The rest of the afternoon passes by pleasantly.
I wait up for Lachie that night, hoping he’s too hungover from his birthday bash to go out drinking again. He appears at eleven.
‘You’re awake!’ he says with pleasant surprise when I get up from the sofa.
He puts his guitar case down as I step forward for a hug.
‘You okay?’ he asks softly.
‘I missed you,’ I murmur.
Imissyou.
‘Aw,’ he replies with affection.
‘I thought you might go out drinking again.’
‘Nah, I’m shattered.’
‘Bed?’ I step back and take his hands in mine.
His blue eyes smile down at me, and then he lets go of my hands and hooks his fingers through the belt loops of my jeans, tugging me forward so we’re hip to hip. Bending down, he plants his lips on mine.
It is the sweetest kiss we’ve had in ages, but all too soon it grows into something more. His fingers find the hem of my T-shirt and our mouths are forced apart as the fabric comes up and over my head.
‘Bed?’ I repeat, breathlessly.
He shakes his head. ‘Here.’
It’s been so long since we’ve had sex outside the bedroom – the idea feels strangely illicit. We both get very busy unbuttoning each other’s jeans and stripping down to our underwear. He pulls me against him again and now only the flimsy fabric of our underwear separates me from what is a pretty impressive show of how turned on he is.
Our lips lock together with increasing urgency as he lifts me onto the table and unclasps my bra. I wrap my legs around him, gasping at the intense sensation. A moment later, he steps away to wriggle out of his boxers, reaches between us to pull my lacy knickers to one side, and surges forward.
I grip his muscled back and hold on for dear life.
It is the best sex we’ve had in I can’t remember how long.
‘Lachie?’ I say the next morning as he sleepily traces circles on my arm in bed.
‘Mmm?’
‘I need to talk to you about Fliss.’
He sighs. Loudly. ‘You’ve got nothing to worry about.’
‘I can’t stand her,’ I state. ‘I don’t like the way you are with her. I hate the way she is with you. I don’t want her hanging around the flat when I’m not here.’ I say these three sentences without pausing, but, by the time I’ve finished, he’s already taken his arm out from behind my shoulders and is sliding out of bed.
‘You’re being unreasonable,’ he says, pulling on Friday night’s jeans. Yesterday’s are still out in the living room.
‘I’m not. I’m trusting my instincts and I don’t trust her.’
‘What about me?’ he asks emphatically. ‘Do you trust me?’ He irately tugs open a drawer and swipes a fresh T-shirt, pulling it over his head.
I don’t answer.
‘What. You don’t?’ he demands to know.
‘No, I do,’ I say reasonably. ‘But I don’t see why you have to be friends with someone who makes me so uncomfortable. I wouldn’t do that to you.’
