So I opt for glass of cold water and a little space. Plus, if I’m not mistaken, I saw the edge of a board game peeking out from under the sofa. If I’m going to play any kind of game, I’m going to win, so I need a moment to get my head right.
‘I understand the jammies,’ he calls after me.
I don’t turn. Instead, I keep my eyes on the window. Not that I can see anything in the darkness apart from the new batch of snowflakes splatting their opaque selves against the glass pane. I’m not sure how I feel about the continued weather. Conflicted, I think is the phrase.
If we have sex again, we’re likely to melt the snow within a mile radius.
‘In fact,’ he adds, ‘I’m totally digging them.’
‘And why wouldn’t you?’ I reply, glancing down at my vivid ensemble; neon pink base layers covering me from neck to toe with a T-shirt worn over the top, the front of which bears a cartoon of a bright green fruit driving a motor vehicle, the image repeated on the shorts like little fruity polka-dots. But it’s the T-shirt caption that’s the absolute best thing about my nightwear.
He may be small and green,it reads,but he does ava-car-do.
‘Fancy a beer?’
‘Sure, why not.’
The darkened kitchen brightens a little as I pull out a couple of bottles, snapping off the tops with the opener stuck to the silver door.
‘Come on.’ He pats the space next to him on the rug as I make my way back. ‘Sit yourself down next to me.’
‘Normal people sit on the sofa,’ I grumble even though I’m inwardly thrilled. Given my experiences with sex and relationships, this might have gone a whole lot of other ways. Yawns and complaints ofit’s-too-hot-to-cuddle.A demarcation or invisible line down the centre of the bed. A partner who showered away the scent of sex immediately. One or two others whose appendages had to still be wet as they slipped on their boxer shorts.
God, what a mess. Am I really that bad at choosing men?
‘We can sit on the sofa if you like.’ Greg’s words pull me from my miserable musing. ‘But I thought we could cuddle up and warm our toes by the fire.’
Something, and it’s not the fire, sets of a warmth inside me.Don’t get too comfortable,my mind offers. This is just a brief interlude in the relationship winter that is your love life.
‘Normal people also have TVs,’ I grumble, while secretly wishing he’d pull me down on his knee. Instead, I fold myself on the floor next to him, mirroring his position by pressing my back against the sofa, though I bend my legs in front of me. And there was method in my madness in dressing this way because not only am I not flashing him, but I’m also warm. And unlike last night, it’s not quite the equivalent of a clothing chastity belt.
‘A telly would spoil my solitude,’ he deadpans, taking the proffered bottle from my hand.
‘Is that why you came here this weekend? Yet somehow got lumbered with my company.’
‘It’s peaceful here away from the rat race.’ Fingers hooked around the long bottle neck, he tips back his head, exposing his tanned and lickable throat.
‘That was a question nicely dodged.’
‘I can’t imagine why else anyone would want to stay here if not to be alone. That’s not to say,’ he adds, looking at me now, ‘that, having had you here, I’d want it any other way.’
‘Havinghadme here, hmm?’ I repeat with the edge of taunt.
‘Ocht,that’s not what I mean. Though I wouldn’t say no to having you again.’ My insides heat and pulse at the images his words create. ‘And there’s still a stick of butter in the fridge,’ he adds as he winks lewdly before bringing the beer to his lips.
I’m still experiencing little tingling aftershocks even as I laugh.
‘Good to know we’ve moved on from the discussion on the love that dare not speak its name, otherwise known as bum sex.’ Beer suddenly sprays his jeans as he coughs up his most recent mouthful.
‘You can’t say things like that!’ He wipes his mouth with both the palm and then the back of his hand, reminding me of his actions earlier.Earlier when he tasted me.
‘Why not? You brought it up. It’s not like I saidanal.’
‘I alluded to it—you brought it up—twice—blatantly dragging it out into the light, kicking and screaming.’
‘There’s nothing shameful about bum sex,’ I answer primly. ‘Not that I’ve ever partaken.’
‘No, nothing shameful,’ he agrees. ‘Nothing shameful at all. So long as you don’t mind me thinking about it.’
