‘How about the memory game?’
‘My memory is terrible these days,’ I whisper.
‘Really? Surely . . . certain things stick in your mind.’
Every nerve ending in my body is sparkling into life. A ripple effect starts in my stomach and spreads all the way through to my fingertips. Even my toes clench. And I cannot explain what happens next, nor will I ever be able to. All I know is that I become vaguely aware that the heels of my feet are lifting, like Dorothy in Kansas. His head dips and for a moment, time folds in on itself, as he, or maybe I – I couldn’t precisely say – closes the gap between my mouth and his.
My body responds to the kiss with a rush of electric heat. His lips are as soft as a whisper and I am powerless to do anything except sink into them, as my senses swell and recede like the tide. I wrap my hand behind his neck. Submit to the strength of his arms. I brush my tongue against his as goosebumps sweep up my spine. Every inch of me softens, like butter on a warm day.
I had forgotten on an almost visceral level what it feels like to kiss. The taste of someone’s lips. The delicious slide of tongue. The occasional gentle clash of teeth. I had forgotten the way thunder rushes through your eardrums and the tiny breaths you have to take when stopping isn’t an option. The way time is suspended. The soft gasps and moans. The ever-growing desire to go deeper inside yourself.
I have never kissed anyone with a beard before and I am immediately obsessed with how it feels simultaneously soft and rough, how it rubs against my chin. I feel his chest inflate and when I think he’s about to pull away, I tug him back. I don’t want him to go anywhere, and he is happy to oblige.
Throughout this whole thing there is a distant voice in the depths of my brain that sounds something like my mother when I was a teenager leaving the house in a short skirt.What on earth do you think you are doing? You are seriously going to regret this . . .
But the message is too faint, it’s not getting through, because I feel as if I’ve been drugged, or like I’m flatlining, with no desire to return to the light.
He pulls away briefly, releasing a sound. A kind of huff or growl. Then I realise the corner of his mouth has turned up.
‘Why are you smiling?’ I whisper.
His eyes flicker across my face and he brushes my cheek with the knuckles on the back of his hand. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
The urge to respond with a quip dissolves as fast as it came. The hand he has around my waist pulls me in tighter and it’s then that I register how hard he is against the soft pillow of my belly. I move my hips, just an inch, just enough. A barely audible sound escapes from his lips, a kind of soft moan. It has a wild, physical effect on every bit of me.
What the hell do you think you’re doing?
I ignore the voice, as my fingertips find the skin on his lower back. I run them along his waistband and dip beneath.Right now, I could touch every inch of him and that wouldn’t be enough. He smooths his palm down onto my backside and gently squeezes as my eyes close and I feel the length of him against me again. He’s so. Fucking. Hard. And the thought that it’s me who has caused this intense state of arousal is so intoxicating that all I can do is kiss him deeper. And then—
You aresogoing to regret this . . .
‘What are we doing, Sam?’ I whisper, but it’s between kisses and I’m still pulling him hard against me, like his lips are magnetic.
‘I don’t know but please don’t let it stop.’ He grips me tighter, pulls me in again.
‘We . . . we need to get out of here, Sam.’
The kisses are almost frantic now and any talk is between ragged breaths. ‘I don’t want to go anywhere.’
‘Seriously.’ Another kiss. ‘We . . . need.’ And another. ‘To do something.’
He slowly withdraws and runs his gaze over my face. In that moment, I could be easily convinced that I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on.
Then he takes a deep, almost wistful inhale before we indulge in one last, decadent kiss. Finally, he tightens his arms around me and sweeps me up, a foot off the ground, before shuffling round to plant me down behind him. He reaches into his pocket and takes out a debit card. Then, just like in some corny detective movie, he shoves it in the lock and shuffles it a couple of times before it clicks.
‘I won’t even ask why you know how to do that.’
‘First year at uni. I was always getting locked out of my dorm room.’
He throws open the door.
Daylight floods in and scorches my eyeballs. He steps outside and turns to give me his hand. I emerge like a released hostage, dazed and blinking. The skin on my chin is red raw.My lips are swollen. I am vaguely aware of the bird’s nest quality of my hair.
At which point, Barbara Bainbridge rounds the corner and my heart collapses into my intestines.
All three of us freeze. Then all I can do is resort to what every woman does in a crisis situation. Improvise.
‘Barbara! Sam and I have been trying to fix the shed door,’ I declare, because why wouldn’t we both be indulging in a touch of light DIY at daybreak?
