I shook my head. It was true, although I’d never really thought much about it being a turn on as I’d not meant it that way. I just didn’t always like underwear, needing a bit of fresh air sometimes.
“Seriously, Anya. When I see you in a skirt now I’m going to have to cuff myself to stop from fingering you.”
And like that, my body made like a noodle.
“You’re all about the dirty words.”
I nodded, hoping he’d take the hint and trying not to think about where this insatiable beast had come from.
He cupped my sex, the heat of his hand making me squirm to find pressure.
“I’m not usually like this. I hadn’t had sex for, Jesus, about eleven months before last night.” I tried to give an excuse but his face crinkled into a smile.
“Shush. I like knowing I can make you needy. It’s revenge for when you wear a skirt. Can I insist you always wear a skirt?”
His thumb was gentle against my clit, the lubrication already there. I came softly, clinging to him, the orgasm a gentle wave rather than the tsunamis from before.
“If you promise to…” I stopped, the words not there.
“Tell me.”
I groaned.
“Say it, Anya!” He moved onto his back and pulled me on top of him.
“Fuck me when I do.”
He laughed. “I think I can promise that.” His kiss was sweet and tender, my breasts pressed against his chest.
“Now tell me something.”
“I haven’t been in a car since the crash.”
* * *
We eventually gotout of bed at noon and headed over to the house he’d bought. I hadn’t been inside it for years, not since we’d just moved to the island. It was just as it had been then, except it was in a state of disrepair and the décor even more outdated than it had been.
There were pictures and curtains left behind by the previous owner, a couple of plants now more than dead and carpet that looked as if it had been the main meal source for some sort of animal.
“You have your work cut out.”
He wrapped an arm around my waist. I was only wearing one of his T-shirts, long enough to hit me mid-thigh. It smelled of him and had a few flecks of paint on it.
“It’s a project.”
“One you might want to think about starting.”
He gave a nod. “I am thinking about it. I can see what the house can become. The view over the sea needs to be the main focus.”
“And bi-fold doors out to the garden.”
“Them. What shall I feed you?”
“You cook?”
“Kind of.”
He made scrambled eggs with smoked salmon, stored in a fridge that looked futuristic compared with everything else. We sat at a Formica table and talked about everything and nothing; the island, my sister, Catrin and Anders.
