“Matt, look what you did!” I turn to look at him. “Not sure how you knew I’d come back with you,” I add.
“Oh, a man’s gotta be prepared,” he jokes, with a boyish smile. He pulls me close into him, eyes locking in before he silences me with his lips. I melt into him.
When he pulls away, he makes himself busy with the Champagne foil and cork, popping it deftly and filling two glasses.
I take in the room, something about it sitting oddly with me, until I realize what it is: the walls are not plasterboard; they are textured, ribbed, the fairy lights only dimly revealing their contours. I wonder for a moment what the thick material is before Matt’s words from earlier return to me.
Soundproofing.
“Why have you soundproofed the house, Matt?” I ask, before I can stop myself.
He looks up at me, surprised by the question.
There’s a flicker of something behind his eyes; either he’s realizedI’m an absolute mess of anxiety and intrusive thoughts, or he’s a psychopath and now he has to kill me.
I push the thought away because Matt isn’t called Simon, and I’ve seen Matt’s online presence going back all the way to university, and people would know if Matt had changed his name or was pretending to be a Simon.
He hands me a glass. “All the old Victorian and Georgian terrace-house renovations around here have soundproofing,” he tells me, gently helping me down onto the picnic blanket.
I sip the Champagne, the crisp shot of it oddly steadying as the tart bubbles fizz against my nose and across my tongue.
He touches my face, and I turn toward him.
He slips his thumb between my lips, gently parting my mouth until I open it for him. He places a perfect red jewel of a berry on my tongue. “We don’t want them hearing us, do we?”
I shake my head and bite down into the fruit, a burst of sugar filling my mouth.
I swallow the strawberry and take another swig of the Champagne, my eyes wandering out to the glass balustrade of the mezzanine and the drop beyond it into darkness.
I look down at my drink. It’s already half gone. I down the rest of the glass and hand it back to him, curious to see what comes next.
“Thank you,” he says, placing my empty glass down on the hard plasterboard flooring.
I sit down on the blanket, then slide back, looking up at the ceiling, as if I’m lying on the grass looking up at the stars, my coat falling open, my knees raised.
But there are no stars here, just a bare light socket in a sea of white plasterboard.
I shiver, the cold of the unheated house now working its way through my open coat.
He leans over me, taking me in, his hand pushing my coat fully open.
I shiver.
“Are you cold?” he asks.
“No,” I reply gently, unwilling to break the moment.
Then, with one hand, he traces along the buttons that run downthe front of my dress, my body arching toward him with each point of contact as he delicately undoes them.
My entire dress now loosely open, he brushes the fabric to the sides to reveal my warm skin beneath.
He leans back and looks at my half-naked body, lit by fairy lights, the delicate cream lace of my underwear only slightly obscuring my modesty.
He lowers his lips to mine, his mouth warm and Champagne-scented. He slips a hand between my legs again and I break the kiss with a moan of pleasure. My need for him is now desperate and all-consuming. I give in to it, to him, as he leans over me, blood rushing to my cheeks, to my extremities, as his fingers find my wetness, my breath coming fast and hard until I dissolve into the pleasure, nothing left but him and me and need.
He makes me come three times, my breath snagging, heart thundering, before he fucks me hard on the floor, my hands grasping him closer.
We fuck until we can’t anymore, and still then, I want more of him, as if he and he alone can keep me safe. Even as I slip into sleep, I want more of him, his scent, his touch, his warmth.
