by Lily Morton
He runs his hand down his face and then shakes his head despairingly. “No, they’ve got to go. I hate it but they’ve got to go. Madonna decrees it.”
I smirk at him unclipping my bra and throwing it at him. I then slide my hands into the sides of the panties wriggling until they fall, and then stand proudly naked in front of him. We stare at each other as the rain washes over us and then I laugh suddenly, throwing my hands out and twirling, taken over by the madness of the moment. “This is bloody crazy,” I shout and he throws his head back laughing loudly and clutching his sides.
“Come on,” he shouts. “Let’s do as Madonna tells us.” I let him grab my hand and in the middle of a wet field in Rome we caper about like escaped lunatics, laughing helplessly. I tilt my head back looking up at the purple sky, feeling wild and untrammelled. Rain fills my mouth and I feel my hair start to slide down my back. Seeing this he comes towards me and I still at the sight of him.
His hair is plastered to his skull dark now, and all his muscles and sinews appear in stark relief. I can see the marking of his tattoo and it looks almost black in this light, but I’m distracted by how utterly beautiful and perfectly proportioned he is. I can see the length and power of his legs in all their glory, and the tight line of his pelvic muscles which draws the eye down to his cock which is still hard, the head an angry red. He looks wild and free and like something from the old Roman myths.
He moves behind me and gently he removes my hairpins dropping each one onto the ground, and when my hair falls loose down my back he groans and gathers it together forcing his face into it. I stand still feeling the hard body towering over mine, and then I turn slowly in his arms his hands letting my hair go reluctantly. I clasp the sharp edges of his hipbones sliding my wet body against his and we both groan, me at the incredible warmth of his wet body and him at the slip and slide of my hard nipples against his midriff.
He pulls my chin up to look at him and then groans at whatever he sees in my expression but instead of kissing me he pulls back slightly and begins humming, and then the fool spins me and begins a slow dance in the middle of the field.
“What are you doing?” I giggle while wondering when he’s going to break this sexual stalemate we’ve got going on between us at the moment. I know that he has his reasons but I don’t know what they are, and I don’t know how long I can keep lying in his arms without climbing on him and eating him up like a monkey with a banana.
Then I blink as the tune registers. “Is that T Rex’s ‘Cosmic Dancer’?” I ask flabbergasted and he looks down at me grinning, rain bouncing off his face.
“It is. How did you know?”
“My mum liked them.”
He smiles. “Mine too,” and then humming loudly he whirls me totally naked around a field full of wildflowers as he sings in his low, husky voice the words to the sweet but melancholy tune, and I feel small suddenly in the face of how much I love him.
The thought makes my step falter and he stops, peering down at me. “What is it?” he starts and then jerks. “Shit!”
“What?” I squeal as he pulls me flat into the field rolling on top of me amongst the waist high weeds. I laugh. “Bram, this is so sudden.”
“Ssh,” he hisses and I jerk as I hear the sound of voices.
“Oh my God,” I squeak as I watch a party of pensioners in their bright, cotton clothes emerge from a path quite near us and then stand hovering looking doubtfully at the rain. I glare at him. “You made me get naked and do this. The song never included OAP observation.” He’s shaking with laughter now burying his face in my shoulder, and I pinch him hard feeling him jerk. “Can they see us?”
He lifts up slightly and peers through the green. “I don’t think so,” he whispers. “Besides don’t old people have poor eyesight?”
One of the women exclaims and says in a loud American voice, “Who does all that clothing belong to?”
I glare at Bram. “Oh super!” and he snorts.
Luckily at that moment we hear the sound of an engine which from their exclamations of relief must belong to their bus, and they pick their way down what is obviously a path and then we’re alone again, the only sound the dwindling sound of the rain and our breathing. I wriggle protestingly under him making him groan loudly and jokingly. “Oh shut up. I’ve got a thistle on my bum.”
He rolls off me landing in all his sprawling glory, unashamed in his nakedness as he laughs his head off. Finally he rolls onto his side looking at me and lifts a hand to brush my hair off one shoulder watching it fall in fascination. We stare at each other and the silence lengthens and fills. “Alys,” he murmurs. “I …”
He pauses. “What?” I ask breathlessly.
He stares at me for a long second and then whatever intent he had is gone as his expression clears of everything apart from a sort of wonder. “I have so much fun with you. I never knew it could be like this.”
“It? What’s ‘it’?” I ask but he’s rolled to his feet stretching and he doesn’t answer me.
“Come on. I want to go back to the hotel and get this mud off me, and then I’m taking you out for dinner and I want to throw six coins in the Trevi Fountain.”
“Isn’t that overkill?” I let him pull me to my feet. “I thought you only threw one to meet the one that you’ll marry.” My knowledge is solely gleaned from old Hollywood films.
“No,” he says earnestly. “I already know that. Three coins to come back to Rome again.” I stare at him until he elaborates. “Three for me and three for you. I won’t come here again without you. It wouldn’t be the same.”
He says nothing more so I allow him to dress us, standing patiently as he fusses over my hair and zips me up properly, and I have to say that expensive hotels are absolutely excellent at ignoring the fact that two of their guests have returned covered with mud and soaking wet. That is the sort of thing that really should be included on Trip Adviser.
We stay for another few days in Rome seeing all the sights, wrapped up in each other and our bubble. On the last night he instructs the maid to pack our cases for the next morning and goes out for a bit. When he returns he has two holdalls in his hands. He opens them on the bed and stares hotly at me where I’m leaning against the bathroom door brushing my teeth.
“What?” I ask through a mouthful of froth.
“That nightie,” he sighs.
I look down at the chemise slip with a split right up the thigh. It’s silk with a grey and white blossom print and is adorned with salmon pink lace. “This old thing,” I say mockingly and then gurgle as he lunges at me. I just have time to throw the toothbrush into the sink before he’s on me. He lifts me easily next to the sink and then pushes my legs open folding his way in between them until his crotch is nestled next to mine. He’s rock hard. Smiling at me he offers a towel and I wipe the froth away obligingly.
“Finished?” he asks mock concerned and I nod and then moan as he takes my mouth hungrily, licking into it with a tortured sound. We kiss ravenously and his hands roam, the calluses catching on the silky material as he makes restless movements.
I pull back gasping. “How much longer can you go on like this?” I ask in a husky voice and his eyes close for a second. Then he opens them, the colour almost a sludgy green.
“Not long,” he manages in a thick voice. He reaches forward sliding one long finger under the lace of my panties and into my hot wetness. “Fuck I’ve got to get in there,” he groans and I wrap my arms and legs around him.
“Don’t wait,” I whisper. I want him so much but to my dismay he pulls free and stands panting.
“Not yet.”
“Bram,” I whine. ”How much longer? God I want you so much.” I’m beyond pride at this point as my only thought is centred on the deep, wet throbbing inside me.
He groans, tugging his cock sharply at the base through his jeans like he’s trying not to come. “It’s got to be perfect. That’s the plan.” He walks out of the bathroom and I jump down following him and watching
as he runs his hands repeatedly through his hair as he stares out of the window, his back moving sharply with his breaths.
Silence falls and eventually I take pity on him. “Why have we got more bags?” A thought occurs to me. “Oh God you haven’t bought anything else for me have you?”
He laughs out loud the tension melting away to show a face full of affection. “You really are a rare and singular woman. No, the bags are for the clothes that we’re going to need for a day and a night.”
“Where are we going?” I ask excitedly.
He smiles, hugging me close and then setting me back. “You’ve got the travelling bug. That’s brilliant. We’re driving to Verona and then catching The Orient Express to Paris.”
“The Orient Express,” I whisper in awe. “I watched ‘Murder on the Orient Express’ a few weeks ago.”
“Yes, well that isn’t a travel guide,” he says hurriedly. “But I think being with me is much more exciting than stupid, old murder.”
“I could do both.” I eye him cheekily and he laughs.
“You’d miss me too much.”
I throw my arms around him startling both of us because most of the overtures for touching so far have come from him first. “I would miss you,” I say fiercely and he falters, closing his eyes for a second before pulling me close. We sway for a second and then he puts me to one side.
“We’ll be having an overnight stay,” he says huskily and then clears his throat. “So you’ll need to take a smart day outfit, an evening dress because it’s fine dining in the evening, and then something for the next day. When we get to Paris we’ll hop over to the airport and fly down to the South of France and have a couple of weeks of sun at a villa that I’ve borrowed in Cannes.”
I’m startled. “You’ve never given me all this information before. You’ve kept it back as classified information for your plan.”
He stares at me, his face suddenly blank. “The plan’s nearly done love. Only one more thing to tick off.”
“Only one?” I echo. “Surely not?”
He nods solemnly. “That part’s nearly over babe.”
“That part?”
He looks at me enigmatically. “Well the rest of it very much depends on you.” In a sudden volte face he slaps my arse. “Get your stuff together baby, we’re travelling in style.”
I rush to do his bidding but that night lying in bed with him curved around me, one hand resting heavy on my hip and our legs entwined as normal, I can’t sleep. I can’t bear the thought that this is nearly it and I feel lodged momentarily in some sort of twilight, unable to see the way ahead but then I dismiss my fears. Bram will know what to do I think sleepily. I trust him.
***
The next day I’m literally bouncing in my seat as he parks the car at Verona train station and gestures to the porter to load our luggage onto his cart. Our suitcases will go into the storage area of the train, and we’ll just take our holdalls and the bags containing my evening dress and his suit onto the train.
He looks at me and laughs. “Calm down babe.” Coming round the car he draws me to him by grabbing my arm and threading it through his. “You do know that it’s not a steam train anymore and Hercules Poirot isn’t in residence don’t you?”
I pout playfully at him savouring the way that his eyes drag over my lips. “Do I look okay?” I ask on a worried side note. I’m wearing a beige shirt dress fastened at the waist by a brown belt. I’ve paired it with a pair of tan ballet flats and left my hair long and wavy. He looks me up and down with one of those practised moves that I’ve seen him make in a thousand bars and clubs, but I suddenly realise that I’ve never seen this version before as it’s warm and intimate.
He recalls me back to my question by lifting his hands and signing, “You look gorgeous.”
I smile and sign back, “Are you sure? I don’t want to let you down.” This is a justifiable worry as he looks tanned and gorgeous wearing grey shorts, an aubergine coloured Ralph Lauren polo shirt and a pair of gold framed aviator sunglasses.
He frowns and stops. Grabbing my shoulders gently he swings me round to face him while the porter hovers unsure at what is happening. He lifts his hands and thinks for a second and then signs, “You could never embarrass me or let me down. If anything it’s the opposite. I’m scared of letting you down.” He over emphasises the ‘you’.
I hug him amongst the press of passengers streaming around us. “You won’t,” I say in a low, clear voice.
“I’d better not,” he mutters and then smiles at the porter and gestures for him to lead on.
When we get onto the platform I swear that my heart beats at double speed as The Orient Express is an inspiring sight. There may not be steam anymore or passengers dressed in the clothes of the 1920s, but there’s still a palpable air of excitement that’s lacking at King’s Cross Station in London at 5pm. White gloved porters wheeling suitcases bustle by in their bright blue uniforms trimmed with gold tape. People stroll to the shiny carriages dressed smartly as they manoeuvre around carts packed with fresh produce which a man in chef’s whites is examining closely.
“If I could have been born in any era it would have been the 1920s,” I whisper. “I love the elegance.”
“I’m surprised that you never wore something from that era for that Halloween costume party then.”
I stare at him in amazement. “Bram that was over two years ago. How can you remember what I wore?”
He shrugs and then shoots me a flirty, sidelong glance. “Who could forget your tits in that green dress babe? They’re burnt onto my brain.”
The porter turns a bright shade of red but manfully ignores Bram who is openly laughing at me now.
We’re handed over to another man in a blue uniform who smiles urbanely at us. “Mr O’Connell and Miss O’Neill, welcome aboard. I am Johannes and I’ll be looking after you on this journey.” He shows us down a narrow corridor lined by windows on one side and shiny walnut panelling on the other. He comes to a door and opens it with a slight bow. “Your suite, Sir and Madame.”
I go past him into the room and stare around in delight. It’s small but perfectly proportioned like a little doll’s house. The walnut panelling gleams and the seating is upholstered in a rich red velvet, giving it an opulent feel which is enhanced by the heady scent of a vase of lilies placed on one of the small walnut tables. The room is bright and warm.
Johannes points to the lilies. “As you requested Sir,” and I smile at Bram who looks a little self - conscious. The two of them bend over an itinerary that Johannes starts to go through, and I wander through a door into another room which turns out to be the bedroom. A double bed is swathed in a rich red and gold bedspread and the room is lovely and light due to the large windows. There’s a dressing table with another vase of lilies on it, and lots of little cupboards that my fingers are just itching to look into.
I wander back out into the other room where the men are still talking and kneel on one of the seats looking out of the window in fascination at all the people coming and going. Finally Johannes takes our order for drinks and a cream tea and after he has shut the door I leap onto Bram who receives me with a muffled humpf as I hang from his neck. “It’s beautiful. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
He smiles, pulling me close and hugging me tight. “Anything for you a stór.”
I pull back slightly and smile. “It’s still too much but for this I’m prepared to get over it.”
He throws his head back laughing. “Oh there is a limit to your principles. I’m delighted that you’ve finally reached it.”
I smack him and wander back to the window and then shoot a look at him. “A suite eh? How swanky.”
He shrugs, kicking off his leather Vans. “It was the only option. Normal cabins have bunk beds.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Not your thing?”
“Not since scout camp.”
“You were a scout?”
“Not since scout camp.” I laugh out loud and he
smirks. “No, I didn’t want fucking bunk beds and a suite gives you the option of a double bed if you pay a bit more.”
I stare hard at him. “You’re not fond of sleeping alone are you?”
He shakes his head firmly. “I don’t mind sleeping on my own. I’m just not a fan of sleeping without you. I don’t know what it is but I sleep better with you next to me.”
I nod. “Me too.”
We stare at each other and he opens his mouth as if to say something but the moment is lost when a whistle sounds and the train slowly sets off with the people on the platform waving goodbye.
An hour later I curl up on the seat next to him. We’ve just been served a cream tea that was absolutely sumptuous. I’d laughed at first because it seemed so anti rock and roll but I’ve noticed that Bram is a chameleon. He’s at home anywhere from rough pubs to expensive hotels, and I think a lot of that is down to his warm manner and utter confidence. He expects to welcome people and be welcomed and it happens. Although he had refused tea with a shudder and ordered a whisky.
I turn to him where he’s lounging looking out of the window at the countryside flying past with a contented look on his face. We’d both got out of our proper clothes as soon as we’d set off, and now he’s wearing grey sweatpants and a loose, white t-shirt. I’ve got yoga pants on with an orange, long sleeved, slub t-shirt and my hair pulled up into a messy bun, and I feel comfortable and replete.
“You’re not who I thought you were,” I say suddenly and he starts as if I’ve drawn him from a daydream.
“Why?” he asks, looking slightly worried.
“Oh, just that when I first met you, you were always so on the go and seemed to feel like you should be the life and soul of the party all the time. You’ve got so much energy and can never sit still, but in this time away you’re so much calmer.” The rest of what I want to say is too gushy because he’s been warm and funny and approachable, and the absolute best person to travel with because he’s so engaged and present all the time.
