‘Of course. No singles table for you, darlin’. However, I’m also the chef and the waiter, so if you’ll just give me a minute, I’ll go grab the first course.’
The food is gorgeous—halloumi on a bed of peppery salad, and though he complains about not having the right components, it’s bloody delicious. Tender beef and tiny roast potatoes served with jus or gravy, as Greg called it, and tender broccolini. Better than the food is his delightful company. He’s a lovely man to begin with, but this afternoon, he really does take us both on a trip to charming town.
Destination: bed, hopefully.
‘That was so good.’ Leaning back from the table, I consider the remains, which amounts to barely a gravy or jus stain on my plate. ‘I bet I’ve put on five pounds in the past few days, and I really don’t care.’
‘I wouldn’t think so. Not with the amount of horizontal exercise we’ve had.’
‘That’s the key to your physique, is it? Lots of sex?’
‘Manual labour, mostly,’ he answers. ‘And the odd trip to the gym. You’re no slouch yourself, buns of steel.’
‘Thanks to my twice a week spinning class.’ I slap my hip rather than my bum, it being otherwise engaged keeping me in my seat.
‘Pity you eat so much rubbish.’
‘Not all of us can be gastronomes, Greg. I’m in the office for seven most mornings and rarely out before seven the same day. I’m time poor. Where did you learn to cook, anyway?’
‘The school of hard knocks that is life.’ I wait for him to elaborate, though the pause seems pregnant somehow. ‘I was a latchkey kid. My parents were always working, trying to keep a roof over our head. Marie, my sister, started me off by teaching me how to make cheese on toast and that kind of stuff when I was about ten. Better than potato waffles and cheap sausages, she’d said. It turns out she was right, and from there, it just blossomed. I like to eat decent food, so I had to learn to cook for myself.’
‘You could’ve gone into the restaurant business.’
‘Nah, that life wasn’t for me. Too high pressure. I work to live, not the other way around.’
‘So what does Greg do in his downtime?’
‘When I’m not doing you, you mean?’ His dark eyes positively shine in the candlelight, lustrous with dirty thoughts. I want to know all of them, intimately, but I’m also greedy for knowledge of him. His daily life, his dreams. All of it.
‘Yes, when you’re not making me, how did it go again?’ Picking up my glass, I stare at him over the rim. ‘Sigh with your kisses, beg for your tongue, and scream while we fucked.’ My cheeks might be burning up a storm at my boldness, but Greg appears to be lapping it up, judging by his smile.
‘I think you might have paraphrased, but that was the general idea.’ He hooks his arm over the back of his chair, his posture one of careless confidence.
‘You didn’t answer.’
‘Are you asking if, when I’m not doing you, am I doing other women?’
‘No... and yes, I suppose.’ I really just wanted to know how he spends his downtime, but if he’s in sharing mode, who am I to complain?
Well, I’m not a monk,’ he says, picking up his wine glass. I watch him contemplate the blood-red liquid, the heat in his dark gaze catching me off guard as his gaze lifts. ‘But I’m not a whore, either. Except where I play one for you.’
Need floods my body, hot and swift.
‘I think I might’ve mentioned you could make a fortune in that business, but you’re more the knight in shining armour type. You’ve certainly taken care of this damsel in distress.’
‘It was my pleasure.’
‘You’ve opened my world to that, too. Pleasure, I mean. I just wish there was some way to thank you.’
‘You have. A thousandfold. But if you want to thank me again, you can let me have this dance.’
I pause. The radio is playing so quietly at first, I don’t recognise the song. But then I do. A song I haven’t heard in a long while.
Death Cab for Cutie.I Will Follow You Into The Dark.
I don’t know about following him into the dark, but I do place my hand in his and follow him into the living room. He takes my right hand in his, kissing my fingertips before pressing our joined hands to his chest over his heart. It feels so familiar, like we’ve done this a thousand times as I bring my free hand to his shoulder and Greg places his low on my spine as he pulls my body flush with his.
Cheek to cheek, we sway to the almost haunting melody without a word spoken between us, so much feeling but nothing said.
I open my eyes as the final note rings out, Greg’s fingers tilting my face to his. His kiss is soft and delicate but not tentative.
‘You’re so beautiful.’ His dark eyes stare down at me, his words reverently whispered against my lips.
It’s perfect. So bloody perfect. The meal. The wine. The dance. His kiss. I don’t ever want the experience to end. But as with all good things, endings must come. Ours in the form of the next song the radio plays, a happy, clappy beat breaking the spell.
Liddle darl-lin’...
‘I don’t want to hear about the sun coming.’ I close my eyes, resting my head on his chest. ‘Make it go away.’ The Beatles can just bugger off as far as I’m concerned. Surely, this is a song more suited to March or May and not the depths of a snowy December.
My head moves with his next deep inhale. ‘It’s not just the Beatles that’s bringing the sun, darlin’.’ His arms tighten across my back. ‘The snow is starting the thaw.’
