route to a family wedding, and I need to tell him he can’t, and that whatever we have is over. I promised James last night, and yet the idea that Tim might ask me as his date momentarily engaged me. What is it with Tim? The reality is, he’s crap. I’m not even sure if we’re meant to be exclusive. But there is something about his lack of commitment that feels … somehow safe. Or perhaps I mean normal?
What does romantic love actually feel like?I wonder, not for the first time in my life.
I sigh. I definitely need to end whatever it is, properly. Not with a flippant text or voicemail. A total pulling off a plaster, no question the-deed-is-done kind of clarity, rather than just ghosting him: my hitherto preferred method. But Tim’s not answering his phone. And I definitely don’t want to do this face-to-face.
In every scenario in which I imagine him visiting the estate, it ends badly. It’s like a ‘Choose your own adventure’, which finishes with me either being arrested for fraud or the hotel looking like that scene fromThe Hangover. And in all options, I can see the look on James’s face and it makes me ache.
I look at my phone again. It’s time to head up to the restaurant and see if Roxy is back. And that’s the second issue.
I haven’t fully decided on a good way to ask her to delete the Facebook request – all I know is she has to. It’s already breakfast time in Italy, and Heather will surely be online soon, checking her messages and ignoring her partner over coffee, like every normal person.
If Heather blindly accepts a request from a stranger, which is totally on-brand for her, Roxy will have access to all her photos; and, maybe worse, Heather will wonder why a waitress from Loch Dorn has suddenly Friended her and started chatting, as though they’re besties. I curse myself for not asking Roxy to delete the request then and there on the phone last night. Ineedher onside. Roxy has proved completely indispensable. Also, I like her. A lot. I need to shut this down, but carefully.
I unhook James’s heavy arm from where it rests on my chest and gently place it beside him. At some point he must have put pyjama bottoms on, which is a relief. There’s something about seeing a dick flailing about in its natural state that is justtoo muchfor 8 a.m. But then, for a moment, as I sit there looking down at him, last night washes over me, clear and fresh like it was captured on 70mm film. Or first-press vinyl. I settle into the delicious memory, the smells and feelings. The touch of skin.
What do you want?
All of it.
I shiver at the memory. I allow myself to gently touch James’s arm, the soft brush of hair along his forearm, and run my finger down one of the many tiny scars across his hands.
I revel in the memory of that moment between the first and the second time, where we talked like lovers do. Disclosing the best parts of ourselves, coy and practised.
I briefly went to university.
I’ve always wanted to go to Morocco.
I could inhale you.
