We make our way to the bed and he sits on the edge. I climb on, straddling him, my thighs gripping the outer edge of his hips. His pelvis bucks, pressing into me, and I can feel his precise, rigid shape against the nub between my legs.
My body has never felt more fluid. The way we move together is like two instruments being played in complete harmony. I glide my fingers through his still-damp hair as his hands grip my waist, his palms just above my hip bones. The curves and dips of my body feel exaggeratedly feminine against the athletic bulk of him.
‘I think about this with you . . .allthe damn time,’ he murmurs. ‘I swear my head has been taken hostage by your body.’
He traces the lace on my pants with his fingertips. Heat starts to gather in my core.
I begin to unknot his towel, making a point of doing it with purpose, as if I’m unwrapping a gift. The sight of his erection sends waves of melting pleasure through me. It twitches at my first touch, as I stroke my hand along it firmly and he releases a soft exhalation.
He slides a hand around my face and kisses me once more. The feel of his skin against mine is my new obsession. He runs a finger along my bikini line and skims the fabric between my legs, before he slides them off, all the way down my legs. Then I’m naked too and something inside me seems to fold in on itself. For a long time, we are a tangle of meandering limbs and hot skin.
‘Gimme a moment, okay?’ he whispers.
He stands to walk into the living room as I lie on his bed, wrapped in his sheets and utterly entranced. He is an exquisite vision of masculinity. The muscular form of his buttocks. The ripple of his back and triceps. The supreme curve of his shoulders. Right now, in the grip of desire, I feel as if a Renaissance sculptor couldn’t do him justice.
He picks up his wallet from the table, unfolds it, and takes out a condom.
When he returns to the room, he plants a brief, tender kiss on my lips before he sits and puts it on. Then he turns back to me and crawls on top of me.
We luxuriate in the undulating feel of one another to the point at which my need for him is agonising. But then the tip of his erection is right there, nuzzling at the soft folds between my legs. I have never wanted another human being like this in my life.
When he looks into my eyes, I can see some deep, elemental part of him. Then he slides inside me and something opens, like the time-lapse of a blossoming flower. A moment of surrender, a feeling of pure obliteration. When he withdraws, my insides grip around him. Then he pushes into me again, as far as he can go, and I groan because I just can’t keep it in any more. Every thought in my head is eclipsed by the mystery of his body, the poetry of his flesh. I begin to work my hips, intoxicated by him, bythis, mindlessly grasping for more and more.
I am close to the edge of some primitive oblivion for so long after this that, in my head at least, I start to beg for mercy, scream out his name. The hair around my forehead is stuck to my skin. Sweat has gathered in the creases behind my knees. I am alive in places that never existed before this.
And then . . . and then . . .I’m there.
It is transcendental, otherworldly, a blissful skyscraper of a feeling.
Please, I think.Make this never end.
Chapter 58
Of all the things I’d rather not have to do the following day, hosting a PTA meeting is right up there at the top. As I potter around the kitchen diner, serving white wine and Kettle chips to twelve other parents, I can hardly bring myself to engage in any of it.
Not the endless debate about how to maximise profits from a sponsored Crazy Hair Day. Not the passive-aggressive chat about the correct price point for a speakeasy-themed Gin Night. And certainly not the arm-wrestle I was convinced would break out earlier – over whether we’d ever be able to make a ‘Fun Healthy Tuck Shop’ work at the school production ofAMidsummer Night’s Dream, or should we just go for broke and stock up on Starburst and Skittles?
There are only two things I can think about right now. Number one is Rose, who should have had her scan by now and whom I’d hoped to have heard from about her results.
Then there’s Zach. Given the choice, I’d spend every spare moment in his arms before he steps on a flight and out of my life, the day after tomorrow. Not just to make the most of the limited time we have left. But to try and find some clarity over where we go from here. He really wants us to try and continue this, long-distance. He said he was prepared to beg. In his eyes, when you have feelings this big about someone, there’s no alternative.
I haven’t said no, but I can’t stop thinking about how unworkable it feels.
I have tried to convince myself that he could be right. That absence could make the heart grow fonder. That it works for those daft women who marry men they’ve never met on Death Row. That maybe the limited time we would spend together could be enough, even if he only gets 10 days paid vacation, which, I’m sure, will be devoted to Mila. And what about the physical side of things? While meeting Zach has opened my eyes to certain ideas – not least falling in love – I just can’t ever see myself performing a striptease in front of Zoom, no matter how good the lighting.
In my heart of hearts, I already know I’m going to miss him too much for this to work. That it would be better to end things now, pull off the sticking plaster – hard and fast – then get on with our lives.
Know what the worst thing is?
I think he knows it too.
‘So that’s two non-uniform days, a talent show, a balloon raffle, a half-term disco, Bonkers Bingo, a drive-in movie and, to kick it all off in September, a Gin Night.’
Denise Dandy peers at the Year 2 mum next to her – who she chose as her ‘volunteer’ to take minutes – to check she’s got it all down.
Denise looks immaculate tonight. Glowy skin. Silky, blow-dried hair. Lips plumped with pink gloss. She’s even ditched her trademark athleisurewear and is wearing a silky, safari-style jumpsuit.
‘There are still several outstanding jobs for the upcoming Gin Night and it would make far more sense if they were all done by one person. Lisa, I think you’re the only one who knows how to use that special shareable spreadsheet thingy, so I’ll put you down.’
