by Stef Penney
‘Not very.’
She pulls on his hand to make him sit on the edge of the bed. ‘I haven’t done this before, so it is . . .’ She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. ‘I am afraid, but it’s only fear. Tell me you are not repelled.’
He smiles and shakes his head, places his free hand on her hair. It feels heavy and slippery and cool; underneath it, her skin burns.
‘No, and no. I’m sorry, my hands are freezing.’
Flora kneels up on the bed, takes his hands in hers and chafes them. Then she takes one of his hands and places it on her breast. He gasps and squeezes the delicious, poised weight, feels the nipple stiffen under his palm. She sighs against his cheek.
.
His face, his lips, even his clothes retain the night’s chill. The rough cloth against her bare arms sends peculiar shivers through her.
He shucks off the coat, unbuttons his waistcoat and pulls off his necktie. She cups her hand around the nape of his neck, feeling cords of tendon, the base of his skull under soft, cold hair. She wants to warm every part of him.
They smile shyly at each other. How many clothes they wear! He has to struggle out of his shoes, socks, trousers. He takes her in his arms. The rasp of his undershirt against her skin is as exciting as the fact of his arousal.
‘Flora . . .’ He kisses her hair, her cheekbone, her ear, her mouth.
She puts her hands on his neck and slides them down to his waist, and pulls his undershirt up until he lifts his arms over his head. His hair stands on end. In the lamplight, his eyes are black, his torso gleaming white. She grazes the nipples with her palms, strokes the sides of his chest, feeling ribs under soft skin. This is happening. He kneads her breasts, watching his hands as if performing an operation of rare importance. She pushes into him. She wants his hands on her, everywhere. He pulls the chemise down off her shoulders and kisses each inch of skin as it is revealed. No, this, now: his lips, his tongue; he tastes her and sucks her, his tongue as insistent as a question. Her breathing replies. Now she lies back on the pillow; now she lifts her hips to let him peel off her drawers. His face presses into the soft, sprung flesh of her belly and he mutters something, but she doesn’t catch it. Does it matter? Should she ask him to repeat it?
Before she can decide, he pulls himself up to lie full length on top of her. He says her name. She wonders what she is supposed to do, or say, and slides her hands over the sharp ridges of shoulder blades and hot saddle of lower back as his tongue explores her mouth. The weight and heat of him are strange and wonderful. She is aware of what he is made of: bones, muscles, tendons, flesh. Skin, hot and slightly damp, pressed to skin to the waist, rough flannel below it. And through that his erection feels hard and unyielding against her thighs, unlike flesh and unlike bone – something else. And now this is what she wants. Is she still drunk? She feels reckless, irresponsibly single-minded. His eyes, closed, open as she pushes the flannel down over his buttocks. This is happening.
‘Wait a minute . . .’
He leaves her – how cold it is when he has moved away – only to dive over the side of the bed, fumble for something and sit back, concentrating as he unrolls a sheath over his penis; he gives it a tug, to make sure. She wonders if it is wrong to watch. Then he kneels over her, lightly stroking her belly, down her thighs, up the inside of her thighs, until his hand brushes against her hair. Her thighs open greedily. His fingers slide inside her wet softness, and make her gasp. She looks up and is astonished by this silhouetted, angular incubus, prick heavy with intent, pointing at her, hooded, and then he lowers himself on to her, guiding himself one-handed. Despite her molten warmth, it’s difficult; the breath catches low in her throat. She feels a burning sensation, and she prays: Do not let me fail at this. His eyes are shut; he is concentrating, perhaps; it hurts; then, with an excruciating push, he is through, and sliding smoothly up to the hilt. Her breath catches again, in a different place, and she says, ‘Oh,’ in a strange tone of voice, one she has never heard in her mouth. She can feel the length of him inside her, which is not like anything else, but part of her thinks, Yes, this is what I thought . . . When she opens her eyes, she finds his are open too, very close to hers. She can’t move. He is still for a long moment, as if he is waiting for a signal, but what it might be she doesn’t know. Then, just when she fears that something is amiss, that she is supposed to react in some way that she does not know, or that he has encountered something wrong inside her – has found out her terrible flaw (something, anyway, that is her fault) – he kisses her again, slowly, his tongue deep in her mouth, and she has the feeling of being . . . joined up. He starts to move, very slowly, easing himself in and out, stroking her from the inside. It burns, but not in the way that Freddie burnt her. She raises her knees – ah, better – nestles him deeper and yet more comfortably inside her and her hands grasp for his buttocks, feeling cool, slightly rough skin, the deep play of muscle and bone at the base of his spine.
The first flush of pain has changed into something else. Her throat is as hollow as a cave. She can feel the friction working; she is anointing him. He starts to move faster. And, from his breath catching and hissing next to her ear, she thinks that he is nearing the end. Finally, he gasps and clutches at her breast, as if it might save him, and she is filled with feral triumph as he shudders and moans in her ear. She can feel a pulsing inside her, and then, when he is still again, panting, lying heavy on her, his heart beats wildly against her ribcage, next to hers. He presses his lips to her cheek, and she wraps her arms around him.
This is happening.
When their hearts have slowed, and their skin dried, and they have exchanged soft, smiling kisses, he withdraws from her, peels away the rubber sheath and stares at it for a moment, and then, lying down beside her again, he says mildly, and with a touch of awkwardness, ‘Darling, I’m sorry, I feel like a brute. You should have said.’
Flora feels a stab of alarm. ‘Said what?’
‘That, um . . .’ he is embarrassed, ‘it was your course. It doesn’t matter. I mean . . .’
She sits up and shifts to one side to look at the sheet. It is smeared with blood, and there is blood on her thighs.
‘It isn’t.’
‘Then . . . I hurt you. God, Flora, I’m sorry.’
‘No. You didn’t.’
She shakes her head, but he is gazing at her with something like shock.
‘Um’ – he rubs his hand over his face – ‘when you said you hadn’t done this before, I thought you meant . . . Is this the first time?’
She looks down, and her hair almost hides her face. ‘Not exactly. Yes.’
‘You . . . Your marriage . . . ?’
She looks away. Her voice is almost inaudible. ‘Please, I can’t talk about it.’
‘No, of course. It doesn’t matter. Sweetheart . . .’ He draws her down to lie in the crook of his chest and upper arm, and smoothes the rope of her hair in his hand. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. It’s not important, is it?’
‘No. Not at all.’
But he lies; he is thrilled, however ignobly . . . He tightens his arms around her.
‘I’m just sorry I hurt you. I would have taken more care. I want you to like it too.’
She blushes. He thinks he can actually feel heat flow into her face.
‘I did.’
‘But . . . not quite all the way? You know what I mean?’
She hides her face against his shoulder, and nods. He is enormously relieved.
‘Well, then . . . I do believe you’re blushing.’ He smiles and kisses her cheek.
‘To talk of such things . . . it’s . . .’ She stammers, can’t say more. She turns to hide her face in the pillow.
‘If we do them, why can’t we talk about them? Otherwise, how will you tell me what you like?’
‘Ah . . .’ She looks panicked. ‘I don’t know.’
He kneels again and kisses her all over: her throat, her breasts, her ribcage, her stomach. He is so slow and gentle, she sighs with a demented, impatient pleasure. He lifts and moves her knees and wriggles into the space between. Before she realises what he is about, he has begun to lap at the soft, complicated flesh between her legs. She feels a panicked, pleasurable anxiety. What if it doesn’t work? But his tongue is soft, teasing, unhurried, sometimes barely moving, but undeniably there; and with an almost conscious effort, she gives herself up.
By herself, she never made a sound. Not when she was young, on board ship, for fear of discovery; not in her bed at home, out of long habit. She became adept at keeping her limbs anchored, still, so the secret wave would break over her body and no one would know. Now, she wants him to know. At some point, she forgets to be anxious. She is adrift, cast loose, rocking easily. Her breaths are tattered gasps. She does not have to choose. Sooner than thought, it comes for her, engulfs her gloriously, and her back arches, she is lifted, her fists clutch at air, there are little vixen cries, calling out, sharp, ah, ah, ah.
He wipes his mouth on the inside of her thighs. She is panting, her heart going like mad – a wild, rebellious beating. She slowly comes back from wherever she has been, grateful, delighted. Relieved. She thinks, Maybe there is nothing wrong with me, after all. He clambers back up the bed and she pulls him to her, her skin rosy and slick with sweat. He smiles at her, a question in his eyes. She kisses him with even more abandon than before, tastes her briny tang, hopes he wants to do it again; she thinks it – she – will be better this time. She reaches for him, but she can already feel his penis against her thigh, reassuringly hard. That he too wants this seems a miracle.
She whispers, ‘It’s safe.’
‘Yes?’
He guides himself to her. She is breached, defenceless, her boundaries given way. He slides inside her more easily, though it still causes her to moan. He begins to move in her with a slow, weary tenderness. It burns, being licked by a gentle flame, but he fits, as though they have been cast from opposite sides of the same mould. She watches the uneven flicker of lamplight; she is burning too, stirred, lit. His eyes are closed; his forehead rests against hers as if he is overcome with exhaustion. He quickens suddenly, shudders, with a modest gasp, and stays in that position, his weight resting on her. He gently kisses her cheekbone, before sliding off her to lie by her side. Their eyes meet across the pillow. She breathes his air, and he hers.
.
Hunger drives them out of bed after midnight. Flora has put on her blue silk peignoir out of vanity; it isn’t really warm enough. Jakob wears his shirt and wraps a blanket around his torso. They sit on the floor, as close to the fire as possible, their knees touching, eating ravenously. He has poured the last fragments of coal on to the embers.
‘I should have got more.’ He peers into the basket. ‘They had apples, but they looked old . . .’
She shakes her head and drinks the milk, which is on the turn. She feels his hand touch her hair and her neck. She closes her eyes, to savour it.
‘Can I take it from your appetite that you are recovered?’
‘Yes. I think so.’
He peers at her face, making her laugh. He can turn the simplest action into a comedy.
‘You’re still pale.’
‘So are you.’
‘That is due to seven days’ appalling seasickness. I was tanned and healthy when I left New York. You won’t believe me, but my sister-in-law said I looked handsome. She is German and not prone to giving compliments.’
‘You see, I was merely sick in sympathy with you.’
‘Thank you. But, though pale, you are beautiful, and I’m not prone to giving compliments either.’
She smothers the lurch of happiness, thinks, You are more beautiful, but says nothing, merely reaches out and brushes her fingertips over his bruised forehead.
‘Your poor head.’
‘That ship was a beast. When we docked, some of the passengers swore they would never go home. They said, no matter how old-fashioned Europe is, they would make the best of it.’
‘I haven’t told you about the Vega.’
‘The Vega?’
Jakob is first amused and then touched by the way her face brightens when she talks about her father’s ship.
‘What happened to her?’
‘She’s still there.’
‘Could you charter her for your next trip?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve thought about it, of course, but . . . You’re falling asleep!’
‘I’m listening with my eyes closed. It sounds as though you loved her.’
‘She was my family. As much as my father is my father . . . the Vega was like a sister . . . or a mother.’
Jakob smiles sleepily at her. ‘Half woman, half . . . whaleboat. That didn’t sound right.’ He bursts out laughing, and Flora, after a second’s hesitation, joins in. He has the intuition that she does not often laugh.
‘I beg your pardon. In fifth grade, my teacher said, “Jakob is not a poet.” I’m afraid he was right.’
‘Who can trust a poet? Fine words are neither here nor there.’
‘Certainly not here.’
She pulls him up off the floor and captures him in her arms. They stand for a moment, he swaying with tiredness. She tightens her arms around him, not daring words to convey what she feels. They get into bed, where he wraps his limbs around her and plummets into heavy sleep, like falling off a cliff.
Flora lies awake. These things are shockingly new: the shared nakedness, the weight and press of another body, the feel of another’s heart, the sound of his breathing, the bewitching heat and softness of his skin.
She trails fingertips down his arm: his skin is white down to the elbow, then the forearms are sunburnt and brown, rougher to touch, almost polished. Then over his chest: white, sprinkled with wiry dark hairs, his life’s motor beating right under her hand. Down over his white belly . . . He sighs. She cannot believe how tender this hidden skin is. She can feel his ribs, which moves her with an intense, visceral protectiveness. Now, she worries for him. Such thin ribs; such delicate bones can break. Such soft skin can be damaged. But he is strong too; even in sleep, his forearm is dense with muscle under the skin.
She is pinned by the weight of the arm that lies on her ribs, the leg bent across her thighs. She does not want to push him away. She does not want to sleep – wants to think about the astonishing new thing her life has become – but she does, dreamlessly.
Chapter 30
Liverpool, 53˚25’N, 3˚0’W
April 1895
In the end, they stay in the room at the Victoria for five days and nights. It is possible to believe, in a city neither of them knows, that there are no consequences to their actions. Flora visits suppliers of tinned foods and listens to their proposals with a sense of hilarious unreality: their medal-winning corned beef; their improved recipe for pemmican; their immortal jams. What is real are jangled nerves and unstrung limbs, her unguarded heart. She thanks them for their time, thinks of the hollows at the base of his spine.
After the second meeting, she walks back to the hotel under a weak sun. She could take a cab, but prefers to walk. The ache it arouses affirms this new intimacy. It is early yet, and the morning seems enchanted, the fog gone, the air brilliantly clear. She is happy to be briefly alone, hugging the thought of him, the repeated proofs of his desire for her. She pictures him lying in bed, naked and drowsily warm, awaiting her return . . . She has lost nothing she valued.
.
She finds him writing letters, wrapped in her blue silk peignoir. She is disappointed, and taken aback by the peignoir.
‘I’m nearly finished,’ he says, holding a cigarette in his left hand.
The room reeks of tobacco smoke, sweat and sex. (The state of the bed appals her; she can’t let a maid see that; heavens . . .) Crossly, Flora opens the window a hand’s breadth and grimaces.
‘How was their tinned beef?’
‘It won a gold medal at the Bremen exhibition.’
‘Oh, good.’
He writes a sentence. His writing is surprisingly neat. She loves the care he takes. Now she stands behind him and places her hands on his shoulders.
‘Why are you wearing this?’
‘Do you mind it?’
‘No . . .’
‘It feels nice; although, I have to say, it’s not exactly warm. I’m writing to Professor Collee.’
Collee is the eminent geologist he has been hoping to meet. The day after his arrival, he wrote to apologise for being detained by a severe head cold. This reminder of his departure makes her bend and brush her lips over the skin of his neck.
‘Damn. I’ve made a blot.’
‘I’m sorry . . .’ She straightens up, instantly contrite. Perhaps there are consequences, after all.
‘It’s all right.’ He presses blotting paper on to the letter and turns to her, slides his hands around her waist and nuzzles his face into her bosom with a groan of content.
She cradles his head, rakes her hands through his hair. ‘You look like a dandelion.’
‘What? I can’t hear, here.’
‘Your hair – it’s like a dandelion.’
‘It’s not yellow.’
‘A dandelion clock.’
‘Hmm . . .’ His eyes narrow. ‘Well, your hair is like the beach at Coney Island.’
‘I have never seen the beach at Coney Island, so I’ve no idea if that is a compliment, or the reverse.’
‘When the tide goes out, and you get those ripples on wet sand – that’s what your hair is like, the colour and the ripples. You said I look like a weed.’
He pulls the pins out of her hair, a determined look in his eye, and she does not protest. She kisses him and feels his hand, which has invaded her skirts, smooth the skin of her inner thigh. She pushes the material away from his shoulders so that she can look at his naked body: something she cannot seem to get enough of. When they are on the bed and he thrusts into her, it burns and makes her gasp. A word she has never used pops into her head with a jolt of dark pleasure: This is fucking, she thinks. It is short, sharp, and it takes her breath away . . . (But, says a voice somewhere, it is morning . . . the door is unlocked!) He finishes with a series of anguished grunts and kisses her, panting.
