I held her hips, my cock thrusting into her in one movement. I stilled, giving her a chance to adjust and me a chance to catch my breath. Then I almost pulled out of her, setting a slow, deep rhythm. My arm fixed under her stomach, reaching round to her other hip, freeing the other hand to play with her tits that moved with each thrust.
“For the next twelve months, I’m the only man that gets to fuck you.” I didn’t know where the words were coming from. They weren’t planned. “These tits. This pussy. These fucking hips – they’re mine until we get divorced.”
“In that case…” her words were each said on a thrust and I knew she wasn’t far off coming. “Your cock belongs to me.”
“Deal.”
I let go from under her and wrapped my fingers through her hair, pulled hard enough to lift her head back, and fucked her harder. My other hand dropped from her tits to her clit and as soon as I grazed it with my fingers she came.
I followed, almost violently, my body throbbing with the release, Sophie’s name my song. Thought was beyond me. We collapsed onto our sides, entangled in each other and neither of us spoke.
There were words hanging in the air. Some things that could’ve been said. Apologies, maybe. Syllables that contained affection. But I had no idea if she wanted to hear them, or if I wanted to voice them out loud.
“I’m hungry.”
I laughed at what she said. “You were before. You want to grab a shower while I start breakfast?” I moved away, needing space now.
The problem with having a fucked up head was that you never knew just how bad it was until a shimmer of light shone through and you didn’t know what the fuck to do with it.
“Sure. Don’t poison me.”
“Damn. You guessed my plan.”
* * *
She found me in the kitchen making omelettes.
Her jeans and shirt that she’d been wearing yesterday hadn’t been put on. Instead she had found one of my band T-shirts which drowned her and when she climbed onto one of the stools at my breakfast bar, I caught sight of a pair of my football shorts.
“Is this what I can expect from marriage?” I put the omelette in front of her. “You stealing my clothes?”
Sophie shrugged. “Potentially. Although I can’t find my bra and my knickers have been shredded – which is your fault completely.” She brought a forkful of omelette to her mouth and started to eat. “This is good.”
“I can survive without a personal chef. What’s your place like?”
She swallowed a second forkful. I turned over my breakfast and waited. We knew the facts about each other, the things that you would expect us to be able to answer if pressed by a nosy journalist, but nothing intimate.
“Similar to this. Big windows. Good view. It’s somewhere to live but it isn’t home. I haven’t had one of those in a long time.” She took another bite. She clearly wasn’t lying when she said she liked my cooking.
“What about when you were married?”
She shook her head. “The man I married twice was a lot older. I lived with him at first in the house he’d shared with his first wife – and they’d been married for twenty years. The second time round we kept our own places. The guy I married on impulse – we didn’t live together at all. I’d like a place in the country eventually. A big house with lots of rooms that has a history. Not some white apartment.”
I nodded, serving up my own breakfast. “I’ve never had to think about it too much. After I left the home I shared with my bandmates -- an absolute hovel. Once we’d made it, kind of, we were always touring or recording. I didn’t have a place to live for a couple of years – I just used to stay in hotels.”
“How did you end up here?”
“My agent suggested it. Seemed like a wise move and it’s okay, but not forever. We need to look at somewhere together. Want to house hunt in the country?” I sat down and poured another mug of coffee from the French press.
“We can’t. Because we’d inevitably both have to move out, or you’d buy me out. We need to rent somewhere in London where we can be seen from.” She paused, looking at me. “What was it like growing up in care?”
I’d been asked about it before. Sometimes when I was with my foster sisters we’d remember how it had been and how it was so different for their children.
“Lonely. All the people there to care for you were being paid and the other kids were there because they had nowhere else to go. We saw half a dozen or more kids walk through the doors and only stay a short time – the staff couldn’t cope with them, or something happened and the kids became a risk. You didn’t belong anywhere and nobody belonged to you.” Although I’d been asked, I’d never explained it so fucking brutally.
“How did you end up as you are now? An arrogant bastard but not a complete dick.” She poured her own coffee.
“The band, or some of them. We were a bit of an odd combination and became family. Loads of bands say that but when you’re together on the road and have weird shared experiences, you do get that. And my sisters – foster sisters.” The omelette was bloody good.
