by Anna Bloom
I gasp and moan at once, a sound I don’t think I’ve created before.
Another smile meets my stunned gaze as he moves to the other side.
This must be the French way of doing things. I can sense that if I was to rush, he would slow. This torture of standing half dressed, tingling nipples standing to attention, begging for his devotion, is already my punishment for demanding more.
Once he’s administered equal consideration to both my nipples: sucking, kissing, nibbling, he smirks up at me. I’m a wreck.
I’ve never nearly reached orgasm from nipple play before, yet here I am, quivering and desperate for the next touch.
It hits me with blinding clarity.
I’ve never made love before. Not really. Sex, yes. Fuck, definitely.
But love? Slow and delicate, an adventure across the unknown landscape of someone else’s skin. Never.
When I get home, I’m writing a bucket list, putting this at the top and then crossing it instantly off.
“Turn around.”
I do, without hesitation.
His fingers undo the button on my skirt, then the zip, so slow I could die with every notch it undoes. Inch by inch the material, the slinky lining of the pencil skirt, rubs against my hips and thighs as it lowers to the ground. Trailing his fingers in an arc around my body, he brushes them lightly across my breasts. Heaven forbid they get jealous that my ass might get some attention.
“These tights are hellish,” he observes, “Don’t wear them again.”
I nod. I’ve already made that decision.
Something illicit lights inside me though at the prospect that every day I don’t put the tights on I’m doing something he’s told me to do.
I know I’ll never see him again. I also know I’ll never wear one hundred denier tights again.
Lifting my right calf, he slips off my red stiletto; the only splash of colour in my work wardrobe. Sliding off my tights and freeing my toes, he places my bare foot back on the floor and I stand at an awkward angle while my body adjusts to being three inches shorter on one side than the other.
I’m sure he chuckles, but I can’t really hear it clearly as he lifts my other foot backwards and repeats the same, leaving me only in black lace trimmed shorts.
He doesn’t turn me. Doesn’t touch.
Then with the slowest of movements he inches my knickers down. Half an inch one side, then half an inch the other.
It’s sheer torture.
Once they are on the floor and unhooked from my foot he turns me. The expression on his face burns straight to my heart. “Beautiful. Just like I knew.” That smile. It’s everything. Bright like the touch of the sun on the first day of spring.
“Now I’m naked and you’re still dressed.” He shrugs and I roll my eyes. “Your turn. Stand up.”
“No time, ma petite. I need to be inside you.”
Now the French start to hurry. They have an issue with timing.
I shriek as he pulls me down, cradling me in the arch of his arms, pushing me into the mattress with his body. This kiss is hot. Demanding. Unrelenting. I gasp for air.
He moans as I scrape my nails down his back, travelling the length of his spine, feeling his muscles bunch around my touch. He mutters in rapid French under his breath. Pushing back, he unbuckles his belt and steps from the bed, sliding off the rest of his clothes.
Then I see him. Perfect specimen of man that he is. His erection bounces free of the confines of his clothing and my stomach tightens right down low.
Oooooh.
He makes swift work of flicking through his wallet for a condom. The whole time his massive dick just standing to attention between us.
I swallow hard as he crawls back up the bed, caging me again in the safety of his arms and one hand sweeps delicate fingers up my thigh, between my legs, his gaze finding mine when he feels how wet I am.
Biting my lower lip, I try to still the wild beating of my heart.
He pauses though, a frown pulling those brows. “I can’t be inside of you and not know your name. Sex, it’s truth between two people. You want me to lie.”
Well, fuck. Just shoot me in the heart and bury me right now.
I give a small shake of my head. “That was the rule.”
He glares and I desperately keep an eye on his erection hoping we don’t have a last minute capsize. Nope. Still upright. The towering mast on a ship at sea.
And fuck if I don’t want to be that sea.
“So give me a name,” I whisper. I’d happily be anyone other than Julianna Brown with the death sentence right now in this moment.
Don’t make me be her.
I watch him.
He watches me.
“Juliette.”
I laugh. Is he for real? Could he have chosen a name closer to my own? “Juliette?” I say it like him. Juuuuliette
He nods, satisfied with my unexpected baptism. Reaching forward, I clasp his hand and yank him down. “Good. Can you fuck me now?”
“Please?” He arches an eyebrow.
“Please,” I beg on a whisper and he pushes straight for home. I gasp, stretching around him. His hand palms my hair, gaze firmly on mine, unflinching, as he pushes to the absolute hilt and I’m pretty sure he’s breaching my goddamn cervix.
Fully home, he closes his eyes, serenity flooding his face for a moment until his eyes flicker back open and he shoots me a secret smile that could spin a million promises if only I’d let it.
I stretch my hands above my head, pushing my tits for the ceiling, meeting his thrusts, waiting for heaven to come and find me.
No names.
One night.
One thing ticked off my imaginary bucket list.
I give myself up, losing myself in the Frenchman, pushing deeper and deeper until I’m crying, toe pointing, feeling him buried deep within me and he’s groaning, hips flying, lips smashing.
He collapses on me, winding the little air I have left in my lungs, staying inside me, connected through the comedown. His arm tugs around me tight, holding me close, lips brushing my neck. “Sleep,” he murmurs.
“Should I not go?” My chest gives a strange and strangled hitch, but he cranks an eye, arm tightening.
“Sleep.”
Strangely I want to. It’s so calm, like being washed up on a desert island of zero expectation. Darkness slips around us, wrapping us tight in an unexpected moment.
Later, when his body is spooned around mine, his breath steady and heavy, I shift from under his weighty arm.
I can’t look back. Can’t look at his sleeping form, long limbs tangled, a sheet around a taut waist. Muscles that could make a grown woman weep.
The magic of being Juliette is fading fast. The short break from reality the man mountain reprieved me with is ending.
I’ve got to go home. Got to face Olivia. Need to face the truth of all the things.
I pull my clothes on, grab my bag. Tears slip down my face. Such a shame. He really is beautiful.
It was just a moment.
Just one moment.
One night.
As much as I know this, I still stop at the door and glance back, massive Frenchman sprawled across a bed tangled in white sheets. “Thank you,” I whisper, and then I steal away into London’s pre-dawn grey.
6
Sisters
“Where the actual fuck have you been?” Olivia yanks me over the threshold into her home encased in layers of cream. Walking into Olivia’s house is rather like being one of those tiny figurines on top of a wedding cake.
I’m trembling, my legs barely holding me up, while her hands grip my shoulders in an almost shake. I know that shake. It’s the, ‘where have you been, don’t you know I’m going out of my mind with worry’ shake.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” My lips tremble, my tongue dry and stuck to the roof of my mouth.
“What are you wearing? Why are you in work clothes on a Saturday—” she’s cut off from more questions by an ear-s
plitting screech and a wild form cantering through the hallway where we are standing.
“Aunty JuJu!” The screeching banshee draws to a skidded stop and tilts its head to the side, peering at me through wild, unbrushed, untameable knots of hair. “Naughty JuJu. Mummy said bad words.” A finger wags sternly at me, side to side. “Soap words. Never say soapsie words.”
Oh, the wash your mouth out with soap threat. Must have been really bad words. I cock an eyebrow at Liv, the younger of the two Brown sisters.
“What?” She lifts her chin in the air and glares daggers at me. “I was bloody worried. I called your phone at least a hundred times, and your office.”
“Oh, Liv, what did you call them for?” I sigh, making her cross her arms like a warrior preparing for battle.
“Because you went for a check-up and then never called me.”
“You aren’t Mum, Liv, I don’t have to check in.”
“Is that so?”
Okay, this is not the way it’s meant to go. I’ve got far worse things to say.
Bending down, I grab the thigh-high Gremlin and push back its hair, finding my niece buried underneath. “Hey, beautiful girl. Can we play dress up today?”
Paige stares at me through brown eyes I know are the exact colour of mine and a little pang pings my chest. “No hairbrush.” She folds her arms, meaning business.
I pull a face. “Well, if we don’t have the hairbrush then we can’t have the ice cream, can we?”
“Ice cream, for breakfast?” Paige starts bouncing and I can only think she’s already got a secret stash of sugar stored away like a squirrel. I glance over her head at Liv whose face has drained to grey, dishwater grey.
“Sure,” I return my focus to Paige. “Personally, I love ice cream for brekkie, it’s the breakfast of champions.”
“Champions!” She fists her hand in the air and zooms off like a superhero dressed only in vest and knickers.
“Hairbrush!” I call after her. “And maybe some of that magic spray I bought you.”
Straightening, I level up with Liv. “Seriously, sis, you’ve got to brush it when she gets out of the bath.”
Liv holds her wrist out for me to see. A round, bite-shaped bruise sits on the pale flesh.
“Jesus, she’s wild.”
Liv meets my eye. “Cut the bullshit, Julia.”
This isn’t a conversation to have over breakfast, even an ice cream one. But it’s a conversation that can’t be avoided.
“What did Dr Francis say? I knew I should have come with you.”
I launch myself forward, wrapping my arms around her, face pressed into the strands of her ash-blonde hair. “You don’t have to be Mum to everyone, Liv.”
Olivia pulls back and tucks my hair behind my ear, the most motherly thing anyone has done to me in probably years. “I know. But you’re my sister. I should be there with you.”
She means because no one else can beyou know, because I’m a singleton of life. But then I guess she is now too. What did getting married and trusting anyone give her, apart from a baby that communicates in upchuck and a wild terrorist that bites?
“Shall we have a coffee?” Her voice shakes.
I wince, twisting my lips. “It might need to be stronger.” And that’s it. Her tears fall and we cling onto one another, salt water from two different sources creating an unstoppable torrent.
“I can’t bloody believe this. I always knew he was shit.” Liv splashes more Tia Maria into her coffee. The coffee is long gone. She’s basically refilling straight Tia Maria. I mean it tastes of coffee—that makes it almost the same thing.
I stare into the depth of my mug, searching for the answers to the universe, like, how can life be so shit.
Paige’s hair is braided into tight French braids. My stomach gave a little squeeze as I did it, even the word French making me shiver.
“Dr Francis isn’t shit, Liv,” I lift my gaze from my fortune teller Tia Maria mug. “He was lovely actually. Even held my hand.” My voice tightens. “You know. When he told me.”
Liv grips her cup so tight her knuckles whiten. We will have a liqueur volcanic explosion if she carries on at this rate. “Right. Well, I’m coming next time, I’ve got questions.”
“Sure you have,” I smirk into my cup.
“And I’ll hold your damn hand.”
I can’t take a breath. My chest doesn’t want to play ball. I try to breathe through the panic, but it won’t ebb, won’t release the pressure around my sternum.
“Liv…”
She slips off her stool, wrapping her arms around my waist. “I’m not letting you go. You’ve all I’ve got.”
I swipe at my wet cheeks. “That’s not true. You’ve got Paige and Lenny. You can’t let this bring you down, you’ve got to be the best mum you can be for them.”
“I know, and I will, but I’ll also be the best sister. I’m going to fight for you, Julia. I’ll never let you go. Which makes me think.” She lets go of me, reaching for her phone where she fires off a quick message. I straighten myself up.
“What are you doing?”
“Asking Charlie for the healthiest immune boosting recipes she has.”
“Ugh. No. I am not drinking any of that green shit. No way.”
“Ummmm, naughty word.”
I turn, caught in the act of adulting by Paige. “Come here, monster.”
She slips to my side and I haul her up, pushing my nose into her hair. “You’ll look after your mummy, won’t you?”
“Sure. I’m a biggish girl, but where are you going?” Her pale gaze holds mine and I crack under the pressure of it.
“She’s going nowhere, ever.” Liv slams down her mug. “And that’s a promise.”
I shake my head at her over Paige’s head. Don’t promise things we can’t keep.
“Sweetie, Daddy will be here soon to pick you guys up. Can you go and get your backpack.” I hate the way Liv’s skin pales. Hate what he did to her with his empty promises and dick that couldn’t stay contained.
I’ve threatened to chop it off, but she assures me it’s not worth the jail time.
“I’ll just go and wake Lenny.” She hesitates, like she thinks I might just disappear as soon as she leaves the room.
“I’ll go.” I jump down from my stool, my tight covered feet cool against the tiles of the kitchen floor. “Does he need changing?”
“No. I did it before his nap.” She shakes her head, leaning over the kitchen counter, sobs shaking her body.
“Liv,” I whisper, reaching and brushing her hair down her back. “I’m not going anywhere right now.”
“I’m scared.”
“Me too. Me too. But I can keep going, I can fight this as long as I can.”
Her face tells me otherwise. Liv absorbs facts the way I inhale chocolate. Two years ago, when this all started, she did all the research, things that I never bothered to read up on.
Maybe she should have come to the appointment with me.
But then I would never have…
I shut down the thought of my mystery man and the way things were in his arms.
One night.
No names.
No strings.
And a good bloody job too. My sister’s face is telling me all too clearly that there is no way I can dodge this bullet. Damn her and the facts. I much prefer fantasy and illogical random thought processes.
Much better that way.
Without anything more to say, I leave her in small pieces at the kitchen island and tiptoe down the plush carpet to Lenny’s nursery. Inside it’s warm, calm. In his cot he’s wrapped like a little tubby pudding of gorgeousness.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” I murmur, running my finger down his cheek.
He’s all warm, flushed cheeks, long lashes resting. Six months of cuteness.
“Lenny, time to wake up.” I’m louder, this kid can sleep.
Still there’s no movement so I lean into his cot, lifting him into my arms. He’s wearing a sl
eep bag, legs all tucked up like a frog, hair damp from where he’s been so cosy.
I snuggle him close, breathing in that baby smell that can’t be bottled.
I’m a strong, independent woman. But with my nephew in my arms, a bundle of upchuck perfection, I let the barrier come down and I cry for all the things that I will never get to own.
Some paths I guess you are meant to walk, others will always remain closed.
Sitting in the rocking chair in the corner, I cradle him tight, gently shifting us forward and back with my feet, tears landing on the strands of his dark hair, until Liv comes to find me and unwraps him from my hand, leaving me in a rocking chair with empty arms.
“Okay. Don’t shoot me down.” Alone in the house, I’ve squeezed myself into some of her jeans, rolling them up three inches—the bitchand a shirt I think might well have been a breastfeeding one.
We are in her living room. I say living. I mean showroom. I shrug to myself. Hell, she can do what she likes. If being pristine brings her joy then I’m all for it.
“Go on.” I nod and take a sip of my wine. I think we’ve made an unspoken agreement that we will drink away the day.
There are days for healthiness.
There are days for wine.
Today constitutes wine. Although she has made me drink some vile green juice her friend Charlie recommended. I heave just thinking about it.
“Don’t freak out,” she says.
“Well now I will.”
“I think you should speak to Mum and Dad.”
Kick a woman while she’s down, why don’t you?
I see what she’s done. She’s waited until she thinks the wine has oiled the gears of my hatred. Liv doesn’t realise there isn’t enough wine in the world for that.
Idly, I contemplate if she’s serving me a glass of five pound a bottle new world wine.
“Nope.”
“Julia.”
“No. I mean it, Liv. Please don’t bring them into this.”
“You’re their daughter. Don’t you think they will care, want to know?”
I can’t look at her. How dare she.
“No. I really don’t.”
