He squeezes me a little tighter. “No, Jenna, no. I don’t know him or your situation, but there is nothing wrong in wanting to try new things. I'm so sorry he didn't want to explore this with you.”
“I actually feel sorry for him too,” I say truthfully. “But maybe he’s just happy being...vanilla.”
He chews the corner of his lip in his mouth for a moment before speaking. “Vanilla is indeed a beautiful flavour and very few desserts are complete without it, but I think it’s more than okay, good even, if you want to enjoy other flavours.”
I nod and kiss him. I don't want to talk about my ex. I want to kiss this man, the man who put a lot of effort into today. I want to hold onto him and commit to memory what his bumpy-nosed side profile just looked like as he came. But Marty has other plans.
“Float on the water,” he says, and he tilts in my direction so I can. Then he pulls back, keeping his body between my legs and one arm on my hip to keep me tethered to him. He smooths his other hand up my body, barely any pressure or weight in his touch so I can keep floating. His palm ghosts over my nipples in turn, and I close my eyes to the bright sun that is now immediately above us. I think momentarily about the snorkel mask that is still fixed to the top of my head and how ridiculous that must look and how ridiculous this whole scene is but how glorious it is too. Then Marty's hand slips my bikini bottoms to the side and I push my stomach up a little more, making my pelvis tilt towards him. He searches for a few seconds before finding my clit and then he's circling so gently I can almost feel each individual tingle of pleasure.
“More,” I say. The light of the sun is dazzling even through my closed eyes. But I don't care, and I don't move. I couldn't move if I wanted to because then Iwould go under. It therefore, takes great focus to contain the shudders and shivers as he continues to stroke and I wonder if he knows what he’s doing, if this control he’s exerting over my pleasure is something he’s doing consciously, but regardless, I’m soaking it up. This is exactly what I needed. Someone to push me. Someone to test me. Someone to play with me.
When he speaks again, it’s clear he has no clue, but in the best possible way.
“Tell me how to touch you,” he says. I lift my head slightly to hear him. “I want to get it right. It’s been... I’ve not... It’s been a while since I...”
Arnie, I think. Arnie was different. This breaks me and not only because of what I know about Arnie and Marty. It also breaks me because this is the question I begged my husband to ask me. This is the question I answered for him when he didn’t. So what I give Marty is one of those unrequited speeches I gave him, words he mostly ignored.
“Stroke me,” I say. “Up and down, up and down. Around my clit but also move away from it too. Tease my entrance, go lower too, if you want. Then go back to my clit, rub around it in circles or figures of eight. Increase the pressure slowly, and then take it away. Do that again and again. Tease me. I’ll tell you when it feels really good and then just keep doing that.”
He follows my guidance almost to the letter, and it gets harder and harder to stay still. So hard, I feel it encroach on my pleasure a little, but I welcome it. It matches how overwhelmed and conflicted I am feeling in my body and mind.
“Inside me,” I pant. “I need a finger inside me.”
He obeys, and when he moves his hand to put his thumb on my clit I thrust up - instinctively and uncontrollably - and get a mouthful of water as my head sinks under. I quickly correct myself and lie as still as I can, my arms outstretched, surrendering because there is nothing else I can do.
As if to reward me, he slides another finger inside me and I moan. Now I can feel him inside and out, the pressure builds even quicker and I feel my orgasm hurtle towards me so quickly I don't have time to pull in a breath as I rock my hips against his hand.
“Stay there,” I gasp. “Don’t stop.”
And he doesn’t. The circles on my clit, the stroking inside me, his tight, tight hold around my body.
“So fucken beautiful,” he says and it’s the last, missing piece of the puzzle that is my climax.
As the surges of my orgasm crash into one another, my whole body convulses. I clamp my legs around his waist to try and keep me up, but I know it's no use and the water thrashes over my whole body. My eyes open under the water, the sting of the saltwater not painful as much as a shock that dulls the bright edges of my orgasm. But then there are strong hands around me, pulling me up and against a chest that I am far too comfortable returning to.
“I didn't mean to drown you,” he says as he slides my mask off and strokes my wet hair away from my face.
“Worth it,” I say in barely more than a whisper because it feels like that orgasm took my voice from me.
We stay there for a while, the sun beaming down above us so hot and so big and so elevated in the sky it seems impossible that it could ever go anywhere else, that it would ever want to leave this perfect height where it can see everything, warm everyone and touch every living being on this planet. But the sun will go down later, and I feel the same sinking realisation with a peaceful acceptance even if I can already taste the grief my body will feel.
Because it's the truth. It's just the way life is.
All good things must come to an end.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Marty
Back on the blanket, with our tummies full of water, cheeses, bread and fruit, I pour her a glass of champagne and drop a strawberry in the glass, explaining how the dry bubbles will complement the fruit’s sweetness.
“So, why a chef?” she says as she takes the glass.
“You can blame my uncle, Dermot. I grew up working in his restaurant, just as a part-time job to begin with. First washing up, then food prepping and cleaning, basic sous-chef work eventually. He gave me time in the bar after I was eighteen, and then service too, once he realised I was a cocky shit who can charm anyone with a pulse. And I liked all of it, but I felt the magic was really happening in the kitchen.” I smile as a flood of memories dance in my mind. “My ma has always done the cooking at home, and she always did it in a way where meals would sort of just appear out of nowhere. Like it was magic. She didn't really share the process or get us involved, partly because she's a Type A control freak and partly because I was always too busy doing something else, riding my bike out around the neighbourhood or at Arnie's house annoying him and his family.”
She reaches over and squeezes my shin then and it immediately dulls the edge of the wave of sadness that lands.
“When I was seventeen and due to work there full-time for a summer, I asked Dermot if I could work in the kitchen properly and he and the head chef were stupid enough to agree. I think it was punishment for his juniors to have to train me up, or maybe I was just cheap labour. But I bloody loved it. It was like coming home to myself. I feel a peace in a kitchen that I don’t feel in many other spaces.”
